the stories that go untold
DESCRIPTION
Twenty-six stories of refugees forced to flee from violence. Read in their own words why they left, their hopes, and experiences.TRANSCRIPT
These are the stories of refugees, collected by World Vision staff. All stories are shared with permission of the families and
individuals who were interviewed.
Special thanks to: Elias Abu Ata, Christina Bradic, Mona Mohamad Kheir Daoud, Chris Huber, Patricia Mouamar, Georgina
Newman, Sevil Omer, Kathryn Reid, Laura Reinhardt, Theodore Sam, Aida Sunje, and Zoey Wilson.
© 2016
Noor’s father has yet to see his 1-
year-old son. He missed the boy’s
first smile, first word, first steps.
Kenaz, Noor’s mother, is hoping
she’ll soon be able to introduce her
husband to his beautiful boy and
reunite their family.
Noor’s sisters, Layel, 3, and Salaam,
9, watch out for their baby brother,
and so do members of the two
other families that are traveling with
them. When Hamad, a young, single
man in their group, drops down to
sit cross-legged in a shady spot,
Noor comes over to climb in his lap
and lean back on his chest.
As refugee families face common
problems, share information – as
vital as water to the refugee, and
perhaps harder to find – they
discover affinities and sometimes
develop deep bonds of trust like this
group.
The three families traveled together
for ten days before they arrived
here at Horgos, Serbia, on the
border with Hungary. Two families
come from Syria, one from Iraq.
They had stopped to rest for a few
days before crossing into Hungary,
but now, four days later, the border
has been closed. While the children
play around them and they watch
other families boarding buses to go
to the Croatian border, they talk
about what they’ll do, where they’ll
go next.
Two families want to go to
Germany. But Kenaz longs to reach
Sweden, where her husband has
been working to pay their way.
From Damascus to Stockholm is
more than 3,000 miles, but they’ve
endured and are well on the way.
Now that the three families have
made it this far, there’s no turning
back. It’s hard for them to accept
that they’ve no alternative but to
get on a bus that will backtrack and
add many miles to their journey.
Noor
"Our house was the best in our
town,” says Sara*, 14. “You could
remove the moon and put the
house in its place. It was really
beautiful,” she remembers. “But,
it got bombed,” she added.
“Before the war started nothing
worried me. Everything was
okay.”
One day, armed men came into
the house to arrest people. They
started shooting.
“I was afraid for all of our
lives. They wanted to come into
our house and kill us and do the
genocide here in our house. It
was not a life…I was afraid that
we could never escape Syria.”
They were staying at Sara’s
grandparents’ house when the
shooting started. “When we
were running away the bullets
were underneath our legs. But
God protected us – nothing
happened to our family.” Sara
feared for her life.
“My dad was kidnapped…They
ran over him and then they shot
him and then burned him. I didn’t
see my father die…They told my
mother. But I heard. I was
devastated.”
Her family left Syria around 6a.m.
wearing blue jeans and a pink
shirt; Sara didn’t take anything
with her other than clothes, a
watch, and a photo album. “I’ve
got them with me. I love them
because the photo album has
pictures of me and my father and
siblings, and the watch was a
present from my father.”
Here siblings, mother, and
extended family all share tents.
“A lot [is different here]! It’s hot.
There, we had a home. Here
there’s no money to buy a
ventilation system.”
Though life is difficult in Lebanon,
Sara loves English and
mathematics.
“I love to learn because I want to
be a judge when I’m older.”
Sara misses her home, but knows
she is safer in Lebanon. “It’s a bit
better than Syria. There’s no
bombing, there’s no rockets,
there’s nothing here."
*names have been changed for protection
Sara
“I cry every time I imagine living without the e-
cards,” says Alia*, 34, a mother of three. She is one
of the more than 30,000 Syrian refugees in Lebanon
who benefits from the electronic food assistance
cards, referred to as “e-cards”, which are distributed
to almost 7,600 Syrian refugees per month in the
region.
