Stefan Ihrig
I have this imaginary Armenian kid sister. Well, actually, she is
your kid sister, too -- in the same way we all have this imaginary
8-year-old in Syria who has been afraid for her life for the past few
years. We are all humans after all.
My imaginary Armenian kid
sister is 4 and a 1/2; talks too much; is easily distracted; for reasons
beyond me, does not like raisin cookies; and, for reasons even further
beyond me, died in early 1916. Nobody put a pistol to her head and
executed her. Her parents were killed, and she simply had no food, no
care and no proper shelter. She just wasted away. I cannot get over her
death and her suffering, even though I want to, and I need to. I need to
remember her and honor her memory, her life and her death. And I also
have that Syrian kid to worry about -- or to purposely ignore.