In the past year, I have sat in the safety and comfort of my room scrolling through a seemingly endless stream of videos where mothers scream over the corpses of their children; where a young boy around my sister’s age sobs because he doesn’t know if his best friend is dead or alive under the rubble; where fathers carry the pieces of their family in plastic bags, one in each hand; where a man holds up the last remains of a little girl, her hair and scalp; and where a father turns around in horror holding up the limp body of his beheaded son.