Bodies in the Labyrinth

After submitting his DNA sample in Athens, months passed without any word. He called, wrote, and despaired in vain. First, he thought the sample had been lost; then that the identification process had stalled. It wasn’t the wait that frustrated him as much as the uncertainty.

Where were his relatives’ bodies? As frustration grew—and after sharing experiences with others in similar situations—he researched. He learned that DNA samples from a father, mother or child are more reliable than from a sibling, and so sought to improve the sample in hopes of speeding up identification. He was not alone in the thought—but his parents and his brother’s daughter, who could offer higher-quality saliva samples, were in Syria and unable to assist. He tried to send saliva-collection kits from Germany, but high security restrictions made this nearly impossible. The only viable alternative was for the family to travel to Jordan to speed up the process there.

These are not procedures everyone can manage, nor sums of money everyone can afford. Not to mention the additional long months of waiting and the fears that accompany them. One mother of the missing persons in the shipwreck refused to leave her four children to travel alone after losing one in the wreck: “Am I going to leave them and lose them all?”
Other families refused to provide samples altogether, living in total denial of the tragedy—rejecting condolences, clinging to the faintest hope that their children were still alive, despite survivors confirming the contrary.

Until, finally, it happened. Perseverance, determination, patience and effort culminated in a positive identification through DNA one year after the shipwreck. A call came to a brother in Jordan—from the Red Cross—informing him of the body’s location and offering burial options via the Greek Red Cross: cremation, transport to Syria, or burial in a Christian cemetery. Al Ghazali thought: “None are suitable—we want to be buried in an Islamic cemetery.”

Imam Abdel Rahim Mohamed, overseeing Muslim burials in Greece, explained that such cases are managed under a «drowned persons file» and necessitate lengthy coordination and authorisations. For Syrian families, the distance, war and high cost of burial often make it impossible to identify or even say farewell.

After what felt like an interminable wait, Odai Al Talab finally faced the hardest moment: taking charge of his brother Ryad’s body. Tormented by uncertainty, on the appointed day he arrived at the gates of Schistos cemetery, where the bodies were stored. The planned burial was in the Muslim cemetery outside Komotini in northeastern Greece, hundreds of kilometres to the north.

In such cases, the Greek Ministry of Interior coordinates with the head of Muslim burials, who always fears bureaucratic chaos might resurface, and that documents could delay transporting remains from Schistos to Komotini for burial.

During long hours of waiting at the cemetery entrance, Al Talab sought comfort at the Malakasa refugee camp, joining his surviving brother who was still detained. Sharing the moment, even separated by a fence, was emotionally vital.

After hours, they were finally allowed entry. The process was horrific, inhuman, silent, broken only by Greek police, who demanded documentation and names before arbitrarily deciding only three people could enter to receive the bodies. Al Talab recalls that a uniformed officer—with insignia signalling authority—insulted and humiliated them for amusement while leading them to the mortuary basement where the remains were kept pre-burial.

A place where bodies should remain only minutes—or hours—but in actuality, they stayed much longer. Michalis Lonas, the cemetery director, explained that under Greek practice, unclaimed bodies should be buried within forty days—but the situation differs for migrants, as identifying them is harder and requires international cooperation. Hence, the delay.

Forensic staff often extend the time bodies spend in refrigeration to allow for identification and delivery to families.

Lonas noted that the large number of bodies from the Pylos disaster exceeded the cemetery’s limited capacity:
“We received orders from the Ministry of Migration and Asylum, who presumed we had capacity to accept such a number of bodies. It was very difficult for us because the cemetery is not designed to store so many. We lack sufficient refrigeration to keep the bodies as they arrive.”

What Odai and the two other families endured under those cold lights was the horror of decay. The bodies were unrecognisable. Odai recalls—with more resolve than precision—that he could recognise his brother and say goodbye—but only with his eyes. Washing him according to Muslim ritual was impossible given the state of the body.

When the day came, a full year later, for Al Ghazali to receive his brother’s remains, Odai Al Talab offered him a painful piece of advice:
“It’s better not to take one last look, because the paleness of the body turns to darkness.”

Al Ghazali decided not to travel. Since then, he is often haunted by a painful thought:
“My brother’s body was buried without being seen—and without justice.”