She is very young.
Her clothes are ragged and she is dirty. There is not enough water to wash. The language that she was born to, is only now coming slowly to her. She can say the names of her mother and father and some of her former friends. These sounds are precious to her. Some of her friends are no longer here; she doesn’t know why.
She has had no real schooling. She is told to stay close. Her mother sits nearby, crying and holding a baby. Her mother hurt her leg badly when they ran to this place; it is swelling up. She hasn’t seen her father for several days and doesn’t know what that means.
Between the blasts that shake the unsealed roads and alleys of her town she hears the incessant rumbling of falling masonry. The air is very dusty. It makes it hard to breathe and she coughs a lot. Day after day there is smoke in the air.
She sometimes sees people with blood on them.
The broken toy she holds onto so tightly is no longer recognisable as anything. She knows what it is, what it was.
She could be in one of a number of countries. She won’t be seen by anyone. There are no TV cameras to capture her image.
She won’t be seen by the men in their planes, or the men with rifles and machine guns and rocket launchers. No one in the war rooms, or the barracks, or government buildings, or arms factories will ever have to see her.
She cannot imagine the nature and resolve of the soldiers that are sweeping through the area. She would have no idea what they are doing. It would be far beyond her to fathom their reason for doing it.
She is frightened. She is always frightened and has no other emotion to compare it with.
She is no more and no less precious than any other girl her age.
She has no way of knowing that soon she won’t be there.
So little is known about her. She has a thousand names.
Her passing will not be noticed. No family members will remain to mourn her.
She is the reason all others must hang their heads.
