Refugees of Blood and Sand

There is a halo of blood on the ground where Huda died while sleeping last Tuesday night. Toddler-sized diapers lie strewn on the ground among the concrete heaps where the bedroom wall once was, and a single blue sandal, tiny as my fist, sat perched in a corner of the room on a wooden slab. Huda was 11 months old.

Her mother is in the hospital recovering from her injuries. A pretty, paper-flower ceiling ornament that she made for her daughter still hangs, grit covered above the child’s former room. Sun pours in like golden dust where the other half of the ceiling has disappeared into sky. Deep tank tracks advance almost as far as the back door to the house. Looking at them makes you tremble: four tank shells were fired in the middle of the night at the family in this small home. One shell overshot the house entirely and landed in the road beyond the house. Local boys brought it over to me to examine. It is a huge, ugly lump of gray-blue metal.