Indescribable atrocities against the civilian population that never seems to end. Most recently, it concerns the humanitarian disaster in Idlib. Villages and cities are bombed and torn apart. Hundreds of thousands are on the run. Children sleep outdoors in minus degrees.

Are you still reading? In that case, you are unusually brave. Most people immediately close their ears when something about the war in Syria comes up.

This does not necessarily mean that people are heartless. Actually, it is a completely understandable reaction to turn off. A protection not to suffer from an overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. For what is the point of wallowing in human suffering that still can't do anything about it?

Fatigue is also evident in the eyes of virtually everyone I meet at the Turkish-Syrian border. An employee from one of the aid organizations sighs loudly. As soon as they have helped a man out of need, there are three new ones asking for help. It never ends, she says.

Journalist colleagues yawn between the consignments and admit that they themselves would not be able to listen to their own reporting on all the misery.

Even Syrians are tired of trying to talk about their suffering to the outside world. At a makeshift refugee camp, I meet a Syrian man who has his relatives left in war-torn Idlib. I ask if I can interview him.

"Will it make any difference?" the man asks, looking me in the eye.

“Probably not a scent,” I think, but of course I respond somewhat more hopefully that maybe it can help people understand what they are going through.

In any case, the man is lining up for the interview. Maybe mostly because he doesn't want to disappoint me.

He calls his sister and on a mobile screen with scanty connection, the siblings are seen playing in the snow. Their mother complains about the cold.

“I just want a tent so the kids don't have to sleep under the open sky. That's all I ask for. "

The family is just a few kilometers from the Turkish border, where we do the interview. Yet it is impossible to help them. The Turkish border is closed.

The children's faces are happy. They throw snowballs at each other. There is laughter.

The pixelated images on the mobile screen are like an electric shock through the body. They become so real and close. All the numbers about hundreds of thousands on the run that I have been constantly interrupting in broadcasts, these are the kids it's all about.

It is often an ungrateful task to portray people's vulnerability in a ruthless war. But at least I'm glad I got to see some of the children's snow games in Idlib. Whether it makes any difference.

See the report from the border area here:

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