White Helmet

I am disconnected. I see the White Helmets deep in the struggle to shame away the dust and blood, but they are just an image. I do not grasp the material horror of it all because I am not there. I have no taste of it, no smell, no touch of the trembling fingers, just this second hand, pitiful interpretation. I am safe, on this side of the television, numb. I cannot taste the blood in my mouth or touch the child’s flesh splayed upon the rubble. There is nothing right about this slaughter, except the White Helmets digging in the red earth.

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