The first refugee that I came to know in Greece was a small boy whose name I could not at first pronounce. A boy with sandstone-rubbed skin, unkempt dark hair, and fiery eyes. I called him Haz.
He was too small for the age of eleven, wandering through the government-run camp like a dandelion seed, buoyed up and carried upon the air, tumbling through time without ever touching the earth. Whether he had always been that small or had become it, wasted by the rations of bread and old vegetables, I would never know. I feared to take him by the wrist, feared that it might crumble one of those days to dust… Keep reading!