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 7632 Plough Quarterly • Summer 2015 The men re-enter. Abruptly, Roha stands, brushing away tears. She looks at me for a long minute. “Would you like some tea?” she asks. Wael, a Syrian lad in a Lebanese camp tells me, “I was arrested with hun- dreds of others. They separated the children. At sixteen, I was the oldest. I can’t tell you how many we were, but there were many. We were forced together into a cell. There was nowhere to go – there wasn’t even a toilet, just a hole in the floor. If they overheard us talking, we were beaten. So we didn’t talk. All we heard was screaming, crying, and then silence. “There were thirteen or fourteen children whose parents were ‘wanted’. They weren’t allowed food or water. When it was time to eat, their group was surrounded by armed men who prevented anyone from giving them food. These children were too weak to cry; they just lay on the floor. They were repeatedly beaten with sticks, worse than the rest of us. “I knew a boy who was part of that group, Ala’a, only six years old. He didn’t understand what was happening. His father was part of a rival armed group and was told his child would die unless he gave himself up. He didn’t give himself up. Ala’a was tortured more than anyone else in that room. He only survived three days, and then he simply died. I watched him die on the floor. They treated his body like he was a dog. “By then, I wasn’t able to think about any- thing. I thought I would die in that cell, and I couldn’t see past that. When I left that place, I felt I’d escaped death. “Now, I feel that no one cares about Syria. No one is helping us, and we’re dying. If there was even one percent of humanity in the world, this wouldn’t happen. I feel like I’m dying from the inside. At least when I die this will be over.” Wael weeps. “Torture is not only physical, it’s mental. When you see women and children scream and die, it has an effect. Every Syrian has been devastated by this war. There’s no way I can cope, no way I can turn over a new page. I have seen children slaughtered. I don’t think I’ll ever be OK again . . . ” Wael doesn’t know what happened to the other children. When his release was eventually secured by his parents, who paid a steep fee, Wael was adamant that he wanted to return to Syria, to fight. But he has changed his mind – he says he has seen too much death and destruction. Wael now dreams of going back into Syria to encourage and inspire other children, to bring them aid, to urge them not to lose hope – and to work, somehow, for peace. To tell these stories is not enough, I know. What response could ever be adequate? When families share their experiences with me, I feel honored by their confidence and moved by their courage – yet each time it is also an exquisite pain. Returning from a deploy- ment, I often have nightmares. On my first day on the job, my boss, Gareth Owen, gave me some advice: Let this work change you. And that is the only conclusion I can offer here. Let these stories change us. Nothing less will do.  Organizations that help children in war zones urgently need our support. They include: www.savethechildren.org www.worldvision.org www.doctorswithoutborders.org Wael now dreams of going back into Syria – to work, somehow, for peace.