Behind a concrete pedestal, we found a frightened Chihuahua, the lone survivor among the bodies of his family. Born amidst war’s horrors, we named him Barry.
Despite my initial fear of dogs, I offered Barry a biscuit with gloved hands. He cautiously nibbled as I patted him. I left him with food and water, promising to return.
Barry gave me hope, a feeling I hadn’t experienced since leaving the Army in 2014. Back home, I struggled with the aftermath of war and personal hardships.
Attending a friend’s funeral in Syria reignited my soldier’s spirit. When offered the opportunity to join the Syrian team, I embraced it.
A month after meeting Barry, I searched for him in the school’s rubble. Relieved, I heard my colleague calling his name. I extended my bare hand, gently caressing his head. It felt right.
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