Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 7626 Plough Quarterly • Summer 2015 getting fighters back to the frontline; mothers and children take lower priority. Even where this is not the case, when healthcare facilities are destroyed or short-staffed and supplies have run out, it is extremely difficult for doctors and nurses to give adequate care. In Syria, an estimated 60 percent of hospitals have been damaged or destroyed, and nearly half the doctors have fled. In 2014 in Aleppo, the country’s largest city, only thirty-six doctors remained of the 2,500 who’d been there before the conflict began. Even preventable illnesses kill in warzones. If standing in line for immunization means risking being bombed, or if travelling across town means becoming a sniper target, families understandably stay home. The consequence is an unvaccinated generation. Epidemics are spawned in the crowded, dirty conditions that war creates; and where children are exhausted and weakened by stress and hunger, they become further vulnerable. Up to 30 percent of children who contract measles during humanitarian emergencies are likely to die. Schools, like hospitals, are protected under international law, yet in recent conflicts, schools have been deliberately targeted. Warring groups have discovered that aiming a tank at a school is exceptionally effective – few villagers will continue any protest in face of so dire a threat. And if a school is turned into a place to store weapons or fire missiles from, the adverse impact is double: the building cannot be used for education, and it loses civilian status under international law. On behalf of Save the Children, I’ve stayed in a number of war-torn countries as well as in refugee camps on their borders. My role is to listen to teenagers and children, and to record what they tell me. I sometimes wish I could dismiss their accounts as wild imaginings. I can’t. I’ve seen torture scars on nine-year-olds and bullet wounds on ten-year-olds. I’ve listened to youngsters describe how it feels to be part of a human shield or to collect their siblings’ body parts from the street. Mothers have shown me photos of their dead children. I’ve watched proud men weep. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget what I have seen and heard. That is as it should be. I don’t want to forget. I relate several instances here. I’ve changed the individuals’ names, because it took great courage for each to share his or her experiences with me, and I do not want any to be harmed as a result. Giving these children a voice is what drives me. Even if their stories are not widely heard, I have an obligation to pass them on. At least these children’s accounts are now on record. They are part of history. Fadi is ten when I speak with him in a camp outside Syria; he was nine when his village came under siege. With his father away, Fadi became man of the house. His mother tells me he insisted on fetching the family’s food and water, even when bullets were flying. He shrugs. “Some children get afraid and hide or cry. Others are like me.” He is noncha- lant, but I sense that he is pleased to have his courage acknowledged. Although Fadi did his best, supplies ran out. With no safe routes in or out of the village, families were trapped between armed men and hunger. “People kept trying to leave in groups of maybe ten or twenty. Larger groups would be killed. There was a crossing we called the ‘death journey.’ It was potluck whether or not you would be shot going through. You might “Some children get afraid and hide or cry. Others are like me.” Fadi, age ten