Staring at the headlines, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
A little boy with dark hair, wearing a red t-shirt and navy shorts, lying face-down in the sand, waves lapping around his body.
Dead.
I felt sick – he was just two years old. Almost the same age as my youngest son, George.
It was September 2015 and the story of Syrian refugee Aylan Kurdi, who’d been found washed up on a beach in Turkey, had made headlines worldwide.
There was a global outcry – but of course it didn’t last. Soon people forgot about little Aylan.
Not me though, I couldn’t. I laid awake in bed at night, wondering about how desperate a parent would have to be to flee their country with their children. To take that risk.
As a busy working mum-of-three, I had my stresses, like everyone else, but I had a safe roof over my head, food and education for my children.
All I could think about was: what if Aylan had been one of my kids?
If I’m sad about something I have to take action, otherwise it eats me up – so I started researching ways to help…
