As soon as we entered Amman Surgical Hospital, the depth of the tragedy engulfed us. To my right, a young man slouched in a chair, surrounded by friends. A veiled woman, who could have been his mother but had the air of a loving aunt, moved towards him. We were distracted by other scenes of anguish. A few moments later, I turned back to check on the young man, who could have been anywhere between 16 and 25, shock and despair masking all signs of youth. The veiled “aunt” was now sitting on the arm of his chair. An old man, dressed in traditional Arab clothes (a “hatta” and “e’gal” on the head, a dark dish-dash), stood over him on his other side. They whispered words in his ears, hands gently touching his shoulders.

The young man moved forward in his seat. A slight emotional convulsion gripped him. Slight tears welled-up the eyes. He hid his face in his forearms. The older man and woman streamed words of comfort that were inaudible to me. Or perhaps I didn’t want to hear what a young man is told of the violent death of a father or mother. His friends were speechless, their age making it impossible to comprehend or take any comfort against the insanities of our age. I moved on. Read More »