The photo in  yesterday’s Times of Malta of a spread-eagle corpse of a little boy washed up on beach in Garabuli, a coastal town East of Tripoli, haunts me.

How old could he have been? He looks the same size as the son of my niece. The comparison gives me the shivers.

Are his parents still alive? If they are they would surely live with the pain of his loss all their lives. Probably they are dead. Do they have other sons or siblings or parents?

Is there a husband or a son or a brother out there waiting for them, inanely hoping that they will safely hit a welcoming shore?

Is there a wife or daughter in some remote village in sub-Saharan Africa dreaming that someday those who left will earn enough money so that even they could live a life that decency decrees a human should live?

Is there a mother still wrapped up in dreams of a better life for her son or daughter who left her for pastures they believed to be green?

Are there enough tears to lament this grave human tragedy?

The unnamed child and his unknown parents are not alone.

Theirs is the story shared with thousands who in the past years have tried to make the crossing from North Africa to Southern Europe. Several of them settled to a life of relative comfort in Europe. Many others eke out a frugal existence doing the jobs ordinary Europeans refuse to do. For many, far too many, the sea bed was their final resting place.

The sea, an occasion for pleasure and relaxation for many, had promised to be their way to paradise. Instead it became their tomb.

Hundreds are packed onto a boat whose capacity is far less than its arbitrarily imposed load. It has to be like that otherwise the human traffickers will not line their pockets with dirty dollars and euros.

I ramble on in my thoughts.

The packed boat leaves the shore. Hope is mingled with fear. Sea water is mixed with tears. The strong smell of humans huddled together is alleviated with fresh breezes from the cool Mediterranean Sea.

Then panic strikes for one reason or another.

It is perhaps an argument for a morsel of food or a better place where one can sit or a blanket to cover your little kids, or baby. Or …. Who knows about what  hundreds bunched together in such a small space drenched in fear argue together? Can we from the comfort of our houses image what they do to alleviate the terror that enslaves then and what do they do to dampen  their frustration bordering on despair? What strategies do they opt for to ward off corrosive fear?

Then during pitch darkness a freak wave overturns the boat. The screams are loader than the roaring seas. A mother tries to hold on to her baby. A father tried to shield his wife. A small eight year old drowns in front of his parents both of whom try to keep him/her afloat but the hands are not strong enough to save him/her.

The horror in unspeakable and indescribable.

While this apocalypse surrounds us we debate and argue about two birds shot illegally and a friar who blessed two rings. What is happening to us as a nation? Why do we get our priorities so mixed up?