Four children and the cost of war
By Cal Perry
CNN



TYRE, Lebanon (CNN) -- The last time I sat down to write something, it
was about the cost of war. As I looked ahead to the coming days, the
last words I wrote were: Who will die?

Today, I found out.

Standing in front of this 8-year-old boy lying in a hospital bed, the
"conflict in the Middle East" and the "cost of war" seem endless and
suffocating. His pain cannot possibly be imagined as he shakes
uncontrollably in and out of shock. He has blood coming from his eyes.

His name is Mahmood Monsoor and he is horribly burned. In the 
hospital bed next to him is his 8-month-old sister, Maria -- also
burned. Screaming at the top of her lungs is the children's mother,
Nuhader Monsoor. She is standing over her baby, looking at her son --
and probably thinking of her dead husband. The smell of burned flesh
is overwhelming.

This story, for the Monsoor family, started out as a typical one,
probably one that most of us have experienced. They had simply gone on
a family vacation to some lovely sunny beaches, but these beaches were
in southern Lebanon.

The six of them, like thousands of others, were fleeing the fighting -
- trying to get north, waving white flags, when an Israeli bomb or
missile slammed into their car. (Watch how the littlest victims are
suffering -- 2:54. Viewer discretion is advised.)

The father, Mohammed Monsoor, was killed instantly. His children all
were wounded. His wife, who is now crying over two of the wounded
children, was in the best physical condition. But as would be the case
for any mother and wife, her life, in many ways, ended the minute the
car exploded into flames.

The other two Monsoor children, Ahmed, 15, and Ali, 13, are in 
surgery. Doctors can't tell me if they will make it. They walk away,
their heads shaking. Optimism is not a word that breathes truth in
this place.

There are more than enough stories like this, in hospitals across
southern Lebanon. This hospital, on this day, seems to be a microcosm
of the region. Less than 100 meters from the front door of the
hospital, a car is on fire. Less than 30 minutes earlier, the car
exploded as an Israeli jet circled overhead. The fog of war has crept
into the hospital, and no one knows where the casualties of that
strike are being treated.

Just days earlier, staff at this hospital were moving bodies out to
make room for more. Like an assembly line of the dead, unless the
bombings stop, they will be doing the same tomorrow.

The city of Tyre has been enduring stories like this for more than a
week. Buildings are crumpled; those who have not left are hiding in
basements. Those who dare to pack into cars run the risk of ending up
like the Monsoor family. Some who move north die on the road. Some
stay in basements, and die there. Others hope against hope that the
bombs will fall elsewhere -- missing them.

Politics creeps into the ward like the blood that runs on the 
floors. "Clearly he is Hezbollah," says one of the doctors outside the
room -- sarcastically referring to 8-year-old Mahmood, whose screams
can be heard from the hallway. His screams now blend with the wails of
his mother, matching the baby's cries.

The hospital ward begins to teem with members of the international
press. They all have blue flak jackets that say "press" on the front.
They carry microphones, cameras, radios and satellite phones, and have
local guides to translate.

Today, as I finish I am sitting in the same spot and the shells are
still falling. Hezbollah rockets are firing toward northern Israel. I
can imagine another reporter, in another flak jacket, standing over an
8-year old Israeli boy.

I'll finish by asking another question: Are any of us making a 
difference?

Tomorrow, I'll let you know.








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