Alia fled Syria to Lebanon in search of safety. For the
past two years, she has lived in a garage with two
other Syrian families. In Syria, her family had a
spacious house. Today, all she has is the humanitarian
aid she receives.
“Living in the garage was a nightmare,” remembers
Alia. “It made me feel like I [had] lost my dignity.” In
the garage, there were no doors; only curtains, even
for the toilet.
Thankfully, this chapter of the nightmare has come to
an end. With the help of the e-cards, Alia was able to
use the money she was spending on food for rent —
the difference allowed her to secure a private
two-room shelter.
The impact of the e-cards is different for every
family. “Without the e-cards, many vulnerable Syrians
in Lebanon would have died,” says Sabah, 60, a Syrian
woman who fled to Lebanon with her two sons, her
daughter, and her grandchildren.
“We fled as we were — barefoot, carrying nothing
except our children,” says Ibtisam, Sabah’s 32-year-
old daughter. Sabah and Ibtisam explain that they
nearly starved during the first few weeks after having
arrived in Lebanon, until they received their refugee
status.
With the ongoing and increasing vulnerability of
Syrian refugees in Lebanon, Sabah and Alia are just
two of the tens of thousands of people who have
nothing but that $1 (USD) per day via e-card to
spend on food. Each purchase must be carefully
calculated to stay alive.
*Name has been changed for protection.
Alia & Sabah
On the third day of a life-skills
training, Samer*, a 14-year-old
Syrian boy missed the bus that
would take him to the World Vision
educational center. Heavy rains and
a long distance were daunting.
Samer lives with his older brother
and mother and another Syrian
refugee family of six people in a four
meter by four meter tent. His father
died when he was very young. Two
years ago his family fled the war in
Syria seeking refuge in Lebanon’s
Bekaa Valley. Today, they live in an
informal tented settlement that is
home to nearly 600 people.
“All I want is for my mother to be
happy,” says Samer, who acts
mature around her, but cries in
private because he is not able to
provide for her properly. “She is
always sick and I will not accept that
she begs on the streets,” he says.
“She is sick because she worries too
much.”
Even though Samer’s mother did
not ask or pressure him to find paid
work to help support his family, he
sells vegetables that are leftover in
the field after harvest with the
permission of his landlord. “I carry
the leftover vegetables and display
them on the street to sell them.
Whatever I make is better than
nothing,” he says.
In the Bekaa Valley, World Vision is
implementing projects to provide
help and support to meet the needs
of refugee children, such as food,
water and sanitation, protection,
and education. The project that
Samer took part in aimed to
empower children and youth by
helping them develop positive
attitudes and social skills as well as a
good understanding of themselves
and others.
I love learning. I wish I [could] live in
a school,” he says.
*Names have been changed for protection
Samer
Ali* a 14-year-old boy living in
Lebanon fled the war in Syria with
his mother and two brothers. Since
arriving in Lebanon, he has had to
choose bread over books.
“It is simple, if I don’t work, I cannot
survive,” says Ali, speaking with the
matter-of-fact nature of an
experienced head of household. His
employer, Marwan*, couldn’t agree
more.
“He treats me like his son,” says Ali,
whose thought was interrupted by
clients who entered the shop. Ali
rushed to serve them, humbly and
quickly, either out of fear of losing
his job or out of gratitude for having
one.
The reality is that Ali multitasks at
three adjacent small shops, all
owned by Marwan; a library, an
exchange office and a charcoal shop.
He runs around from 7 a.m. until 5
p.m. everyday, attending to all sorts
of requests. In return, he earns, L.L.
160,000 (80 Euros) a month about
one quarter of the minimum wage
and not nearly enough for a family
to survive on in Lebanon.
Impressively, Ali finds time to read
from the books in the library,
returning them once he finishes
reading.
“I read so that I don’t forget what I
learned the last nine years of my life
in Syria,” he says. “I refuse to forget
what I have learned over the years,”
he explains.
