Without Refuge
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her husband.
“We’ve been sinking since we left Turkey,” he says.
My stomach lurches.
Bushra gasps and spins to me. “You knew?”
“I just noticed now.”
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“It wasn’t so bad at night with the engine running,” the man says. He looks at the water in the
boat. “Now it’s bad.”
Panic spreads. People try to move from the
floodwater but they have nowhere to go. The raft
sags. We peer out at the dark shape of Greece.
“Too far to swim,” a woman says.
“We’ll drift until we sink,” a man says.
“We will drown,” a teenage boy says.
A family speaking another language talk among
themselves. They point at the water, at the boat, at
Greece.
“A boat! A boat!” someone says.
The buzz of a motor from another boat dances
across the water. I stare at the other dinghy, jammed
with people in every available space. Heads turn on
it. People wave, but it doesn’t slow down or change
direction.
“They aren’t coming over,” Bushra says.
“They might not make it if they do,” Dayah says.
The other boat slows. I hold my breath. It drifts
for a while. It swings slowly around. The buzz of
the motor changes as it heads for us. A cheer goes
up on our boat. A couple hundred feet away, its cuts
its engine. It drifts closer. The men and women on
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board, the children and old people, are much like us.
They watch from their crowded dinghy.
“No room,” a man says. “We’ll get help.”
“We’re sinking,” a man on our boat says. “Please
tow us.”
They think about this. There’s talk, argument.
At last the man shouts: “Throw a line.”
We cheer again. It takes time for us to paddle our
boat around. The waves keep turning us. The men
work the paddles hard. Our engine man throws our
rope again and again. Finally a woman in the other
boat grabs it. She ties it to a loop on their boat. In
comparison to theirs, our raft wallows dangerously
low, its inflated sides loose and sagging. My blood
starts to darken but I don’t let it take over. I remind
myself I am brave and strong.
The other boat fires up its engine. The rope snaps
taut. A rush of seawater gurgles over us. Foam sprays
high. We move through the water, slowly at first,
then faster as the front boat gathers speed. We buzz
steadily across the waves. I grip Alan and the slippery
sides of our leaking craft.
Greece grows bigger. Hills fill with definition
and depth. Trees and houses appear, scattered on the
slopes, clustered into villages and towns.
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“I see a beach,” Bushra says.
“I see a car,” I say. Sunshine glints on its win-
dows. “Look, Alan!”
Alan says nothing, but he lifts his head. I can’t take
my eyes off the shore. Sweeping waves curl and break
on a stony beach. Tiny figures stand watching us.
“Are they waiting for us?” I say.
“Looks like it,” Baba says.
“Will they turn us away?” Bushra says.
“No, Bushra.”
We’re still a good distance from shore when the
tow boat releases our rope. It heads straight for the
beach, where people run to help it land. With no
power, we drift in its wake until onshore waves catch
us. They curve fast and strong, driving us toward the
shore. They crash onto rumbling stones with a noise
like thunder. They drag us in.
They drag us down.
It happens so suddenly there’s nothing I can do.
White churning water swamps our struggling raft. It
flounders. In the final stretch, when land is within
reach and people are running toward us, our dinghy
flips over entirely. Every one of us is tossed into the
pounding waves.
Alan and I plunge into deep water. We sink
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beneath the surface, gasping and gurgling. Darkness flashes through my blood. Alan kicks and struggles.
Salt water fills my mouth and nose. Churning ocean
and muffled shouts fill my ears. I toss among rolling
waves. I lash out and flail. I don’t know what way
is up.
I’m drowning.
My life jacket drags us to the surface. We pop
above the waves. I choke and splutter. Cough salt-
water. Suck in a lungful of air.
Another wave breaks over us. It hurls me to the
floor of the sea.
Rolling stones grate my face, scouring off skin.
Pain sears through me. I open my mouth to scream.
Seawater rushes in.
My life jacket drives me upward again. I gasp
for air. Blow bubbles. Two people stand firm in the
water next to me. One grabs my life jacket. He hauls
me from the suck of the waves. I’m in his arms.
Alan is not strapped to me. The sea has torn
him away.
“Alan!” I scream.
I twist to look at the sea, the scattering of people
struggling out of the water, the wreck of our little
dinghy. Where is he? Where is he?
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The man holding me unstraps my life jacket. He wraps a crinkly silver blanket around me. He speaks
foreign words. He carries me toward the shore. I
struggle to free myself, to find my brother, but my
muscles won’t work properly. I’m helpless. I choke
and struggle for air. I can’t breathe.
“Alan.” The name gurgles in my throat.
Sickness rises in me. I throw up seawater. I cough.
