A massive white Islamic flag signals our entry into rebel-held northern Syria on a cold, cloudy winter day.
The road is dotted with signs: "Smoking is a sin," and "Look only at what Allah wants you to see" -- this second one urging people not to leer at women or watch Hollywood movies.
As we make our way through the hills of Idlib province, west of Aleppo, our driver Abdullah (not his real name) tells us jets have just bombed Maarrat Misreen, a 15 or 20-minute drive away.
"They say there is a ceasefire," he sighs. "Maybe in Aleppo. But there is still bombing in other parts of the country."
Idlib is almost all that remains of the Syrian opposition's dream of an independent state, and the fractured political and militia groups are all trying to stake their claim to part of an ever-shrinking pie.
Our instinct is to head to Maarrat Misreen immediately, but our escorts all say it's too dangerous; once the planes are overhead there is no telling what they will decide to target next.
The closest we can get to the bombed town is a hospital, its parking lot overrun with vehicles, fighters, and those mourning the dead. As a woman wails, her pain piercing through the shouting, a man puts his hand in front of our camera and yells at us to stop filming.
It's not clear who is in control, and allegiances here are murky, since eastern Aleppo's fall back into regime hands has left all of the rebel groups crammed into this one area, jostling for position.
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No target off limits
We drive on towards one of the makeshift refugee camps that dot the hilly landscape and Abdullah, who worked as a lawyer before civil war tore his homeland apart, gathers more information about the attack on Maarrat Misreen as he drives.
Activists tell him nine people were killed and 26 wounded when a market, bakery and other sites were hit. Women and children are among the dead. Jabhat al-Nusra, which is not part of the ceasefire agreement, is said to have checkpoints nearby.
But then again, this is Syria, where no target -- hospitals, schools -- is off limits. Where red lines are crossed with no consequences. Where atrocities are committed with no accountability.
And where children beg to die.
"They bombed us, and in just three minutes -- not three hours -- they destroyed our entire neighborhood," says Umm Bilal.
Her seven-year-old son, Bilal, stands next to her, looking warily up at us. "He asks why are there so many strikes?" Umm Bilal says. "He starts to cry. Sometimes he even says, 'I want to die.'"
How can a mother respond to that? What promises can she make to her child when she can't even be certain she can keep him safe?
Aleppo's displaced citizens
Most of those here are from Aleppo. The children chase us, cheeks pink, noses red with the cold as clothing hangs, half frozen, from lines that whip about in the wind. There are armed men here too, ostensibly protecting the camp.
Umm Bilal's family is among those who were evacuated -- or, as they see it, forcibly displaced -- from rebel-held eastern Aleppo in December, after months living under siege and relentless bombing.
Her head shaking with emotion, she explains: "Our home was destroyed, not even a single paper is left, and we suffered to get out. We were forced to leave with indignity, this is how it was."
What is the point in telling you all this she asks, wearily?
It's a question we have been asked time and time again, whether by Syrians still inside their country, those living as refugees, or along the wretched route through Europe.
I can't argue that there is a definitive point. I can't argue that it will make a difference to bare her soul to strangers.
I can't argue that the world needs to hear it, that we need to tell the story of what is happening in Syria. It already has. We already have.
But we can't stay silent, we can't give up. So I tell her that. And then I silently repeat it to myself.
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