March 7, 2023
Even after two years, the haunting image of that small body lying face down on the beach lingers in my mind. Initially, I steered clear of the photo, not wanting to invade the grief of another. I believed that simply hearing the heartbreaking story was sufficient.
But when I saw the correction in a headline — it wasn’t Aylan, but Alan Kurdi — I found myself compelled to confront the image directly. I realized that Alan had a mother who had chosen his name with love, just as I had thoughtfully named my own son. While I sat in my comfortable living room watching my children play, Alan’s mother was tragically drowned, desperately trying to save him.
I didn’t merely glance at the photo; I immersed myself in it, giving it the respect it warranted. Alan had recently gotten a haircut, and I pondered whether he had fidgeted or sat still during it. He wore shoes, and I could picture his mother assisting him in putting them on, wondering if, like every other three-year-old, he insisted on doing it himself.
As I gazed at his lifeless form, I couldn’t help but envision him with my son’s fair complexion and light hair. And I found myself asking the same question that every mother who has seen that image has asked: What if it were my child?
It’s a thought too painful for any mother to bear. Yet, it crosses my mind whenever I read about families escaping war-torn nations. I think about it when I hear of a mother sifting through debris to find her baby after a midnight attack. Each time I encounter stories or images of children marked by shock and trauma, the question resonates: What if it were my child?
Most of us in the U.S. cannot truly comprehend what living in a besieged city is like. We can’t imagine seeing our neighborhoods — our shops, libraries, and parks — reduced to rubble. The feeling of profound insecurity that comes from watching your homeland burn is unimaginable. We struggle to fathom the desperation that leads a mother to place her children in a fragile inflatable boat, fully aware it could capsize, simply because it represents hope.
How do these mothers manage their emotions? I know how deeply it pains me to witness my children in distress, and they rely on me for reassurance and strength. But what if I were just as frightened and heartbroken as they were? What if my fears were intensified by my understanding of the real dangers we faced? How can a mother nurture her children in such dire circumstances? How do you instill courage and a sense of safety when nothing feels secure?
What would I sacrifice to keep my children safe? What risks would I take? What would I endure to ensure they could live free from constant fear? I don’t have the answers. None of us do until we are confronted with such stark realities.
Instead of succumbing to despair, I focus on how I can help these mothers. If I were in their position, what would I wish for? I would want others to grasp my fears. I would seek compassion and support, hoping to create a sense of hope and security for my children.
I would want to tell my kids, “Look, this is humanity. The violence and horror you see isn’t how life should be. The kindness of those who reach out to us is what it means to be human; this is what it looks like to love your neighbor.”
Mothers living in stable environments with access to services and community support should be at the forefront of extending a helping hand to those whose lives have been shattered by conflict. When I imagine the plight of mothers facing impossible choices, my heart breaks anew. With every image of a scared child and every story of a family seeking refuge, the question reverberates from one mother’s heart to another:
What if it were my child? What if it were yours?
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Summary
This piece reflects on the profound empathy mothers must cultivate for one another, particularly in the face of unimaginable loss and hardship. It emphasizes the importance of understanding, compassion, and community support for mothers navigating dire circumstances, urging readers to recognize the shared humanity in such experiences.