The smell of seaweed and salt hung in the night air. Small wavelets lapped at his feet so quietly. The water was warm, the air cool as it nestled against his body. It was quiet at this time, the beach empty. Come the morning and the usual early dog walkers would arrive, treading their usual early paths made fresh by the sea. Until then he would be alone save the odd interested crab scuttling along, stopping - claws aloft - before disappearing back again into the dark.
He still wore his clothes from the night before.
The horizon changed to an orange glow as the sun promised the day a new start. Even in September there was a warmth to it. A yellow hand touched the whitewashed houses back from the shore, lighting them up. Windows flashed then turned gold.
The boat was busy. People jostling them until they found somewhere to sit. No one spoke much. Except for the two men. He sat next to his family.
The sun was up now, the beach bright and new. Street dogs barked in greeting up the hill somewhere. He didn't hear them. Small movements became people opening doors, stepping outside. A keen nose would smell the faint odour of coffee mingling with the weed and fish.
He didn't stir.
This place was foreign. Strange language, alien customs. Not like where he'd come from. But here there would be no trouble. Here people slept easy, enjoyed their food. Here mothers watched their sons play and knew they would do the same the next day.
Someone let out a cry and then a wailing began. He didn't notice. The wailing grew louder and then receded. Time passed with the sounds that happened this time everyday. Strong coffee passed lips, cigarettes were lit, smoked, put out. Another was lit. Children were woken and embraced, brought down to the table. Every morning life began anew. The rituals laced with kindness. The cross words filled with love. This was where his place was the same. The deep bonds with mother, father, brother. Daily rituals that oversaw birth, life. And death.
He felt cold.
He felt cold as the grim-faced policeman lifted him off the sand, his clothes dripping, leaving pock marks. Even wet he weighed so little.
A little boy.
His face lifeless, legs dangling from his bright blue shorts as he was carried away.
Three year old Alan Kurdi.
Firstly I really didn't enjoy writing this short piece and still don't know if it is something I should share it or not.
I feel like I have to respond though to the language of people in power and some media outlets.
It is 7 years since Alan Kurdi lost his precious life trying to cross from Syria to the Greek island of Kos. His family were fleeing murder and destruction when they took the only decision they could. To get out. They were refugees. Twelve people died in that crossing including Alan's 5 year old brother.
In an interview with The Guardian, Khaled Hosseini, the bestselling author of The Kite Runner said after seeing the picture, “The way I thought about it, when I saw the photo, was all the unseen work that goes into the raising of a child.”
“All the private worries, the private anxieties … We worry and fret over their wellbeing, and to have done all that work, and see the person that you poured all that love and all that passion and all that work into, and to see that body lying face down on the beach …”
Even today politicians and media refer to these people as migrants but they make up a small proportion of immigration and theirs is not an economic choice. This language stokes hatred and we see this now in Llanelli where asylum seekers are barraged with threatening abuse. Some of the posters in the town show pictures of soldiers with the slogan
Lest we forget
As if soldiers fought so that we would be free to hate others.
I wrote this article lest we forget
Alan Kurdi
and all those like him.
This is brilliantly written and so sad, you could maybe share it with a magazine/news site to get it published. S xxxxx