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Mothers’ faces wretched in agony as they stumble through debris crying out their children’s names. Despair. My stomach tightens in fear for them.

Little ones, no older than my youngest, crouching bewildered, jostled by surging crowds. Soft, tear stained, skin sprinkled with concrete dust. Frightened. I close my eyes in prayer.

The shaky steps of the frail and disorientated, searching for anything, anyone familiar. Lives ebbing away.

A primeval howl of loss. The fragile frame of a tiny girl collapses onto a lifeless body. She clings. She clings.

Her face has been kissed by Time. Every crease and line around her eyes records a moment in her life, like the delicate rings in a tree trunk. Etched into her beautiful brown skin, more than one of these proud wrinkles symbolizes the many hardships she has endured over the years. Alone, her seven grown children (one for each day of the week) visit to keep her company and seek her counsel. With what little she has, she still gives what she can: wisdom, compassion, and a modest meal. She is Um Fawaz, from a small village in northern Jordan.