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Photo Of The Week: This Happened In Brazil

One year into the coronavirus pandemic, Brazil registered its deadliest month in March. In the 31 days that have just passed, 66,573 people were killed by COVID-19, more than double the previous monthly high. The explosion of cases is largely blamed on the local virus variant, believed to be more contagious, having now pushed Brazil over the 300,000 mark in total coronavirus deaths, second only to the United States with 553,000. Currently, however the U.S. is down to under 1,000 daily deaths while Brazil is more than 3,000.

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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.

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.

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The Invisible Hand At Rest

Legendary 18th-century Scottish economist Adam Smith is buried at the Canongate Kirkyard in Edinburgh, in the shadow of the iconic cliffs of Salisbury Crags.

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A Tombstone Maker's Death

Among the tombstones at Petersfriedhof cemetery in the Austrian city of Salzburg are those that are not stones at all, but intricate works of wrought iron.

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Felipe Souza

The Everyday Desecration Of Sao Paulo's Cemeteries

Why can't Brazil's largest city keep its graveyards clean?

SÃO PAULO — José Francisco Pinheiro, 67, and his younger sister Anita have come to the Saudade cemetery in eastern São Paulo's to light a candle and clean the photograph on their brother's grave. To do so, however, they first have to navigate a 200-meter long pile of garbage containing pieces of broken tombstones, empty bottles, underwear and even the remains of a toilet.


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Migrant Lives
Julia Pascual

The Anonymous Dead Migrants Of Calais

CALAIS — Three rows of men gather side-by-side, their heads bent down. A coffin lies on the sand, in front of them. They silently pray and place the coffin down a deep pit. Moussa Houmed was 17; he was Eritrean. He dreamed of setting foot on English soil, but ended up drowned in the retention basin of the Channel Tunnel.

A few meters from the Muslim section of the northern Calais cemetery, where some 50 men are assembled, three women are waiting to leave flowers. They come from Paris and Gex, in the Ain department, in Eastern France. "I didn't know him," one of the women admits. "My cousin who lives in the United States called and told me he was a distant cousin." Another explains that she found out about the tragedy from fellow Eritreans. "Being here, showing solidarity is the least we can do," she says.

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food / travel
Camila Appel

The Sao Paulo Cemetery Full Of Artistic Life

SAO PAULO — Cemeteries are rarely considered places of beauty and pleasure. The one in the Sao Paulo neighborhood of Jardim Angela was also grim for another reason, considering that in 1996 the UN ranked it the most violent urban region in the world. But now a part of this graveyard is bringing some smiles and levity, doubling as a place of leisure and art for visitors.

In a region that still bears the marks of poverty, with bare brick houses, some of which have illegal connections to water and electricity networks, this private cemetery called Parque das Cerejeiras (Cherry Trees Park) has been turned into an artistic landmark of sorts.

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blog

Checkmate

No one knows why the people of Morne-à-l'Eau in Guadeloupe have chosen to bury their dead in these checkered black-and-white tombs — perhaps because both black and white are colors of mourning in different parts of the world? Anyway, the famous cemetery's design naturally brought me back to my chess-playing days.

blog

Rising From Its Ashes

Tunisia's economy was flourishing in 1970, a time when the country was opening itself up to tourism. This was particularly clear in Sfax, the country's second city, a large portion of which had been destroyed during World War II.

blog
Ari Libsker

Israel's Housing Prices Follow People To Their Graves

In a small country like Israel, land is finite and costs continue to rise. Burials are expensive, and the rich and poor are laid to rest depending on their means.

TEL AVIV — It’s early afternoon at the Yarkon Cemetery, where a few dozen people are gathered at the entrance plaza. A small funeral procession leaves and heads to a new burial structure called Tamar.

The 300-meter-long building is still under construction. The convoy stops in front of a large wall with five rows of burial chambers. The deceased is placed in a chamber in the third floor. The gravediggers fill the niche with dirt bags, then close it with a marble plate and silicon. Later, the family can add another marble plate and a small gravestone if they wish. Beneath the gravestone a stone shelf will be fitted for a memorial candle and flowers.

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CLARIN

Meet Capitan, The Dog Who's Taken Loyalty To A Whole Other Level

CORDOBA - A scruffy Argentine mutt named Capitán has taken the old adage “man’s best friend” to new extremes. The dog, a mix of German shepherd and who knows what else, has spent the past five years living in the cemetery where his owner is buried. And like clockwork, every day at 6 p.m. Capitán lies down on his departed master’s grave.

The story of Miguel and Capitán began in mid 2005, when Miguel, despite the misgivings of his wife Verónica, brought the dog home as a gift for his now 13-year-old son, Damián Guzmán. The family lives in Villa Carlos Paz, a city in the north of Córdoba province.

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