A child crawls on the mud strewn ground, his ribs jutting out in sharp relief, distorting the light of the harsh Somalian sun that beats down, parching the land dry; he looks around for his mother. There she comes, carrying a tiny package in her burnt brown hands, to lift up her child; he weighs less than a bird now, and he won’t eat. She balls up grains of rice, pushes them against his lips, and he tries, then fails. In a land where twelve million lay starving, what’s one child? How much difference does one tiny beating heart make? The answer is: all the difference in the world.

A narrow alleyway in Libya, the pavement cracked and threaded, broken by the combat boots that have marched over it. A terrified teenager stands hidden, shadowed in the ruins of a crumbling wall, watching the trigger being pulled. They have guns…