walking my dog during a drone strike in the holy land
I was turning down a toddler’s bed during the last days of the siege of Aleppo. This housekeeping job was a complex one—the house was big, the expectations were high (I was also a cook and a nanny), and my time was limited. My work was a tightly-choreographed series of gymnastic feats—dashing up flights of stairs while food simmered and chemical solvents reacted, my arms full of linens that I barely had the time to wash and dry and fold before my time was up.
I couldn’t look away from my phone, where civilians begged for mercy and made impassioned pleas for international aid. I felt an obligation to them: my country is not blameless for the profoundly destabilized state of the Middle East. I was bowled over, really, by the sense of unfairness—we’ll go running into Syria, into Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, when we are not wanted, under the guise of aid, but where are we now that we are being asked for help?