“A fun and funny girl,” you start, flecks of ash falling from your cheeks — an oddly calming visual in stark contrast to the last couple of horrifying hours. “She just…” A fresh wave of sadness crawls down your face as you try to continue, burying your chin into your chest as you try to hide your embarrassment.

I start to tell you that everything will be okay but stop, fully aware of the devastation unfolding mere feet away, and instead allow the silence to stretch in the narrow space between us. Before it gets too loud, though, I reach over and carefully grab your hand. This prompts you to glance up at me. But only through your eyebrows, and only briefly. “She sounds lovely,” I probe softly, trying to keep you talking, doing what I can to keep you distracted from the fact that I’m addressing a large wound on your head. “Can you tell me more about her? A story, perhaps?”

You shift in place and the cobbled-together hospital bed sways and rattles. As it settles, the thin bed sheet draped loosely around your neck shimmies down like a stingray and falls into your lap. As I wait for you to respond, my gaze wanders. At first, all I see are bodies — gray and maroon bodies — but as my focus expands, the colors blend into streaks of emergency reds and blues that, through tired eyes, morph into a faint lilac abyss, an illusion that, on any other day, might resemble a relaxing sunset rather than the chaotic thunderstorm sprawled out before me.  

“She—” you start again.

Again, I let your silence linger, giving you space.

“My Stella… she loves the nighttime,” you finally reveal, exhaling a breath that warms my face. The scent is rich and familiar, providing me with a small, unexpected comfort. A slight sneer then reaches your thin, chapped lips.

I put down my gauze and sutures. “The nighttime?” I ask, mirroring your sneer out of confusion. “Children don’t usually like the dark. Especially around here.”

“Oh, yes, she loves it,” you confirm, inching forward. “More than anything. And shooting stars,” you add, your sneer softening into a proud smile.

“Sounds like a bright little girl.” I murmur.

“Yes,” you agree softly.

“And why shooting stars?” I ask.

“Well… the night,” you begin, maintaining your smile. “It’s basically her playground. Every night, right after dinner, she loves to press her tiny face against our only window, her eyes wide as sunflowers, and scour the slender band of night visible between the neighboring buildings. She spends hours there searching for her stars. She calls them her ‘sparkly little friends’.”

“And did she ever see one? A shooting star?” I ask gently, adjusting my gear behind me.

Your gaze drifts, excusing yourself briefly to scroll through a mental Rolodex of memories. When you find the one you want, you return with, “Well, she dreams of them, often. So much so that when I ask her in the mornings what she dreamed of the night before, the answer is always the same: shooting stars. She believes in their magic. That they can make wishes come true.” For the first time since pulling you from the wreckage, I see your eyes — like, really see them — and notice how piercingly blue and unmistakably sad they are, and  see them clearest when you add, “And it’s always the same wish. Every single time.”

“And what was that?” I inquire, tentatively, leaving space for the sacred bond between a mother’s heart and her lost child. 

You pause again to look away — this time beyond memory’s reach. When you circle back, you say, “To bring peace to our people,” your voice splintering like a dry riverbed. “She wishes for the fighting to stop, for the fear to disappear, once and for all. She believes that her shooting star, if she can only catch one, will do that.”

The weight of your words hangs in the air between us and act as a harsh reminder of how innocence caught in the crossfire of conflict is far too complex for a child to understand.

“She thought she saw one, actually… that night,” you continue, a haunting clarity building in your eyes. “But when the night lit up, well… it wasn’t what she thought. The night sky… the streaks of lights… they… well, it wasn’t lit up with her stars, but with…” Your voice trails off again, this time choked by the unimaginable realization of what we both know but can’t possibly bring ourselves to say out loud: that these were not stars at all, but missiles, masquerading as shooting stars in a child’s hopeful eyes.

“And in her excitement, she—” you try again but falter, breaking down completely.

I move in closer and gently place my hand on your shoulder, wrapping my arm around you. “She saw beauty in a world overrun with endless pain,” I offer meekly, attempting to fill in what you can’t. You nod into my chest before pulling away, your tear-streaked face reflecting softly in the dim light. “Stella’s spirit…” I continue, my voice breaking too, suddenly finding it difficult to speak myself. “And her hope. Well… that’s something we could all use more of.”

Another long silence follows, this one deeper than the others. Around us, the chaos continues, the ongoing, decades-long strife baring its ugly teeth. At this moment, I can’t help but think about how big this issue is outside of these fragile walls. Yet, here, in this tiny slice of the universe, how the world has narrowed into this singular scene: a mother mourning her child, a stranger by her side, both bearing witness to a suffering that mere words can’t possibly capture.

“She… she’s still with you,” I try again, the words falling clumsily out of my mouth. “And she’s in good hands… perhaps even in the stars she loved so much.” No matter how many times I do this, and no matter how many devastated eyes I look into, this part never gets easier. The words never come out as I imagine; every time, they fall flat and feel insincere. Oftentimes I even find myself wondering if there’s someone else speaking through me and whether I’m even capable of possessing the qualities required to offer this sort of service or comfort at all — most times, it all seems so far out of reach.

You lift your gaze again, this time to the sky, and your eyes reflect the galaxy of pain coursing through your body. “Yes,” you breathe out, knowingly. “Perhaps that’s true. Perhaps she’ll always be there. In her stars. In the shooting stars.”

Naively, I want to believe that this will be a lasting moment of clarity for you, or even the beginning of some semblance of acceptance, and that minutes from now you won’t slip back into the exact condition in which we found you: cursing that same sky and shaking in horror — the insurmountable cycle of anguish etched into every corner of this place. Though I know that’s too much to ask.

“Yes,” you concede. “A piece of my Stella, up there — wishing for peace in this peaceless land.”

– Ramces Ha