“My Name Was Joshlin Smith”
Saldanha Bay, Western Cape, February 2024
I remember that afternoon. The breeze carried the smell of the ocean. I was just a little girl, full of curiosity, full of life. I trusted the world around me because home is supposed to be a place where children are safe.
I had a life of wonder ahead of me, dreams not yet spoken, futures not yet imagined. I played, I learned, I smiled. I believed in comfort, in care, in love. But none of that mattered in the end.
They said I was in the hands of people who were meant to protect me. They said someone was watching me while my mother went out. But something went wrong. Somehow, I disappeared. I did not just wander away. I did not choose to vanish.
There was no warning. No one to hear me call out. No one to shield me from what happened next. One moment I was here. The next, only questions remained.
They searched the dunes, the ocean, the bush. They looked in every place except the one where I truly was. People were arrested. Stories shifted. Accusations grew heavy, and the truth stayed hidden in shadows. I remained missing, while the world argued about what happened to me.
I was only six years old. I had a family. I had a name. And I had every right to grow up. But I was taken away from the world before I even understood it.
My name is Joshlin Smith. I was tiny, joyful, trusting. And I never came home.
Remember me.