When asked about his future
dreams, Ali smiled. “I may die
tomorrow, or the day after,” he
says. “I can’t dream of the future,”
an answer that shows how the every
day realities and pressures have
shaped and formed his day-to-day
outlook on life.
* Names have been changed for protection
Ali
When Mohammad, 50, and
Zakiya, 42, married in Syria 20
years ago, they had one major
wish: to create a big family. Their
wish came true. God gave them
eight beautiful children.
In 2012, the family’s story
changed. They escaped to
Lebanon to seek refuge from the
fighting in Syria. A tent
comprised of a basic wooden
frame covered by pieces of
carton and tattered canvas, built
by Mohammad and Zakiya, has
been the family’s home for the
past three years.
Mohammad does not work. His
varicose veins make movement
difficult. “I was not that sick in
Syria.” Mohammad’s tearful eyes
spoke before his words did.
Currently, the family’s main
source of income is the $13.50
food assistance electronic ‘e-
cards’ they receive per family
member per month,
implemented by World Vision
Lebanon and funded by the
World Food Program.
“Our survival depends on the e-
cards”, says Zakiya with a smile.
“We say thank God, because we
are not starving, we are still
alive,” Zakiya shares.
“The $13.50 e-card lasts for only
five days. For the rest of the
month, we go into debt to
survive,” shares Mohammad.
Their 7-yeard old daughter,
Nour, finally breaks her shyness
saying, “I eat only once per day,
mostly fried potatoes”. Fatmeh,
her younger sister, looks too
thin and has dark lines beneath
her eyes, yet surprisingly keeps
on jumping and playing
nonetheless.
Mohammad seems to be holding
a heavy burden on his shoulders
as he feels incapable of providing
sufficiently for the family, unlike
when they were in Syria. “My
debt has reached USD$953,”
shares Mohammad, whose pale
and thin face says a lot about
their situation.
“Sometimes I close my eyes and
imagine that I receive a text
message to my mobile phone
saying: The e-card value is now
$40. Do you think that will ever
happen?” Mohammad asks, while
smiling for the first time since
the start of our conversation.
Zakiya & Mohammed
World Vision staff in tan vests,
Arabic-speaking interpreters, and
volunteers drawn from the ranks of
refugees move swiftly to set up an
aid distribution at a place where
refugees gather, hoping to cross
from Serbia to Hungary.
The women and children form a line
to register. As women reach the
table, they give their names and sign
or make a mark.
Nagham, a smiling, spirited 12-year-
old Syrian refugee girl, bounces in
and out of the line next to her
mother. She’s very much in charge of
herself and her younger siblings.
With her mom’s okay, she takes
over the game of pointing and saying
the person’s name being
photographed, then grabs the
notebook to write the names and
ages.
She writes: Nagham, 12 (then insists
on repeating back the English word
“twelve” to get it right); Hayam,
mom (someone else writes “mom”
for her and she nods satisfaction
with the new word); then continues
in the same way with her father and
her five siblings.
By this time, Hayam, Nagham’s
mother, is at the front of the line.
She holds her bag open.
“Thank you, thank you,” says
Nagham. “Thank you,” says her
mother.
Hayam heads back to her tent with
her goods. Her younger siblings stay
at the tent with her mother, but
Nagham dashes off to play, make
new friends, and use the new words
she’s learned.
Nagham
Khadeeja, 30, and her husband,
who works as a blacksmith, have
three girls, one boy, and a baby
on the way, all under 6 years old.
The family lives in Zarqa, Jordan
in a community that had a high
rate of poverty even before the
crisis started in neighboring Syria.
When the influx of refugees
followed the Syria crisis, rent
quickly tripled and became too
expensive for the already
vulnerable family. They were
forced to move into one room in
a house that belongs to
Khadeeja’s father-in-law and pay
almost the same amount they
used to pay in the previous
tenancy. It is difficult for all of
them to live in one room, but
this was all they could afford.
