What A Hungry Refugee Child In Turkey Taught Me

He left with milk for his sister while I left with a new eye on life

As I stepped off the beautiful Bosphorus cruise in Istanbul, my hair was beehived with wind and ocean breeze. I walked with a sway in my step; still used to the rocking motion of the boat. The sun was beginning to set in the distance, burning the sky in an extravagant fashion.

With the luxury and opulence of the boat ride came the stark contrast of stepping back onto land. As the area wasn’t a touristy area, there was trash strewn onto the road and many families sat on the street with signs pleading for food. It was the hard reality of how millions of people around the world live.

One particular family sat on the road with a sign that said “We are from Syria. Please help.” Upon seeing my family and I, five boys and two girls, all certainly under the age of 10, rushed over to us in a flurry.

They said words in Arabic; words I couldn’t understand.

As I saw the children fervently beg, my heart panged at the sight of childhood so different from my own. With their cracked hands, tattered clothes, and eyes that seemed years beyond their age, it was hard to see them as children. Because as refugees, they probably had experiences that no child should have. They should be playing and laughing, not crying and begging.

I looked at them and remembered my own childhood; filled with long bike rides and hours of laughing with my friends, all with my American Girl Doll clutched firmly by my side. I had no worries other than what clothes was appropriate for my doll to wear to my friend’s picnic. I didn’t worry about any kind of money except the acorns my friends and I used as fake currency at school.

And that’s how it should be. Kids should BE kids.

But in front of me, I didn’t see childhood; but rather, a lost one. My heart panged and banged while my eyes filled with mist.

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