Someone I tell you, in another time, will remember us

Someone I tell you 

In another time

will remember us

-Sappho

There are echoes of footprints all across this island as humanity has traipsed back and forth for thousands of years, marking a shifting balance of East and West. The weary traveller touches feet on the dusty shores while clutching equally to dreams of an unknown future and fears of an all too familiar past. Some stay, making a home and building a community, blending recipes, rituals and songs until the origins are indistinguishable. Others stand on this island with raised heads, their eyes lifted and scanning for a far off destination, always just beyond the horizon. And still others will return back the way they came, overtaken by a past that they race against. 

I swim one last time with the kids at Pikpa. There is laughter and splashing as an evening sun paints everything gold and pink. There are crying babies and sea salted cheeks kissed by little girls all too accustomed to saying goodbye. Later, Nadia, Vergelis and I, sit outside an ice cream shop, contemplating round two as passer-bys with familiar faces join our table to chat. Two hours later, my hands are coated in grease, ketchup and mustard and I dust off my last gyro. A patient dog lies next to my chair, as Nadia’s laughter echoes off stone walls lit by the florescent lights of the gyro shop. In the small hours of the night, Kini and I make a trek on quiet hilly streets to her home, carrying the contents of my packed up temporary home; potatoes, cheese, an oregano plant, a bedspread.  

After a frantic morning and a bag haphazardly packed with half opened eyes, I kneel down in Sappho Square where Arash sits vigil. His skin is darkened by a merciless sun and his movements lethargic on the dawn of the third day of a hunger strike. We say goodbye and I head off to freedom while he remains chained, waiting only for a chance to live free with his brother and attend university. Where will he be in a month, a season, a year? 

My footprints are echoes interwining with the familiar ghosts of all those who have come before and will come after. By the time I return to this island, the smiles of many who I have known in Mytilene, will have moved on to new lives and new dreams all across Europe. But I know that this island is not done with me. Her siren song will call to me in the dark of winter when I will find myself seeking her warmth and searching airfares at 2am. There are plans to make and work to do.

(Postlude: Arash held out and abstained from food for an unfathomable 41 days before his brother and friends were released from Moria's jail. Arash continues to fight for the rights of all refugees. In the meantime, I am solidifying plans and will be returning to Lesvos for two months next summer.)