Geopolitics

In Lebanon, Syrian Refugees Run Out Of Space To Bury Their Dead

In Lebanon, the country with the highest number of refugees per capita in the world, a cemetery for Syrian refugees is running out of burial plots.

Abu Abdo’s cemetery for Syrians in Daraya, Lebanon
Abu Abdo’s cemetery for Syrians in Daraya, Lebanon
Chloe Domat

DARAYA — In the valley below the Lebanese village of Daraya lies a cemetery for Syrians. Large oak trees surround the graveyard, which smells of the herbal balm usually spread over the dead before funerals. Many of the graves are planted with fresh flowers.

At the end of a line of graves sits Abu Abdo, the man in charge of the cemetery. Abdo is not a refugee. He left Syria in 1993 to work as a plumber in neighboring Lebanon. He was well settled into his new life when war started back home. It seemed a distant tragedy — until he lost one of his own relatives in 2014.

"My aunt's husband died here in Lebanon. He was a refugee. For several days we couldn't find a spot to bury him," he says. "The corpse started to smell. It was very difficult." This is when Abdo came up with the idea of opening a cemetery especially for Syrians.

Abu Abdo receives requests for burials on WhatsApp.

With the help of a group of friends and a local NGO, he gathered enough money to buy a 16,145 square-ft (1,500 square-meter) piece of land in Daraya, the village where he lives, and opened the cemetery in January 2016. He has since buried 250 adults and more than 100 children — nearly all Syrian refugees from across Lebanon.

Syrians find out about Abdo's cemetery by word of mouth. Initially, he opened a Facebook page to advertise the graveyard, but he says the page was closed at the behest of Lebanese authorities. Now Abu Abdo receives requests for burials on WhatsApp. As the refugee crisis in Lebanon drags on, his business has grown. Funeral fees start at $150.

"I bury three to four people a week. I have about 100 spots left, then I need to get new land or bury people on top of each other," he says.

The initiative has attracted criticism from local villagers. "Whenever I buy a loaf of bread or a kilo of meat, people say it's money from the dead," says Abdo. "But I'm not making a profit."

The local NGO supporting the cemetery says international support has also been lacking. "The land needed special rehabilitation and construction. We were promised help from numerous international organizations, but none came through," says Ghassan Shehade, executive director of the Social Association in Chehim. "We only depend on the goodwill of our local donors and on our volunteers."

Fields and smugglers

More than one million Syrian refugees live in Lebanon. Many of their deaths go unrecorded, but local NGOs estimate that about 10,000 die in Lebanon each year. The vast majority of them are Sunni Muslims, whose faith prohibits cremation. In a country roughly one-third of the size of Belgium, burial space has become a pressing issue.

At the beginning of the crisis, in 2011, Syrians were buried in local cemeteries alongside the Lebanese border, but land rapidly filled up and prices rose.

Today, fees for a tomb in a Lebanese cemetery start at around $400. In cities, this price multiplies by 10, and in Beirut it can reach $10,000. This is a fee most Syrian refugees cannot afford, as few of them are able to work, and years of exile have depleted their savings. Many families are forced to bury their loved ones wherever they can.

This is what happened to 22-year-old Azzam, from Homs, when his month-old baby died last year. The family, who live in a derelict Pepsi factory on the outskirts of Sidon in southern Lebanon, could not afford medication for their firstborn child.

"The cemetery asked for $400 to take my son. I didn't have the money, so I was forced to bury him in the field," he says. "I waited until it got dark so that nobody would see me. I could have been in real trouble." It is illegal to bury someone outside an official cemetery in Lebanon.

Other refugees have resorted to sending bodies back to Syria, even though the roads aren't safe and the smugglers rarely trustworthy.

When Rajaa*, a 37-year-old refugee from the Syrian province of Idlib, lost her brother two years ago, she tried to send his body back to Damascus.

The body was lost. We don't know where it is.

"I paid a smuggler $400. He took my brother's corpse and disappeared. I called him many times, but his phone was switched off," she said. "That was it. The body was lost. We don't know where it is. Did they feed it to the dogs? Did they dump it somewhere? Did wild animals eat it? We don't know."

