Of all the terrible images of suffering emerging from the war, the one that affected me most was that of a father crying over his dead son — who was covered with a blood-stained sheet — and cradling the boy’s head as he wept.
Iliya was 15 and playing football with friends when the Russian bombs rained down on the besieged city of Mariupol. His father Serhii went to reclaim his broken body.
Perhaps I found the image so painful because it reminded me of seeing my own father weeping as he held my brother Michael after he died from cancer. That searing memory of his pain has never left me.
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