Although their housing expenses
have returned to pre-crisis
amounts other things, like food,
have not.
Khadeeja's family used to share
one toilet with all the neighbors.
Their current residence does not
have running water or a proper
kitchen. To cope, she would
collect water in bottles for
different house chores and cook
at her parent's house and bring
food back. World Vision
provided aid supplies to the
family and installed basic water
and sanitation facilities in their
home.
“Some of the most important
goods given to us in winter were
the mattresses, the gas heater
and gas tanks,” says Khadeeja.
“We were also given cash that
we used to help take care of my
daughter instead of exchanging
gas tanks to get diapers and milk.
We did not have a bathroom
before. But, with World Vision's
help, I can bathe my children
now.”
Khadeeja
Absi, at the age of 10, resembles
a Little League slugger more
than a parking lot attendant, but
here he is. While most boys his
age attend school, Absi is
learning to earn a living.
The war tore Absi from his
beloved father more than a year
ago, forcing the child and the
women of his family to escape
fighting in their homeland. His
father never made it out.
Now, Absi faces the daily
hardship of refugee life in
Jordan.
At Omerbenkhattab Street
garage in Irbid, Jordan, Absi
works10 to 12 hours a day,
eking out two Jordanian diners
($2.80) — just enough to buy
bread for his family.
Stepping inside the dark
tenement building where Absi’s
family lives, Leila al-Sakji,
director of a World Vision-
supported school for Syrian
refugee children in Irbid, heads
up to get the low down on
Absi’s whereabouts.
Absi’s mother, Mariam, stands
with her hands extended, and a
gentle smile flashes across her
face worn down by worry and
war back home. She places her
hand on her lower back. Her
back injury forced her to stop
working as a cleaning lady weeks
ago.
“Absi has not been in school,
where is Absi?” Leila asks.
“He is expected to return home
any moment,” Mariam says.
Leila takes a seat on the cot on
the floor.
“Our program is to prepare
children to return to school, so
we don’t lose our children to
the streets,” she tells Mariam.
Minutes pass before Absi walks
in; his chest swells with pride
and excitement as he hands his
mother two paper bills. Then,
he spots Leila. He is hot,
flushed, and now busted.
Her tone is more nurturing than
threatening when she delivers
her message: “You need to be in
school, not work, Absi…School
is where you need to be, for
your future. What do you want
to be when you grow up?”
After a long pause, Absi says: “I
want to grow up to be a
teacher.”
In a move that shocks Absi and
his mother, Ahmad Abboura,
the garage owner, has an offer
for the child: He’ll pay Absi his
wages, plus a $1 raise, if he
attends school. Absi accepts.
“He’s our little brother and a
boy who reminds me of the
possibilities,” Abboura says. “If
Absi does it, other children can,
too.”
Absi
Hazar, age 17, who lives in Jordan, is
like thousands of other young
people from Syria who fled the war.
“When I first came here, I didn’t go
out much. I used to be very afraid
when I went to the school. I was
scared local students would bully
me or not accept me,” says Hazar.
The challenges are not only difficult
for the children taking refuge, those
from the host community are
finding the sudden shift difficult to
adapt to as well.
World Vision’s Adolescent Friendly
Spaces are playing a huge role in
helping young adolescents manage
these changes. As you enter the
Adolescent Friendly Space, some
children are playing chess, a few
chatting and some drawing. It is
obvious the children are enjoying
their time here.
“One of the biggest problems the
children who come here face is the
problem of either being accepted or
accepting,” says Zuhoor, one of the
facilitators. The Adolescent Friendly
Space acts as a bridge to close this
gap and tries to bring both
Jordanian and Syrian children
together.
“At first, they didn’t make friends
for a long time and would always
want to be alone and do everything
alone. But now, they have started
mingling with each other and want
to be together all the time,” says
Zuhoor, with a smile.