The right to a burial

Under the Geneva conventions, refugees have the right to be buried in individual graves and according to their religion's rituals. Yet burial space is an issue for refugees across the world, ranging from the South Sudanese in Uganda to refugees in Calais in France trying to reach the UK.

On Mediterranean coasts, new cemeteries have opened for the large number of refugees who die at sea. On the Greek island of Lesbos, a Muslim graveyard was created near the pre-existing Christian graveyard, and burial spaces for refugees have also been set aside in Italy, in Lampedusa and Tarsia.

But nowhere, perhaps, is it more difficult to allocate land for the displaced dead than in tiny Lebanon, which hosts the highest number of refugees per capita in the world.

Building more cemeteries

Adding to the challenges is the legal complexity of opening new cemeteries in Lebanon. "There is no legal or regulatory document governing the issue of cemeteries in general," says Lebanese law professor Bechara Karam. "One must compile different laws and decrees that contain a few articles on the subject."

Karima Houjair, project manager at Dar el Fatwa —the body responsible for Sunni waqf (religious property) in Lebanon — says, "Anybody can buy a piece of land and turn it into a cemetery, but before doing so he has to donate it to the waqf authorities of the municipality."

A few months ago, the site reached its maximum capacity.

In the northern region of Akkar, Nasr Alzhouri, a 58-year-old Syrian refugee from Homs, also tried to help his community to part with their loved ones in a dignified manner.

He raised $40,000 from private donors to buy a 27,000 square-ft (2,500 square-meter) piece of land near the Syrian border. He then donated it to Dar el Fatwa, and the cemetery opened in March 2017. It is now home to about 20 graves for Syrian refugees.

Another Syrian cemetery was opened by local organizations in Al Faour, in the Bekaa region, where an estimated 300,000 Syrian refugees live in harsh conditions. A few months ago, the site reached its maximum capacity of 450 graves, but the groups have a new project underway.

"We are currently working on an initiative to establish a cemetery that can accommodate 800 graves within a 37,700 square-ft (3,500 square-meter) plot of land, in central Bekaa," says Haytham Taimey, founder of the Development and Regeneration Association, an NGO helping Syrian families to find sites in local graveyards.

In their efforts to bury refugees who die in exile, these Syrian volunteers and local NGOs face not only countless legal challenges, but also the lack of interest from international donors.



*Name changed for safety reasons.

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Society

A Mother In Spain Denied Child Custody Because She Lives In Rural Area

A court in Spain usurps custody of the one-year-old boy living with his mother in the "deep" part of the Galicia region, forced to instead live with his father in the southern city of Marbella, which the judge says is "cosmopolitan" with good schools and medical care. Women's rights groups have taken up the mother's case.

A child in Galician countryside

Laure Gautherin

A Spanish court has ordered the withdrawal of a mother's custody of her one-year-old boy because she is living in the countryside in northwestern Spain, where the judge says the child won't have "opportunities for the proper development of his personality."

The case, reported Monday in La Voz de Galicia, has sparked outrage from a women's rights association but has also set off reactions from politicians of different stripes across the province of Galicia, defending the values of rural life.


Judge María Belén Ureña Carazo, of the family court of Marbella, a city on the southern coast of 141,000 people, has ordered the toddler to stay with father who lives in the city rather than with his mother because she was living in "deep Galicia" where the child would lack opportunities to "grow up in a happy environment."

Front page of La Voz de Galicia - October 25, 2021

Front page of La Voz de Galicia - Monday 25 October, 2021

La Voz de Galicia

Better in a "cosmopolitan" city?


The judge said Marbella, where the father lives, was a "cosmopolitan city" with "a good hospital" as well as "all kinds of schools" and thus provided a better environment for the child to thrive.

The mother has submitted a formal complaint to the General Council of the Judiciary that the family court magistrate had acted with "absolute contempt," her lawyer told La Voz de Galicia.

The mother quickly accumulated support from local politicians and civic organizations. The Clara Campoamor association described the judge's arguments as offensive, intolerable and typical of "an ignorant person who has not traveled much."

The Xunta de Galicia, the regional government, has addressed the case, saying that any place in Galicia meets the conditions to educate a minor. The Socialist party politician Pablo Arangüena tweeted that "it would not hurt part of the judiciary to spend a summer in Galicia."

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