In memory of the tragically lost Stylianos
Every three or four days, a new news item pops up on my phone. Yet another news item resulting from a new court deposition. A detail. A phrase.
And every time, it’s the same punch in the gut.
ΣΧΕΤΙΚΑ ΑΡΘΡΑ
Cristiano, it’s time to leave before history casts you aside
Cyprus and franchises: International chains on the dining scene
Five years old. Five.
That’s how old Stylianos was when the descriptions begin. The special education teacher describes a child who would come to school upset. Often dirty and unkempt. A child who, on Mondays, first had to wash up, comb his hair, and clean himself before class could begin.
A child who said that, when he grew up, he would kill his father if he ever made his mother cry again. Read that part again.
A child who one day showed up at school with a bump on his head and thick blood.
A child who, instead of being carefree, was forced by his father to work under harsh conditions at the family’s livestock farm.
A child who was a victim of long-term and brutal domestic violence and labor exploitation.
And a mother who sought help from the relevant agencies when things at home got difficult. And then she would distance herself and cut off communication. And then again.
Information came and went. Documents were filled out. Files were compiled.
“Stylianos is neglected both physically and emotionally, and he also faces limitations in his social life.” Hush. How on earth did they figure that out?
Stylianos had been screaming since he was five.
And he didn’t just scream with words.
He cried out through his anger.
Through his behavior.
Through his appearance.
Through his isolation.
Through his wounds—the ones that were visible and, above all, the ones that weren’t.
He screamed in every way a child can scream when he doesn’t yet know how to explain what’s happening to him.
And the years went by.
Appointments. Reports. Files. Professionals. Services. Evaluations. Updates. Documents.
He cried out for years, until, at age 15, he “faded away” forever.
Except that the responsibilities didn’t fade away with him. They remained there. In the files. In the reports. In what and whom they knew, and in what they failed to do.
And certainly, the state’s failure does not fade away.
Because the state failed.
It failed at the most basic level: to protect a child. A young child who was right before its eyes. Who was seen by agencies, officials, teachers, and police officers. For whom there were reports, meetings, and files.
A child who was not invisible. Who was not unknown to the system.
A child who was crying out for help.
The state failed to protect Stylianos.
In 2019, the Commissioner for Administration, in her own report, used words that leave little room for sugarcoating.
Criminal negligence. Complete inaction. Lack of risk assessment. Systemic weaknesses.
Seven years later, we are hearing the details of that life one by one in court.
Criminal liability will be determined by the courts. After all, that is their job.
But as for the failure of an entire system to protect Stylianos, we don’t need to wait for any ruling. That has already been established.
Except that Stylianos didn’t need a report.
He didn’t need an investigation after his death.
Nor did he need a trial seven years later to hear what he’d been trying to say since he was a child.
He needed someone to listen to him back then. From the age of five.
He needed someone to see past the anger.
Someone to see past the dirty clothes.
Someone to understand that a five-year-old child who talks about murder isn’t just a “difficult child.”
Stylianos needed help.
And someone to take him by the hand and save him.
P.S. Every time I read the news, I think that we’ve gotten used to it. We’ve gotten used to a new story coming out every few days. To reading it. To get angry. To feel sorry. And then to go on with our day.
We’ve gotten used to this and so many other things. Violence. Indifference. Irresponsibility. Failure. We’ve grown accustomed to the monster. Except that when you grow accustomed to the monster, you gradually begin to resemble it.
In memory of the unjustly lost Stylianos.
