The onslaught of destruction in Syria does not seem to come to a halt. If anything civil, it is the fresh Presidential elections that the world is looking forward to. But people, the few who seemed to have survived but not without scars of the war – some physical while other deeply psychological – look at the bloated pictures on bullet-ridden walls the man who is expected to gain an easy victory – Bashar al-Assad.
But there’s a more poignant angle to the ruinous state of affair in Syria. And these are brought out by rare but moving pictures like the one I have used here. It depicts a man painfully clinging onto the bicycle of his child. The bicycle could be the only contraption that carries a memory of the boy who belonged to the family now desecrated by an unending war.
With his whole house completely ripped apart by the shelling of men in arms, a thing as unassuming and trivial in comparison to what has been blown to smithereens has made this father realise of his loss – his family, his boy, the shared dreams, the gentle fingers on the handles of the bicycle, memories of initial struggle at using the pedals, its first repairs, the dream that the boy who glides the bicycle would also glide the family’s fortunes, the first time ever his mother may have allowed him to ride further than the neighbours’ – which, by all estimates, may also have stories of property and families destroyed.
Syria has seen more violence than what its people can bear. Destruction has stripped the country off its history and the many people who had routine problems like taps running dry and medical facilities not being enough. Now there’s a stream of blood running down the streets which often run dry.
Even the blood has lost hope of reaching to safety.
This war has reduced the populace of Syria to a few melancholic faces, holding on to the destroyed remains of things belonging to those who have perished.