Throughout my years in the army, I’ve learned many difficult lessons, but perhaps the hardest is that you can’t save everyone. This understanding doesn’t make it any easier—it only deepens the weight of the burden. One encounter that has stayed with me for years was when I met a young girl named Yasmina, whose life, torn apart by war, changed my perspective forever. This is a story of resilience, compassion, and a bond that transcended the boundaries of family and duty.

The Call That Changed Everything

I’ll never forget the phone call from Mindy, my fiancée back home. Her voice was calm, but I could sense the sadness behind her words. “John,” she said gently, “they told me… the little girl’s whole family didn’t make it.”

I already knew. When Yasmina was brought in, she was a mere six years old, wrapped in blood-stained blankets. Her small body trembled with fear, and the hospital corridors echoed with her heart-wrenching cries. She had survived an attack on her village by rebels, but the violence had cost her everything—her family, her home, her future.

Despite the nurses’ best efforts to comfort her, nothing seemed to ease her pain. No amount of medical attention could soothe her fears. Yasmina cried in her sleep, woke up in panic, and clung desperately to anyone who came near. But there was something about me. Every time I sat by her bed, she reached out to me—not to the nurses, not to the doctors, but to me.

A Quiet Connection

Perhaps it was the uniform, or maybe my voice, but for reasons I couldn’t explain, she clung to me like I was the only person who could protect her. I stayed by her side during every break I had from my duties. She would wrap her tiny fingers around mine, and I would speak to her in broken phrases, offering what little comfort I could.

One night, after an exhausting shift, I thought about skipping my visit to her room, but when I entered the hospital, I heard her frantic cries. I rushed to her bedside, and when she saw me, her eyes lit up. She reached out, and without hesitation, I picked her up. She calmed immediately, falling asleep against my chest. A nurse whispered, “She only rests when you’re near.”

Looking down at her peaceful face, her tiny hand clutching my sleeve, I felt something shift inside me. This little girl had been through so much, yet there she was, finding solace in my presence. It was a moment that would change the course of my life.

Discovering Yasmina’s Story

As the days passed, I made it a priority to check on Yasmina, no matter how busy I was. I asked Rabia, a kind woman who volunteered at the hospital, to speak with the child in her native tongue and learn her name. At first, Yasmina said nothing. But one day, in a fragile voice, she whispered it: “Yasmina.”

The name carried with it a sense of quiet hope, a flicker of light amid the darkness she had endured. I tried to say her name, though my accent was far from perfect, but Yasmina smiled faintly—a fleeting, yet profound moment that meant everything to me.

I called Mindy to share the news. We had planned our wedding before I deployed, but now, amid the chaos of war, it all felt distant and irrelevant. I told Mindy about Yasmina and how she only found peace when I was near.

“You’ve always had a big heart, John,” Mindy said softly. “But take care of it. Don’t lose yourself.” Her words were a reminder of the importance of preserving one’s own well-being, even while trying to help others. I had seen fellow soldiers become consumed by their desire to save everyone, but I couldn’t walk away from Yasmina.

A Gift of Love and Hope

One afternoon, when I visited during my lunch break, I found Yasmina sitting up in her bed, clutching an old, patched-up stuffed bear. She reached out and handed it to me. I tried to return it, but she shook her head, pressing the bear to my chest. It was all she had, and she wanted me to have it. I swallowed hard, whispering, “Keep it. It’s yours.”

As time passed, we learned that Yasmina had no family members nearby. Her entire family had been killed in the attack, and there were no shelters capable of taking care of children like her. I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to her once I had to leave.

Then, Rabia brought me some hope. She had heard of a man named Hakim, possibly Yasmina’s uncle, who was now living in a refugee camp across the border. We weren’t certain, but it was a lead worth pursuing.

A Search for Family

I spoke to my superior, requesting permission to travel to the refugee camp to find Hakim. After a long pause, he agreed. “You’ve done right by her, John. Go.”

Rabia and I set out on a grueling journey through scorching heat and dust-covered roads. After hours of searching, we found Hakim. He was older, cautious, and visibly worn down. When he heard Yasmina’s name, his eyes filled with emotion.

“She is my niece,” he said, placing his hand over his heart.

Relief washed over me, but the reality of the situation quickly sank in. Hakim had nothing. No home, no means to care for Yasmina in the refugee camp. “If you can give her a better life,” he said, “then that’s what I want.”

I returned to the base and shared everything with Mindy. Her response was calm but understanding: “If this is what you want, we’ll figure it out.”

A New Beginning

I had never considered adoption, especially during my deployment, but leaving Yasmina behind wasn’t an option. The paperwork was slow, and there were setbacks, but I never gave up. I continued visiting her, showing her photos of Mindy and our home. Slowly, Yasmina began to smile again. She learned English and called me “John, my friend.”

When my deployment ended, I returned to the U.S., leaving Yasmina behind to complete the adoption process. The wait was long, but then, one morning, I received the call—it was official.

I flew back immediately.

The Reunion

When Yasmina saw me step into the care facility, she ran toward me and threw her arms around me. I held her tight, and this time, I didn’t let go.

Now, Yasmina lives with Mindy and me. She’s safe. The nightmares haven’t disappeared, but her laughter has returned. She plants flowers in the garden. She talks about her bear. And when she calls me “family,” I know she means it.

The truth is, you can’t save everyone. But sometimes, saving one is enough. In doing so, you may just save yourself too.

Sources:

• The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR)

• World Health Organization (WHO)

• Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC)