Alan Kurdi: A Little Life Lost
I was unprepared for that day. The day I would remember for years to come- the sights and smells resulting from a desperate need to flee the country, despite the risks involved. The morning was gray and dreary as I walked along the shoreline of the Mediterranean Sea. The wet sand shifted beneath my boots making the trek across the beach difficult. As I came upon the area in which I had been summoned, my breath stopped. The air smelled of death. My eyes scanned the shoreline. Children were washing onto shore. Dead children. As my eyes focused on the scene in front of me, my stomach lurched. How can one go about cleaning up a shore of little bodies lost in a fight for freedom? As I
made my way to the first child I was reminded of my own children, safe at home in bed. I fought to keep the bitter, acrid tasting bile from reaching the back of my throat as I reached down to retrieve a child from the surf, a little boy about 3 years old. His skin cold and wet. His little body bloated from the sea water. His lips blue and eyes staring but not seeing. Navy blue shorts wet with seawater clinging to his little body. Tiny sneakers still on his feet, waterlogged and heavy. The bodies were gathered in silence before we were able to leave this nightmare behind us, but our minds never completely released the visions of the day.