My father, a Kurd, a married man with three sons, spent five years in prison under the regime of Bashar al-Assad. He suffers from depression, and his eyesight has deteriorated. He often had nightmares about al-Assad striking his head and shaking his neck. That led to my immediate being brought to the front door of his house.
After I got there, my mother asked if I would like some of his painkillers. She was afraid that I might have a reaction to the painkillers. A neighbor said that his family at the hospital had given him some pills and that he had a strange, almost catatonic state.
Now that his family has made contact with us, we know exactly what was going on. My father needed them. They needed to help him. My mother put her trust in the good, benevolent, strong and resolute men who administered his medication. So she gave them to them, knowing full well what she was doing. It was a good thing that her actions led to his health and well-being.
I’m so sad that I can’t please my father. But let me just say something here that your readers might want to hear. Those doctors were not your “terrorists.” You should have left them alone. They were actually doing a good thing. There were people in the hospital who didn’t care for the [Kurds] because they thought they were terrorists. But those people, too, had a right to come to this country and have medicine.
Shame on you.