Splutter. Hang limp in the man’s arms.
We’re out of the water. People from the two
boats are all along the shore, wrapped in silver blan-
kets, sitting on the beach. Some lie unmoving, face-
down in the sand.
“Ghalib!” Baba says.
I almost leap out of the man’s arms. He car-
ries me to Baba, Dayah, and Bushra. Pale and
trembling, they too are wrapped in silver, their
lips blue with cold. The man sets me on the stony
beach. My legs collapse beneath me. My body
is sick through and through. I have no strength.
Baba holds me. He buries his head in my shoulder.
He sobs, great heaving sobs that shake his body.
We cry together.
“Alhamdulillah!” Baba says. “My son. My son.”
“Alan?” I say. What happened to him?
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Men and women from the shore wade into the sea. They carry out babies and children. They help
people to fight out of the waves. Rawan f loun-
ders ashore, leaning on a man’s arm. The woman
with the baby drops to the stones to give thanks
for their safe passage. But the crashing water can’t
drown the cries and screams of those who’ve lost
loved ones.
A man stumbles out of the sea carrying a small
boy wearing the Syrian team strip and no life jacket.
“Alan!” I say.
The man carries him to where we crouch. Lays
him on a to
wel, cradles his head. Alan’s pale arm curls
across his chest. Baba lurches to him. They pull off
Alan’s tracksuit. Lift his shirt. Pump his chest. One.
Two. Three. Massage his legs and arms. Breathe into
his mouth.
He’s white as candlewax. Stiff as bodies back in
Kobani. More men and women run to where he lies.
They have oxygen. Warm blankets. Silver foil. They
do everything they can. They work so hard.
“Alan,” Dayah says. “Alan.” Her words are only
a whisper. They cradle a lifetime of pain.
Bushra’s arms are around me. She holds me tight.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
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I push Bushra off me. Pull myself to my knees, muscles numb and inert. I edge across the stones.
Thrust through the people who’ve gathered around
my brother. Men and women sense me near. They
pull back. Let me through.
I kneel at his head, bending low so my face is
against his cold skin. So my breath becomes his
breath. I breathe into him. I breathe for him. I
breathe with him. I breathe with him.
Alan lurches. Coughs. Throws up. His gimpy
leg spasms and stiffens. His back arches, lifting his
small body off the towel. I pull back. I wait. I watch.
He gasps. He breathes. He breathes. When he relaxes his spine and sinks to the stones again, the people
around me swoop in. Rubbing, warming, bringing
life back to his white limbs.
Behind me, I hear the joy burst through Bushra’s
words.
“He’s alive, Ghalib!” she says. “And we’ve arrived
in Greece.”
I lean back on my heels. I smile.
I am Ghalib. I am invincible.
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What might happen to
Ghalib next?
Like thousands of refugees arriving from Syria to the
shores of Greece, Ghalib and his family must now find
somewhere safe to make a new life. He is fortunate that
his parents and siblings are with him—many Syrian
children are separated from their families as they flee
their homes. Amnesty International’s research shows
that children are the most vulnerable refugees, facing
violence, exploitation and sexual harassment. Human
traffickers prey on children traveling alone, and many
of them are known to have vanished.
Even with his family, Ghalib faces an uncer-
tain future. Most refugees who arrive by boat are
exhausted and traumatized by their ordeal; many are
also ill or injured. By now they have no money and
few belongings.
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Families like Ghalib’s often end up in a refu-
gee camp or even a detention center on mainland
Greece. These places are unable to provide for the
long-term needs of so many distressed adults and
frightened children. Some camps and centers have
no running water, electricity or medical aid.
Other refugees end up homeless, living on the
streets of Greek cities or hiding out in the moun-
tains and forests of northern Greece and Macedonia,
as they try to travel farther into Europe in search
of somewhere safe to live. These refugees have no
access to medical care, education, work, proper
food or secure housing. Smugglers exploit refugees
by charging exorbitant fees to smuggle them across
European borders, hiding them in trucks and con-
tainers, where they are at high risk of abuse, injury,
sickness, detection, and even death. They are often
turned back at borders.
More and more countries are closing their
borders to refugees coming from Syria. In 2016,
Turkey made a deal with the European Union to
take back Syrian refugees in exchange for Syrians
living in Turkey who qualify for asylum in Europe.
This controversial agreement is being challenged by
human rights organizations because it may result in
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people being deported to the country they’ve just
fled. Syrian refugees like Ghalib and his family could
be sent back to Turkey or even to Syria.
