However, despite the captivating developments of the new front lines, or the various uprising here or there, I keep my kids away from news broadcasts. They will certainly have time later, when they grow up, to learn about the realities of our complex world. I feel there is no need to impress and imprint their young and fresh minds with images of hate and violence. But despite me and Paul's sheltering reflexes, reality reaches us - and them - in unexpected ways.
Last week, a friend of mine, a journalist, was killed in Lybia. Tim was a great photographer and reporter. He was really interested in telling a story. During the Liberian war, he had rented a house in Monrovia to really capture better what was happening in the city. This is where I met him. Only today when others detailed his work, I realized how much and how well he was doing his work.
It is just strange for me to think of him from this perspective - the war perspective - when I met him in peaceful and hopeful times, just around the election of Shirleaf-Johnson. He was a photographer, recording history being made - in times of peace. I had not given too much thought into how he had got there, and Tim was not the type to boast about his "war coverage". I never have lived through war, I have only roamed in a few devastated places, a while after the facts. It is hard for me to imagine what effect it can have on ones' mind when living through it "live".
Yesterday at the dinner table, Noam looked at me and asked me: "Mommy, do you know war, when you are small?" I am not sure what prompted the question. Maybe me and Paul were talking about Tim, about Lybia, about the conflict. I can't recall. Anyway, Noam popped the question again.
It was not the first time. He first had asked about war right during our CNY trip. In fact, he first inquired when we were in Cambodia, while visiting a war "museum" - essentially a yard with a number of damaged war equipment, helicopter, plane, a few old thanks, some lance-rockets, some other various things torn and old half taken by the weeds. Our guide was a victim of land mines: he had lost him mom, dad and two sister in front of his eyes, when a young boy. He also had lost one of his arm.
For Noam it was the strangest of things. I was not fast enough to catch a picture of him, but I vividly remember him standing beside our guide, right below the empty sleeve of the missing limb, directly in line with what should have been there. He was staring. Then the questions came later. "Why no arm?" Answer: "He lost it". Q: "Where is the arm?" (looking around). A:"We cannot find it, it got broken". Q:"Why did it get broken?" A: "Because of war". Q:"What is war"? A:"It is like when you fight with your friend, but this time it is big people, and many big people, and they use terrible things to make each other suffer. And many many people suffer because the countries fight." Q:"And what more?" A:"When there is war people loose their house, their moms and their dads, sometimes they even loose their arms or their legs". Q:"What more?"....
You get the gist.
So for several weeks, at times, he would return again with similar questions. One day, he looked at me and asked: "Mommy, when you are small, you know war?" A:"No." Q:"Daddy know war?" A:"Yes". Then his eyes light up, and he goes, "Yeah!". Then Paul proceeded to explain again about the lost limbs, lost houses and lost moms. For a 3 and half year old boy, some concepts are harder to grasp, and the idea of explosions, fires and making a mess can sound like good fun. And yet, at times, I can feel there is a really a little compassionate soul behind these large blue eyes, when he realizes that an arm an a family have been missing forever.
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