The hell of Raqqa: where the French have joined the bloodied military games, the whips of Daesh rule the land and morality fled into the night long ago
I am petrified of how the bombs will rain down on Raqqa; screeching through the sky, blowing homes to dust, and people into mangled limbs.
I am petrified for the already blood-raw lives that have nowhere to run but into the bosom of Daesh, the rebels, and the merciless desert: all their own versions of hell.
I am petrified that this yet again is only the beginning of a war labelled as defence but fought for personal revenge; and only when the fighters have physically exhausted themselves will the slaughtering stop.
Did they already kill their 129th civilian yet? Did it take two days to outdo the number killed in Paris, or will it take 20?
With daily missiles being spat out from above by America, Russia and France, on to this shattered town of 200,000, who will care for the wounded? Who will stop the blood flowing from the bodies of children, and the hearts of mothers?
The already wounded, that is who. Those who have already witnessed a thousand deaths and mourned a hundred friends. That is who. Those who have already crossed over the dark wall of the death inside themselves. That is who.
Did France kill their 129th yet? Who knows, no one will bother counting. No one will declare such loss a national tragedy, demand justice, give every lost life the departure they deserve.
With nowhere to run, in between the interludes of murder raining from the skies, Daesh will be drawing blood from men's backs, decapitating your neighbours, and raping and torturing your sisters and mothers, for daring to think freely.
And if the foreign powers are victorious in slaughtering Daesh, the battleground will be returned to the rebels and Assad to draw their knives and commence their version of battle royale once again.
And I wonder why am I more petrified of what happens thousands of miles away than the death of one hundred plus next door.
In France, normality and humanity continue to exist. In Syria, all morality and accountability fled these lands long ago. Normality is long dead, and humanity has twisted into a creature of revenge that screeches amongst the daytime shadows.
Every hundred thousand deaths may carve out one extremist from the charred bodies and the still hot ashes. One bomb from an extremist will likely result in invasions armed to the nines, leaving a throbbing ocean of broken families and bloodied homes behind.
And so the masses move again, to concrete camps in eastern Turkey; to the overcrowded streets of Lebanon; and to the shores of Europe, where the seas grow more violent, the fences higher, the days viciously wetter.
Oh sweet, safe Europe, where every Syrian that has been broken by the bullets of Assad, the rebels, America, Europe, Russia, and Daesh; is now a potential terrorist. And mothers, fathers, and children are left rejected and exposed in icy cold foreign lands.
Why am I more petrified of the bombs in Raqqa than those in France? Because I see that every stone thrown in the West results in bloody genocides in the East; genocides of the already bloodied and broken millions, whose souls we so carelessly disregard as less worthy humans.