It was a moonless night as the boy clutched a bloated cadaver, desperate to stay afloat in the Mediterranean Sea.   He thought of his mother and six-year-old sister who had been locked in the dark, cramped hold below deck when the ship went down.  They hadn’t wanted to go into the hold.  When his mother refused, the smuggler held a cold, black gun to the back of her head to force her to comply.
The ship had been packed beyond capacity with Syrians, Eritreans, Somalis, and Libyans fleeing war and starvation, seeking a better life in Europe.,  About seventy miles off the coast of Libya, the rickety, overloaded boat capsized.  The desperate, terrified wails of his shipmates rang in his ears as he jumped over the railing of the boat. He knew he couldn’t save his mother and sister from being sucked into the murky waters, and that tore his heart in two.   But he had to focus on surviving.  He was the only remaining member of his immediate family.  At some point during the two days he had been drifting at sea, he thought of letting go of his lifeboat made from an unfortunate soul.  He had seen many others do it; death seemed quite peaceful in comparison to suffering further.  When they resurfaced, the dead had deep red eyes.

Back in Syria, his Baba was a tailor and was always impeccably dressed.  His family lived in a modest apartment about two miles from the school.  Each day the boy walked with his friends to school.  Sometimes his Mama sent him to the souk (market) after school.  He deftly navigated the crowded, narrow stone passageways, running by booths selling rainbows of jewel-toned silk shawls, stacks of bright woolen prayer rugs, and cheap plastic sunglasses.  The sweet smell of jasmine and the acrid scent of coffee hung in the air.   Vendors and customers haggled loudly over prices.  He bought ripe, juicy eggplants, tomatoes, and peppers for his Mama.  After his chores and homework were done, he rushed into the streets to play football.  His best friend always picked him first.  “Sayid,” his best friend called, “come be on my team.”  His little sister played hajla with the girls.
His lifestyle drastically changed when members of Bashar al-Assad's regime grabbed his Baba off the streets and hauled him off to jail.  No one knew why.  Maybe he was overheard saying something negative about the government, although he was usually so careful about what he said in public.  A few weeks later, they found out that he had been killed in prison.
A few months after that, the Assad regime started shelling Homs.  His sister’s schoolhouse was one of the places shelled.  When he heard the noise he ran down the road, bringing up dust, in haste to get to her.  Her pale, yellow sundress was burnt and covered with crimson blood, and her skin was charred and black.  He helped carry her out of the rubble.  When his sister woke, she was haunted by the images of her dead classmates and was in severe pain from her burns.  The boy’s Mama gathered their belongings to escape to Lebanon.
The refugee camp in Lebanon was only a slight improvement of their situation.  His family was weak and malnourished, with deep purple hollows under their eyes.  The food in the camp was limited.  He craved juicy lamb kabobs.  He dreamed about  deep-fried, spicy falafel packed into warm pita and topped with tzatziki sauce.  He wanted to scoop baba ghanoush--a salsa-like concoction of eggplant, onions and tomatoes--directly from a bowl into his mouth.  He especially missed his Sitto’s sticky baklava, flaky filo dough layered with honey and nuts.  That was the food a growing fifteen-year-old boy needed.  Despite his hunger, he gave some of his rations to his younger sister, who was still medically recuperating.  He was also aware that his mother had been giving most of her food to them. 
The camp was overcrowded, and his family slept on the cement floor of a wood-frame tent.  The communal toilets smelled pungent, and the lines were interminable.  He missed going to school and the opportunity to become educated.  He became an errand boy for a Lebanese shopkeeper.  Every cent that was not spent on food was set aside to leave Lebanon.  There was no future--no education, no good employment-- for them there.  And, they realized, they were not welcome by everyone in Lebanon.  One night, a group of Lebanese who resented the presence of the refugees, torched their tents.  His tent was spared, but he helped the other refugees sweep away the desolate, gray ashes.  His mother pawned off all her fine jewelry, including her wedding band, in order to help raise the $2,500 they needed to pay a smuggler to take them to Europe. 
Why was he, Sayid Hajjar, in the Mediterranean Sea in the dead of night?  Because of choices.  Choices where there was no good alternative.  Choices between very bad and worse.  Were the lifeless bodies bobbing in the water around him at peace because they were better off than they would have been had they remained in their countries of origin or in refugee camps?  Or were their souls restless because their lives were cruelly ended just as their dreams of living comfortably in Europe were about to be realized? Sayid’s eyelids began to droop, and he started to drift off and be submerged beneath the ebony water.  But then a hot, white light glimmered in the corner of his eye.  It was the beacon of a rescue ship.