On the outskirts of the village of Kato Tritos in Lesvos lies what is known as the ‘Muslim cemetery.’ But the reality is a little different. The people buried there are not all Muslims; or at least we cannot know if they are Muslims, because most of them are unidentified. But they are strangers, and even after death it seems they have to be distinguished from the locals. Muslim identity, it seems, is enough for the locals to be distinguished from all the others.
The men, women and children lying in that cemetery are the victims of European and Greek border policies. Victims of shipwrecks; people who were unable to get from Turkish soil to what they thought would be a land of safety in Lesvos. A much larger cemetery than most cemeteries on the island. One hundred and ninety-seven graves, and over one hundred of those are for ‘unknown persons!’
When the ‘refugee crisis’ began and bodies started to wash up on the shores of the island on a regular basis, the local community began to make decisions as to where these people would be buried. Their reactions carried a fear of the stranger, even after death. As if their ancestors buried in the local cemeteries could be contaminated by the ‘unknown bodies’ buried near them.
A decision was made by the local council so that everyone could relax. They would provide a field, around 30 kilometres from the main town, where all these strangers could be buried. For many years, the burials were carried out with the help of local volunteer groups. For most of the victims, the only sign of the gravesite was a stone with a card that reads “Unknown male/female/child” followed by the date of death. Covered in dust and grass, you wouldn’t be able to tell the actual use of the field from the road next to it. Perhaps that was the point.
Friends and relatives of the missing from the shipwrecks would come to visit them, not knowing which might be the grave of their loved ones. They would walk over the graves. They would shed a tear for each one of them. They are all their brothers and sisters, their mothers and fathers, their friends and partners.
All of these people were murdered, without giving them a chance to tell their story. And as blindly as they were killed, the same way they are buried. Nobody cares about their story.
Fortunately, the look of the cemetery has changed radically in recent months, thanks to the efforts of a few organisations and volunteers. The grass has been cut and the dust has been removed from the graves. They are trying to give at least some dignity to those who will never feel the welcome of the place that touts democracy and human rights. A sign reading “Memorial to Humanity” tries to remind visitors that this is not just a cemetery. Every grave is a tragedy. A tragedy for humanity. A tragedy for everyone who never managed to do enough. Perhaps it should have been written “Memorial to Inhumanity.”
The cemetery grows with time. And it will continue to grow until we all come to understand that there is nothing that can divide us, in life and death. Until we manage to build a new world of peace and justice. And let us never stop praying and fighting for it.
