i’m going to show you a picture today,
There was a second where I did not know what it was.
Just a second. My brain took the image in and held it there, waiting. A gurney. A baby on it. Both things present. Neither making sense together.
And then it registered.
Her arms were chunky.
That is the thing that broke me. Not the rest of it. Her arms. The specific glorious completely unnecessary chunkiness that only exists on babies who are still brand new to the world. The kind of arms that have no purpose except to be squeezed and kissed and pressed against your face by someone who cannot believe something this soft is real. She had curly hair. A pink shirt. Her face looked like every baby face you have ever loved.
Perfect. Completely heartbreakingly perfect.
I am not going to tell you what the rest of her looked like. But I will tell you that I stood there with her perfect face and her chunky arms and her pink shirt and my brain still catching up landed on the most ordinary thought.
I wonder if she liked being held.
If she was a serious baby or a smiley one. If she kicked her legs when she was happy. If she had already started showing her mother who she was going to be. I wonder if her mother had learned her specific cries, her particular sounds, the face she made right before she fell asleep. I wonder what her mother called her in the quiet moments. The name underneath the name. The one only she knew.
⚠️ Content warning - Graphic Imagery. This video contains distressing footage of a child and is not suitable for all viewers. Please only watch if you feel able to.
I wonder if she was the one who chose the pink shirt that morning.
I have an imaginary daughter I have loved for years without meeting her. I think about her chunky baby arms. About learning the specific language of her, who she would be, the sounds and expressions that would belong only to us. And standing there looking at that baby I thought about her mother who had all of that already. Who had learned that language. Who chose that shirt. Who held those arms and felt exactly what every mother feels holding something that new and that soft. Who put her down somewhere she believed was safe.
Who came back to find her on a gurney.
I want you to think about the baby you love most in this world.
The chunky one. The smiley one. The one whose face you know so completely you could draw it from memory. Think about their arms. Think about what they were wearing the last time you held them. Think about the specific weight of them when they fall asleep on your chest.
Now tell me that baby was worth more than her.
Tell me the pink shirt mattered less because of the street she was born on.
Tell me the chunky arms were less worth saving.
You cannot.
Nobody can.
I almost forgot about Gaza.
She brought me back in the most devastating way a person can be brought back to anything. And I am asking you not to forget either. Not today. Not while she is still in my head with her perfect face and her curly hair and her pink shirt and her arms that should have been squeezed a thousand more times before anyone was ever allowed to let go.
She did not finish becoming who she was going to be.
Give today.
For her.
For the mother who chose the pink shirt.
For every chunky baby arm that deserves to be held until it is ready to let go on its own terms.
For the baby on the gurney whose arms were still chunky,
Hafsa