Let me take two minutes of your time to tell you the story of a four year old kid.
They were going to visit their grandmother. He talked all day about the new little racing car she bought him. How he was going to meet her was occupying his thoughts. A hug. A kiss to her right cheek. A kiss to the left. He’ll sit next to her until he receives his gift. He’ll hide it with his Mom after playing, alone, with it for a few minutes, and he’ll play with the kids in that neighborhood. He’ll keep it nice and clean for the first day of Eid with his friends.
They jumped in the Taxi. His mom embracing his little sister, him sitting in the back seat behind his dad, dad asking the driver, who was a relative, how he was and how everything is going on with his side of the family. The kid with a smile on his face looks through the window to see a group of long bearded men with small hats attached to their heads. He knows who they are. This must be trouble, he thought. They throw something on the car. His dad shouts to the driver to drive faster. Before he knew it, that thing sent its flames to his skin. The flames embraced his sister and clutched to both his arms and leg. He felt his face being scratched. The screams of his mom and sister crawled to his mind vaguely. He couldn’t hear his dad or the driver.
He, along with his sister, mom and dad, is spending his Eid in intensive care with limbs wrapped in white, eyes swollen, and face scratched. His grandmother is sitting right next to him with her white scarf and majestic tobe (traditional dress).