My mom and I walked the ancient Istanbul cobblestone trying not to step on the sea of Syrian refugees. A little Syrian girl, who couldn’t have been more than five, was dressed in ripped clothes that were once white and yellow but had changed to a dusty hue. Her curly hair was flattened from the dirt and her shoes were lost in a street someplace. Her newborn sister, coated with the same sandy filth, was in her arms, threatening to collapse at any second. I remember them both so clearly. The big sister was frantically begging for money, but no one noticed. I walked over to the pair and handed the sister the last of my coins. I looked into her pale green eyes.
It was hard to see their family and futures slip away. They were innocent kids now depending on each other for survival.
I didn’t wait to see where they went; I kept my head down to get her vulnerable face out of my mind. I couldn’t, though, and I still can’t. I think about them every day, maybe out of hope or maybe out of guilt. I felt to blame for the conditions of the girls’ lives. I felt bad for the difference in our worlds. All of the issues in my life then became so small. My problems were like a speck of dirt on their clothes compared what they were going through.
England’s The Guardian said in June, the numbers jumped passing 1 million Syrians who had crossed the Turkish border. The movement began mainly because of peaceful protests that quickly turned into a bloody civil war against civilians and President Rashar al-Assad. Refuges have de- scribed that people are being beheaded and slaughtered at random. They travelled 500 miles to save their already tattered lives just to be more at risk.
My mom and I were in the thick of it. When we were there, thousands of immigrants filled the streets, protect- ing any space they had to sleep. Police with loaded semi-automatics blocked every street entrance in preparation for any potential melee.
I have never moved from my home, and it’s hard to imagine moving to a completely new place. It is like someone said, “Okay kids, today you and your family need to drop every- thing they’re doing and pack up. Ev- eryone is leaving to never come back.” That is a difficult pill to swallow.
My mom and I were eating dinner our last night in the city across from the Bosporus Strait. The setting could not have been lovelier. I looked to my right to see two little girls, probably sisters, climbing the steep mosque wall. They too were wearing ragged and grungy clothes with exposed feet. There was a huge piece of wood hammered to the siding. The oldest scooted to the top and put her limited belong- ings beside her. She reached her short arm down, pulling up the youngest. They slid into the gap between the wooden sheet and the wall and never came back.
– By Skyler Waugh