25Idlib Province, Syria
She had a photo of Alexi Pushkin.
Illiya weaved among the families, asking in Arabic if anybody had seen the man in the photo. Few paid her attention. Most were preoccupied with their own problems. She kept at it, searching for any hint of recognition in the weary faces. She thought twice about disturbing a mother who was consoling her daughter who had a coughing fit. It was selfish but she did and was ignored. The mother was searching for something. Illiya spied a bottle filled with muddied water. It had rolled away from the pair. She reached for it, handed it over. The mother put the bottle to her child’s lips. A pang of guilt and sorrow cut Illiya’s heart.
She left them.
“Have you seen this man?”, “Have you seen him?”, “Alexi Pushkin. You sir, madam?”
A voic
