Three years ago I passed a wonderful summer in Damascus ( apart from an overnight stay in hospital in which the staff were very lovely but my stomach less so).) The streets were bustling with children playing hopscotch, donkeys delivering watermelons, women eating ice-creams and men laughing and chattering as they played backgammon together.
Damascus now.
No clatter of backgammon pieces only that of guns. No children playing in the streets. It's far too hot for ice-cream. I have a friend in Damascus who writes of bullets hitting her brother's room, of cowering in the lounge room, of not daring to go outside.
My heart scrapes along the ground when I hear of beautiful Syria so wounded now.
Damascus now.
No clatter of backgammon pieces only that of guns. No children playing in the streets. It's far too hot for ice-cream. I have a friend in Damascus who writes of bullets hitting her brother's room, of cowering in the lounge room, of not daring to go outside.
My heart scrapes along the ground when I hear of beautiful Syria so wounded now.
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