Hazar enjoys and looks forward to
the time she spends at the
Adolescent Friendly Space. “The
friends I have made here are like my
own sisters and brothers…I made a
lot of friends here, and I love the
new things I get to learn,” she says.
Although Hazar loves spending time
at the Adolescent Friendly Space,
she is worried that she may never
get to go back home. “I’m worried
that time would pass and we
wouldn’t go back to Syria at all. This
is what scares me the most,” she
says.
Hazar
Abir lives in an informal tented
settlement in the Bekaa Valley,
Lebanon with her five daughters.
After moving many times within
Syria to avoid violence, they
finally fled to Lebanon.
Abir was shot in the leg as she
escaped to Lebanon. When they
fled, they didn’t take anything
with them—they expected to be
gone just a month or so.
Her girls were out of school for
two years, until this fall, when
they finally got a spot in a local
public school.
They have fond memories of
playing with their father at home.
But they haven’t seen him for
two years.
Being able to attend school has
rekindled some hope for the
girls.
Miriam, 13, her oldest, said she
enjoyed most subjects back home
in Syria, including math and
English. She and her sisters said
their father’s dream was to see
them receive a good education.
Abir
Adnan has lived for the past two
years in an informal tent settlement
in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley with his
wife and three children, fraternal
twins Ammar and Aya, age 13, and
Abrar, age 3.
A carpenter who made a decent
living and owned property back in
Syria, Adnan started over
completely when they came here.
He found a job near their
settlement. With the tiny home
they have here he has become
creative — doing things like lofting
their beds slightly to avoid the harsh
winter weather soaking mattresses
and causing sickness.
"We were living a very happy life
back in Syria, but now we're doing
what we have to," he says.
In July, they heard the donor who
has covered their $300 monthly
rent will not continue their support
in 2016. “Of course I’m worried. If
we have to leave our tent, we’ll
have nowhere to go.” Adnan says. “I
wish nobody would experience
what we had to experience.”
.
Adnan
Zaka and her young children, Jack and
Jennifer, live in a 300 square-foot room in the
Bekaa Valley, close to Lebanon’s eastern
border with Syria. After they fled home in
Syria, her husband, their father, went ahead of
them to Europe to find a job and save enough
money to pay for them to join him.
Nearly 4.3 million people have left Syria since
the war began in 2011. About 2.2 million are
staying in Turkey; another 600,000 in Jordan,
and 245,000 in Iraq. About half of the 850,000
people who entered Europe by sea in 2015
are refugees from Syria. (http://
data.unhcr.org)
Lebanon hosts about 1.1 million Syrian
refugees, the highest per-capita amount in the
world (Syrian refugees make up one-quarter
of Lebanon’s population).
The hardest part about leaving home, Zaka
said, was losing connection with their
neighbors. They’re alone; the food vouchers
they receive are worth less and less each
month as humanitarian funding dries up; they
worry how Grandpa Jack, 75, will fare alone
when they leave for Europe. They just want
to go home. But they’re willing to risk
everything for the prospect of safety and
relative security in Europe. Zaka had hoped
they would have enough money saved to
venture west this month.
Zaka
Spread over a massive area of
around three square miles of vast
desert land, the Za’atari Refugee
Camp, with more than 87,000
refugees, is probably the fourth
largest city in Jordan now. All of the
residents have fled their homes in
Syria. Some have arrived recently
and some have been here for more
than a year.
Although they are safe from war, life
at the camp is anything but
comfortable. One family died in a
fire due to the lack of proper roads
— firefighters couldn’t reach them
in time.
“May both girls rest in peace,” adds
Marwan one of the residents of the
camp.
Summers, winters and rainy season
are equally challenging, because of
the harsh desert land on which the
camp is set up.
Alia, a Syrian mother has lived in the
Za’atari refugee camp in Jordan with
her six children for nearly two
years. “When we arrived, it was the
big rainy season…You have to move
from your house to a tent, in a place
you don’t know, and then it floods
and everything is wet and the
children are crying.”
