I didn't realize 48 pages could rip my heart out.

I should have.

I am familiar with the story of Alan "Kurdi", or at least as familiar as I can be while living thousands of miles away, having never experienced a violent devastation of my homeland or a desperate attempt to escape and survive. I have never traded certain death for probable death and hoped for the best.

This is the story of a father, much like Alan's father, who wishes his son could remember the city of Homs before it was destroyed. This is the story of a father who wishes his son didn't know the difference between dried and fresh blood or how light stretches through the slats of concrete and metal that used to be someone's home. This is the story of a father who prays for his son's safety as they live in a world that is anything but safe.

This story is inspired by one small boy, one toddler who washed up dead on the shores of Turkey after his family chose to trade probable death for certain death. But Alan was just one boy. That same year he perished, some 4,176 more died or went missing making the same journey.

And yet here I sit in a country of prosperity, where I had too much for supper and saved my leftovers for whenever I don't feel like cooking, where I have sure electricity and I am certain my home will be safe tonight. Here I sit in a country that is just like Alan's country used to be, with a mosque and a church down the corner, where different people find a way to live together and live together well. Here I sit in a country that for the grace of God could be the same as Alan's country was in 2015.

And here I sit in a country that banned the resettlement and travel of the vast majority of refugees.

Tonight I cry for Alan, for this fictional father whose prayer represents the prayers of thousands of real fathers. Tonight I cry. Tomorrow I see what I can do about it.

Read this book. You'll hate that it has to exist, but maybe it will spark a prayer in your heart too. Inshallah.