I was listening to the radio on the way home from work last year and there was a piece about the effect of the war on children in Iraq. The poem has been difficult to finish, but this generation of children in that country, and all countries devastated by war, is scarred and anyone with children or grandchildren can only imagine the trauma if they were ours.
The Children of Iraq
There aren't enough psychiatrists
in the world to heal
the children of Iraq
I heard on the radio.
Growing, forming thoughts
and feelings,
hit with trauma
like a mortar landing in your garden
when you are playing
and blowing off your leg.
There aren't enough psychiatrists
in the world to heal
the children of Iraq.
A father spoke in monotone of
how is son was paralysed;
shot by person or persons unknown
for no reason.
There aren't enough psychiatrists
in the world to heal
the children of Iraq.
They watch, their dark eyes
burning darker images,
as their homes are destroyed,
their parents killed. Blood,
so much blood.
There aren't enough psychiatrists
in the world to heal
the children of Iraq.
In their offices far away,
leaders sign the dotted line
for billions to be spent
on contracts
for the rebuilding of Iraq.
There aren't enough psychiatrists
in the world to heal
the children of Iraq
There aren't enough psychiatrists
in the world to heal
the children of Iraq
There aren't enough psychiatrists
in the world to heal
the children of Iraq
Tim Fellows 2019
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