A cross or a crescent, why did it matter?
The blood was always red, it ran the same no matter where they sent her. The victims needed the same things no matter what banner flew over their camps.
Some chose to find offence in the cross, some in the crescent. All either symbolised was their desire to help, regardless of beliefs.
She sat with her back against the tree as the sun went down and the sky darkened. She was exhausted. Tomorrow she would start again. There would be more arriving and more to feed, clothe and house in the camp. More than they could cope with.
She ran her hand through her hair and down the side of her neck and felt the dust and dirt smear across her damp skin.
Where next? Would it be Mother Nature that would decide, or a warlord in the Middle East, or would Russia or America or China decide to deploy their military might? Or would it be a misguided believer in the crescent or the cross that would commit another act of terror?
They needed more medicine and more doctors and volunteers and more money. It was never enough.
She stood and looked at the crescent moon in the clear sky and the yellow glow dipping below the horizon across the plain. There was so much beauty in the world.
The red crescent flew on the flags above the entrance to her tent. She stepped inside and found an empty camp bed. Four hours of sleep would be enough to face the next day.
This is a response to the #writephoto Prompt: Crescent curated over at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo. Click on the link to read other stories inspired by the image.
Iain Kelly 
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