Finally, after days of rain, sun and clouds roll over the hills dreamlike, perfect upcountry morning. I pull the Jeep over on the shoulder of Crater Road to watch a pair of horses, grazing in the sun. How their burnished coats gleam against the wild green, fields of yellow dandelion and brush, how flies swarm their flanks in the heat and how their muscles shiver them away, their tails snapping side to side in the north wind. They do not notice me or care about me, or the others in the suffering world, not the French photographer killed in Homs bearing witness, not those grieving for him, or any of the others. They simply do what horses do perfectly and steadily behind a barbed wire, fence that keeps me out.
(Adele Ne Jame)