The muddied, bloodied body of a Syrian boy surfaces like a wandering ghost from the rubble of a bombed building. He is carried like a lifeless doll from under the ruins of a home and placed, startled at the world around him, on an orange chair.

The intrusive camera zooms in on him. He wipes his muddied, bloodied face with his muddied, bloodied hand. His hand, muddy and bloody, has nothing to clean itself with. He wipes it on the chair on which he is sitting.

We should not be watching this.