My daughter was born in this tent and died in it.
You did not get the chance to meet her. If you had met the beautiful Arwa, you would have certainly loved her. I do not have a picture of her. My daughter came into this world and left it without a single picture taken. The world does not know of her existence in the first place.
All of us, we Syrians, have become numbers, numbers that decrease or increase. When the storm came that took her the number decreased.
We tried. We tried a lot to warm her up. I begged for a cover to protect her from the heavy showers, or a small blanket to prevent the cold from seeping into her body. No one cared. She was four months at the time, and her frail body could not bear the cold.
On the third day, I rushed her to the nearest hospital. The cold had seeped into her veins. After examining her, they told me that she wasn’t sick, but her lungs had collapsed because of the cold. Half an hour later, Arwa died from the cold.
This mother fled the city of Aleppo in Syria and is a refugee in the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon. She is one of the 4 million refugees who have fled the conflict.
“He tends his flock like a shepherd:
He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart;
he gently leads those that have young.”
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