The afternoon wind strengthened, the sky darkened, people rushed home.
Mustafa is an Egyptian, a volunteer translator who became a gravedigger.
He took up a burning duty: to offer a dignified burial to his people.
He safely crossed the merciless Mediterranean Sea
to Greece on his student visa.
After the bodies of dead refugees piled up on the shores of Greece,
Mustafa decided to bury them, to honor them,
finally putting their bodies to rest.
Today he buried two women and a seven-year-old boy.
Burying a child was the hardest for him.
To be the last person to entrust a child’s corpse to the earth.
An elderly Greek lady from the next grave greeted the young
newcomer. The child introduced himself: my name is Sami,
and this is Leila next to me. She is not my mother.
I last saw Mom when the planes bombed Aleppo.
She entrusted me to her cousin.
Mom kissed me and promised to join me soon in Greece.
We both cried our hearts out that night.
My father owned a successful confectionery shop.
In school, before the war, my teacher often spoke of a spring —
Arabic and magnificent. I imagined green fields, butterflies,
laughing children, and everything sweet. Then people ordered the war.
Nothing has changed, the Greek lady interrupted.
I survived two devastating wars.
Systematic killing of innocent people —
for some, being Jewish was their only crime.
Tragedies of eternal shame for our humanity.
The abstract eliminated the concrete —
fringed and sick ideas justified murder.
Rest a little, I know your mother will find you.
Mothers keep their promises. My name is Maria
And it is a pleasure to meet you, my dear Sami.
