I could relate to this poem. In fact anyone can, who reads about wars and deaths sitting in the comforts of his house over tea/ coffee. An excerpt below,
Do not believe me were I to talk to you of war, because when I spoke of blood, I was drinking coffee, when I spoke of graves, I was picking yellow daisies in Marj Ibn Amer, when I described the murderers, I was listening to my friends’ giggles, and when I wrote about a burnt theatre in Aleppo, I was standing before you in an air-conditioned one.
Needull in a haystack 