Hossam told me that Mohammed had a favourite plastic glass. He had left the glass on the windowsill of his parents bedroom. In the hours after the attack, Mohammed asked his father where his glass was. Hossam feared that it would have been destroyed. But the window had imploded sending glass flying and twisting the metal frame. The glass was still upright on the windowsill, untouched. For Hossam and his wife, this was a small miracle, a symbol of hope. I see this so often, in war, among people who have so little to call their own. An item of insignificance for most of us becomes a precious token of survival.
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