Ali Ismail: Refugee The Diary Of

I write this to tell you the invention .

We are asking for your .

The engine dies. The sea is black and greedy.

Remember that I, Ali Ismail, age sixteen, once had a favorite cup (chipped blue ceramic). I was afraid of spiders. I hated boiled okra. I wanted to be an architect, not because I liked buildings, but because I liked the space between buildings—the shadows where children play. refugee the diary of ali ismail

— Ali

"These are Italian," he said. "I saved three years for these. My father never owned leather shoes."

War exported me. Bombs exported my neighbor, the baker. Fear exported the girl who sat in front of me in chemistry class (she could name all the elements, but she couldn't name a single safe country). I write this to tell you the invention

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.

We don’t run away from death. We scoop it out with our finest possessions.

We are not asking for your pity. Pity is a hand that stays closed. The sea is black and greedy

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.

Note to the reader: This entry was found sealed inside a plastic bag, wedged between the inner and outer hull of a deflated dinghy washed ashore on Lesvos. The ink is smeared, but the pencil marks are legible.