The Lost Child

There might well be a Sordid Fairy Tale in the making with this entry, but I first only need to say what I saw on my way to work last Wednesday.

I was on my usual bus (the direct one that stops two streets away from work), and I had one eye on my book, and the other on the scenery around me.

At one point, we drive by a smallish garden where there are two nice playgrounds for the many children who come there with their mothers or nannies.

First, I saw a young man near the smallish slide (it’s built for children no older than about 6, I’d say).

Since there’s a bus stop right next to the garden, I had about a minute to observe the young man. I saw him climb on the smooth surface of the slide (which was odd and made me take a closer look at what he was doing), take position on the small platform and then slide down it as if he were riding an imaginary static wave, run once he reached the ground, be stopped by the railings and smile like a Bedlam resident high on something.

My first reaction, with one eye still somehow on my book, was: ‘He’s nuts!’, ‘He should be stopped.’ And ‘Good thing there aren’t any children here today.’

And then…

Then I tried to really pay attention, and it hit me like a ton of latinum. There was one child: the “young man”.

I really looked at him, and, though he was somewhat tall, he couldn’t be older than 17 (my money’s on barely 16).

And then there was the way he looked: decent clothes, but somewhat dusty – the kind that’s given by charitable associations to people who need them and that's worn until they fall apart.

And he looked Afghan.

His game took an entirely different meaning.

I know that there are many Afghan boys, who fled their country and ended up in various European countries where they’re like ghosts. I know that they try to gather in groups at night in order to protect one another, but by day it’s a different story.

Of course, I could be completely wrong, but I bet this teen was a lost boy, and when I came to that conclusion, I was disappointed with myself for my initial reaction [and even if he’s a local boy who was having some fun, he wasn’t destroying the playground, and I was denying someone a bit of fun for being too “old”. I’ve already slapped myself, thank you].

I could well be a victim of my wild imagination, but his boyish grin is haunting me, and I fear I spotted some sad tragedy right in my district.

Now, I imagine this boy alone, miles away from his country, fending for himself all alone, and claiming bits of normal childhood even if he looks too old for that.

I’m going to sound like a fool, but it broke my heart. He was grinning after he slid down and reached the railings, but no one was there to share that with him. He may be almost an adult (and I have no doubt that the authorities would treat him as an adult), but, right then, he was such a child. A lost child, alone in a foreign country.

My bus drove on, and I’ll probably never see him again, but he’s changed something in me.

I’ve got just enough money to take care of myself – and my cat – but this is with encounters like this one that I wish I could protect a few children and take them in or something [Note to the universe: never make me Dictator of the World, or I’d treat all the children on the planet as “mine”].

We’ll be a good species when our children don’t have to catch up on their childhoods in their teen years (or later, if at all). We must fight so our children can be children, and nothing else.