I read a story about a sad and terrifying incident that occurred during the recent tragic war in Sarajevo.
A reporter, covering the fighting and violence in the middle of the city, watched a little girl fatally shot by a sniper.
The reporter threw down whatever he held, rushing immediately to the aid of a man who knelt on the pavement cradling the child. As the man carried the child, the reporter guided them to his car, and sped off to a hospital.
“Hurry my friend,” the man urged, “my child is still alive.”
A moment or two later he pleaded, “Hurry my friend, my child is still breathing.”
And a little later, “Please my friend, my child is still warm.”
Although the reporter drove as fast as was possible, by the time they arrived at the hospital, the little girl had died.
As the two men were in the lavatory, washing the blood off their hands and their clothes, the man turned to the reporter and said, “This is a terrible task for me. I must now go tell her father that his child is dead. He will be heartbroken.”
The reporter stood speechless. He looked at the grieving man and said, “I thought she was your child.”
The man shook his head. “No. But aren’t they all our children?”
