Even here at the Western tip of the Sahara, there are refugees from Syria. At least, this is their claim when they knock at the door with sorrowful faces. Most often they are older women, their black garb streaked with white desert dust. Piercing dark eyes, once and forever their best feature, plead with you for charity.
They almost sing their tale of murdered husband, lost child – so often told it has become their signature tune in this "land of a million poets."
I grab a small note, anxiety rising in my throat, and thrust it into the tiny outstreched hand with a sypathetic squeeze. I want them to go quickly. Before they suspect that I'm British. Before they can sense my humiliation and anguish over my country's action and inaction. Before the sorrow can change its tune.
Filed under: Into Africa, Updates Tagged: Syria
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