Then there is a commotion inside. Glass hitting the floor. A crash. Ferit Abi is saying something like, “stand back, wait, wait. Hold on.”

Then a long silence. I wait. The door swings open and the mother comes out in tears with her baby in her arms, a thin stream of blood running from his nose to the corner of his lips. The father’s eyes are blood-shot, but resigned. Ferit Abi’s face is white as a sheet.

The father turns to Ferit Abi:

“God took him, he’s in God’s hands, doctor. You’re not the one to blame.” Following his wife out of the room, he closes the door and is gone.

Earnestly I look at Ferit Abi’s face. He mumbles:

“The kid had pneumonia. I thought I’d just write a prescription and send them on their way. Penicillin shots in his thigh, morning and night. They said they wouldn’t be able to find anyone to administer the shot in their village so they asked me to do it. I had some pronapen here in the cupboard so I said why not. But the kid went out the moment the needle went it. Anaphylactic shock. I gave him a cortisone shot but he didn’t come back …”

We looked at each other with blank expressions on our faces. Then somehow I managed to say, “Well, thank God the family didn’t raise any problems.” Who knows where those words came from?

I was certain that the expression on Ferit Abi’s face was no different than the prosecutor’s that other day. In the same soft tone of voice, he said:

“These people are like this, son. This kind of respect stops them from seeking accountability when someone dies.”

Spring

In the past the words “either a guardian or an angel” were written in old manuscripts. It was believed this prayer would safeguard the book against rain, fire and insects. And it was also rumored that the ink was made from the sap from buttercups, monksblood, which was a natural insecticide. In other words it was a kind of talisman written in special ink: meaning that there was a “protecting, vigilant angel … .”

Why do we still fail to understand? The blood that runs from the lips of our children is like holy ink written as the conscience of our country: the burning sap that comes from their crushed bodies, the ache in our hearts …

Either a guardian or an angel …

For the love of the dark, hazel or green eyes of our children, for the love of their beautiful heads on frail shoulders just beginning to carry the weight of this accursed world, for the love in their hearts, these we know, all too well, are lighter than the wings of a swallow that has struck a window pane and died …

Either guardian or an angel …

Protect us from the enemy, from hate and oppression … From untimely deaths … Protect this country …