Ghalib’s father may be able to apply for asylum
status for himself and his family in Greece (or in
another country) but the application process is long
and tedious, taking months, and often years. During
this time, the family will be housed in a detention
center, unable to work and with limited access to
education, health care and decent living conditions.
Those who are fortunate enough to secure asylum
status receive humanitarian aid and assistance with
establishing a new life in Europe. Only a small num-
ber of refugees are successful with their applications.
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Glossary
Alhamdulillah: praise be to God; Arabic term
Allah yusallmak: a typical Arabic reply to almost anything pleasant; it can be a response to someone
saying “thank you” or “thank God for your safe
arrival” or “good-bye”
As-salamu alaykum: peace be with you; Arabic term
baba: dad in Kurdish and Arabic
caravanserai: an inn with a central courtyard for travelers in the desert regions of Asia or North
Africa
dapir: grandma in Kurdish
dayah: mom in Kurdish
ISIS: Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, a jihadist militant group that follows a fundamentalist
Islamic doctrine
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keffiyeh: a square of cloth, often embroidered, traditionally worn as a headdress (mostly by men)
in Middle Eastern countries; Arabic term
Kurd: a member of an ethnic minority living in
parts of Iran, Iraq, Turkey, and Syria.
Kurdish People’s Protection Units: the main
armed service of the self-proclaimed governing
body of Syrian Kurdistan. The Protection Units,
which include the all-female Women’s Protection
Unit, are mainly Kurdish, but they also recruit
Arabs, Turks, and westerners.
ma’a as-salaama: good-bye; Arabic term
mukhtar: the head of a village or neighborhood in many Middle Eastern countries, usually elected;
Arabic term
souq: a marketplace; Arabic term
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Children of Syria
Every character in this book shares a name with a
real Syrian child who died as a direct result of the
war in Syria. Here are the real children.
Ali Qutayba Al Rawi was a five-year-old boy
who died when International Coalition missiles were
fired on the city of Al Boukamal on May 16, 2016.
His brother Musab Qutayba Al Rawi also died.
Amin Deyaa Al Jaber was a ten-year-old
boy who died when government helicopters
dropped barrel bombs on the town of Kafrouma on
May 27, 2016.
Alan Shenu was a three-year-old Kurdish boy
whose image made global headlines after he drowned
on September 2, 2015 in the Mediterranean Sea
while trying to cross to Greece with his family. His
brother Ghalib Shenu also drowned.
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Baraa Rateb Al Sa’aour was a ten-year-old
; boy who died when Syrian government forces
fired artillery missiles in the city of Damascus on
January 26, 2016.
Bushra Rahal was a seven-year-old girl who
died when Syrian government warplanes fired
missiles on the city of Aleppo on April 11, 2016.
Dima Alabbasi was a fifteen-year-old girl
who, along with her parents and five siblings, was
subjected to enforced disappearance by the Syrian
authorities. They were arrested in March 2013 and
have not been seen since.
Fatima Baha Al Din was a three-year-old
girl who died when Syrian government warplanes
shelled the city of Raqqa on May 11, 2016.
Gardina Zamzam was a girl who died when
Syrian government warplanes fired missiles on
Aleppo on June 18, 2016.
Ghalib Shenu was a five-year-old Kurdish boy
who drowned on September 2, 2015 in the Mediter-
ranean Sea while trying to cross to Greece with his
family. His brother Alan Shenu also drowned.
Hamza Ali Al-Khateeb was a thirteen-year-
old boy who was detained during a protest in Daraa
on April 29, 2011, during the civil uprising phase of
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the Syrian civil war. He died while in the custody of
the Syrian government.
Mahmoud Al Jalleli was a four-year-old boy
who died from locally made rocket shells fired from
artillery located in the city of Aleppo, May 16, 2016.
Mohammad Yahya Ziqiyeh was an eight-
year-old boy who was shot by a government forces
sniper in Aleppo on May 27, 2016.
Musab Qutayba Al Rawi was a seven-year-old
boy who died when International Coalition missiles
were fired on the city of Al Boukamal on May 16,
2016. His brother Ali Qutayba Al Rawi also died.
Najah Alabassi was a thirteen-year-old girl
who, along with her parents and five siblings,
including her sister Dima Alabbasi, was subjected
to enforced disappearance by the Syrian authorities.
They were arrested in March 2013 and have not
been seen since.
Safaa Abdul Rahman Emo was a twelve-
year-old girl who died when Syrian government
warplanes fired missiles on Aleppo on April 23, 2016.
Yousef Issam was a seventeen-year-old boy
who was subjected to enforced disappearance by the
Syrian authorities. He was arrested in the town of
Idlib in 2014 and has not been seen since.
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