Broadcaster Rachel Smalley finds she has a lot in common with struggling mothers who are caring for children in a conflict zone, but she worries about the future for little boys like Ali and Salah.
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Broadcaster Rachel Smalley finds she has a lot in common with struggling mothers who are caring for children in a conflict zone, but she worries about the future for little boys like Ali and Salah.
I think of it as my 6-year-old son wobbles past in my high heels or, dressed as a pint-sized Darth Vader, he follows me in the garden reminding me to "never underestimate the power of The Force".
Oumayma confesses that she spoils her youngest son, six-year-old Ali. Oumayma fled Aleppo by bus with Ali and her other children after the city was hit by bombs. Jo Currie/World Vision
Mothers of boys, irrespective of race, religion or socio-economics, all witness those moments of childhood magic that come when you're mothering a 6-year-old boy.
I meet two mothers while travelling with World Vision in the Middle East who are also grappling with the joys and challenges of nurturing a 6-year-old son.
There is one key difference, though.
I juggle work, family and the demands of a First World life in a politically stable country at the bottom of the Earth.
When extremists arrived at Mt Sinjar, Sesi grabbed her coat and 6-year-old Salah's hand and they ran for their lives. Photo / World Vision
They are doing what they can to survive in a conflict zone in the Middle East where violence and barbarism is the rule of law, and your religion can dictate if you live or die.
Sesi is Iraqi and living in a tent in Kurdistan near the Syrian border. Her religion is Yazidi, a faith targeted by Isis (Islamic State) in its attempt to "cleanse" Iraq of all religious minorities.
Sesi considers herself lucky. She escaped the terrifying onset of a massacre in Sinjar by grabbing a coat and her son Salah's hand, and literally running for her life.
The forgotten children of Syria - their stories in their own words:
And in Lebanon I meet Oumayma, who is Syrian. Ali is her youngest child and "spoilt", she says.
They left Aleppo "when the bombs were coming down" and took a bus to the Lebanese border. Now they live in the Bekaa Valley on the edge of a vineyard, in a makeshift tent.
These mothers are doing what they can to survive. Photo / Jo Currie / World Vision
And then there is me. I have Finn. A little man obsessed with Lego, Star Wars and T-Rex dinosaurs, and safely tucked up in a bed, half a world away in Auckland.
Sesi and Oumayma, like me, have soothed their sons' grazed knees, they've made cheese sandwiches, fetched endless cups of water, and tried to keep the cheeky, roguish behaviour of their boys in check. None of us can claim a 100 per cent success rate at the latter.
This mother is one of 300 others who have moved into a small settlement in Dayrabun, Iraq. Photo / Jo Currie / World Vision
Motherhood is our commonality. Here we stand, three women in the Middle East, and we meet at a sort of maternal crossroad. Our lives are very different but our priorities are the same - we all want our little boys to thrive and be happy.
I, like many mothers, have clung to these early years. I know my son is on the cusp of maternal independence. His boisterous and overly dramatic hugs will soon disappear, his small hand will stop searching for mine, and it is only a matter of time before "Mummy" is abbreviated to a shorter, sharper "Mum".
Hadar, 38, smiles at her one-year-old daughter Serena in Dayrabun, Iraq. Photo / Jo Currie / World Vision
"They grow up so fast," says Sesi and I smile.
Every mother will hear that sentence a thousand times.
Sesi's little boy Salah has a mischievous grin but he is coy around strangers. He sees me, bursts into a fit of giggles, and bolts.
Salah slowly emerges from behind the tent, his curiosity getting the better of him, and he makes a dash for his mother's arms.
"He is a good boy," she says.
A son perches on the edge of his mother's chair while she watches over her other children play. Photo / World Vision
Ali is much more confident. Oumayma tells me if it weren't for the fighting in Syria he would be at school by now. "I want to learn to read and write," he says.
He misses much about his family home in Aleppo. The big trees in the back garden. His toys. The new bike he left behind. One day he will be a teacher of Arabic and English, he says.
That dream seems a long way off. Like millions of Syrians and Iraqis internally displaced or living as refugees in the border countries of Lebanon, Jordan and Turkey, both Oumayma and Sesi are wholly reliant on aid.
World Vision New Zealand is among the agencies providing blankets, mattresses, kerosene heaters and water to a huge aid operation now entering its fifth year.
A family sit in the afternoon sun, in a newly opened internally displaced camp in Erbil, Iraq. Photo / Jo Currie / World Vision
They contribute desperately needed funds to the cash-strapped World Food Programme too. In the depths of winter the WFP slashed its monthly allowance from US$31 ($41) per refugee to just US$19. It was a struggle for families before. It's a life-threatening battle now.
I think of Finn's bedroom at home. The huge box of Lego, the stacks of books, the bins and boxes full of cars, trucks and super-hero costumes. The fridge full of food.
A moment of joy between mother and child in one of Lebanon's many informal tent settlements. Photo / Jo Currie / World Vision
There isn't a fridge or a toybox in the tented rooms that Oumayma and Sesi call home. The dirt floors are cold and damp. Flattened cardboard boxes are used in a hopeless attempt to insulate the flimsy tarpaulin walls. If it rains, the soggy cardboard gives way and the rainwater drips on to the foam mattresses below.
The children's clothes are constantly damp and their small bodies are plagued by chesty coughs. In this rabid conflict, the voices of mothers are often drowned out. Their suffering is seldom heard.
How do we ease this suffering? Is this a problem for the Middle East or a problem for humanity? Is inaction even an option?
On my return to New Zealand, I pick up Finn. He feels heavier than he did before. Somewhere, deep in my consciousness, I feel as if I'm carrying the weight of Salah and Ali too. Every child, surely, has the right to live in a world where there is food, warmth and security. And surely humanity should strive to help out however it can.
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