Ismail - Refugee The Diary Of Ali

If you are reading this, and you have a house key on a ring in your pocket, please understand: I am not a burden. I am an export.

I drew a map in the condensation on the window of the bus heading to the coast. My mother thought I was drawing a cloud. But I was drawing the olive grove behind our house in Homs. The one where my brother and I buried a tin box of marbles in 2011. The marbles were blue like the sky before the jets came. refugee the diary of ali ismail

Then he used his expensive Italian shoes as a bail bucket. He scooped the Aegean Sea out of our coffin, one sole-full at a time. If you are reading this, and you have

I write this to tell you the invention . My mother thought I was drawing a cloud

I have to close the notebook now. The water is getting higher. Tarek is handing me his left shoe.

For three years, I was UNHCR Reg. No. 782-09-114. I was a "transit" case. A "vulnerable male." A statistic in a spreadsheet that a caseworker in Geneva closes at 5:00 PM to go home for dinner.

Tonight, the stars are very bright. The coast guard’s light is a white dot on the horizon. It might be rescue. It might be return. I don’t know which is scarier.