One Should Listen to a Soprano During a Refugee Crisis

All that time, while Mazen and I were with Sumaiya at the hospital, while I helped the family move to Kara Tepe, you locked yourself in your room and refused to leave. You checked yourself in to the fanciest hotel in Mytilene, affordable during the off-season, and waited to leave for San Francisco. You were out of it; you didn’t have the wherewithal to simply take an earlier flight. Whatever penalties you would have incurred for changing your reservation would have been cheaper than those three nights in Mytilene. You were a zombie.

You didn’t leave the room for twenty-four hours. Thankfully, the hotel had room service. You burrowed under almost-lush sheets, listening to one soprano after another sing the great tales of woe.

Kindertotenlieder? Oh, yes.

Der Rosenkavalier? For sure.

Das Lied von der Erde? Hit me.

You’d flown all the way to Lesbos to help refugees, and you ended up hiding in a hotel room. Only you.

The next morning, you were able to sneak out of your room briefly. You had breakfast in the hotel restaurant and rushed back to your room.