In the war-torn city of Raqqa, we received a distress signal from a school. It was February 2018, four months after the liberation of Raqqa. As experts in bomb disposal, we knew better than to rush into the situation, as ISIS often used the cries of children as traps.
Behind a sturdy concrete pedestal, we found a terrified Chihuahua, the sole survivor among his deceased family members. Our son Barry was born amidst the horrors of war.
Despite my initial hesitation, I put on my gloves and offered Barry a biscuit. He cautiously nibbled on it as I gently stroked him. I made a promise to return and left him with provisions.
Encountering Barry filled me with a sense of hope that I hadn’t felt since leaving the Army in 2014. Returning home had brought its own set of challenges, with the lingering effects of war and the stresses of everyday life weighing on me.
Attending a friend’s funeral in Syria rekindled the spirit of a soldier within me. When the opportunity to join the Syrian team presented itself, I eagerly embraced it.
Around a month after our initial meeting, I ventured back to the ruins of the school in search of Barry. To my relief, I overheard one of his colleagues calling out his name. I reached out and gently stroked his head with my bare hand, sensing a natural connection.
I knew I had to take a risk with Barry in order to earn his trust.