“Let’s say the children do manage to
go to the school, they reach the
school with mud and dirt all over
them,” says Marwan. “When they
return home, their clothes can’t be
washed because the water tankers
can’t come into the streets to
deliver water. Even if the water
tankers do manage to come in, their
vehicles would get damaged or
break down and they won’t deliver
water for the next week or two, till
it is repaired.”
During summers, the winds create
so much dust that children have
breathing problems. And if
ambulances still can’t come in
because the roads are bumpy it is a
problem.
“Everything was linked to the lack of
proper roads,” says Marwan.
“Thanks to World Vision for
building the roads, many of our
problems have been solved now.”
Marwan
Since fleeing Syria over two years
ago, Um Abdel-Aziz has been living
in Irbid, Jordan with her two
daughters and three sons. Her
husband, Mohamed, began working
in Kuwait as a car mechanic before
the rest of the family left Syria, to
earn the income needed to provide
for their basic needs. With no end in
sight to the Syrian conflict
Um Abdel-Aziz hopes that one day
she and the children will be able to
join her husband in Kuwait. Before
they left Syria, the family was on the
move regularly to escape the
fighting. They did not realize that
returning home would be
impossible, even after two years of
waiting.
“We used to think the crisis would
end in no time, but it actually grew
bigger and bigger” explained Um
Abdel-Aziz.
Moving around so much meant that
for over a year, the children’s
education was intermittent.
Um Abdel-Aziz never finished
school herself, dropping out after
the ninth grade. Nevertheless, she is
adamant that her children get an
education. In Jordan, her school-
aged children are receiving an
education.
While the Jordanian curriculum is
no more challenging than Syria’s,
there are new subjects, like
computers and practical science that
are new to many Syrian refugees,
putting Syrian refugee children
behind many of their Jordanian
peers. To help with this situation,
World Vision provides catch-up
classes for refugee children.
“Conducting this type of remedial
education for Syrian refugees allows
you to see the beauty of teaching,
the beauty in giving the student what
no one can take from him, the
beauty of giving him a passport for
future,” said Mayadah Qashou,
coordinator of the project.
Um Abdel-Aziz plays the role of a
mother and father for her children.
“The responsibility I have is tough,
the father plays a big role backing up
a mother. Thanks to God I am able
to carry such responsibility, but the
children can feel his absence,” she
says. Her wish for her children is for
them to have the very best in their
life and anything they ask for, “I just
want to fulfill their dreams and
wishes.”
Um Abdel Aziz
With his tears and determination,
5-year-old Baker screams, “I want
to go to school!” This tiny Syrian
refugee in southern Lebanon, was
able to prove that his physical
disability, though it may not allow
him to walk, could never stop him
from attending his Early Childhood
Education program (ECE) with
World Vision.
Baker’s teachers Antoinette and
Souad shared, “At first, we were
worried because the center is not
well-equipped for his disability. We
started thinking of the simplest
things; like how would he reach his
classroom while there is no
elevator or special stairs.”
Shayma, Baker’s mom, had to find a
quick solution. “I asked the bus
driver to carry Baker up to his
classroom,” she says.
Baker’s treatment for his disability
should have started three years ago.
But the war in Syria reached his
house and neighborhood, forcing
his family to flee. “The doctor told
us that this surgery would allow
Baker to walk,” Shayma says.
Baker tells us that he wants to
become a sports teacher when he
grows up. “I want to become a
sports teacher because I love
sports.”
Souad describes how Baker is able
to join the basketball game through
his joyful spirit. “While sitting,
Baker watches happily as his friends
play and try to score goals. You can
read happiness and excitement in
his eyes, although he is not running
with them,” smiles Souad.
Baker’s classmates had similar
reactions toward the ECE center:
“We love the school, we love Ms.
Antoinette and Ms. Souad, we love
to draw, we love to write,” share
other students.
“We are worried that students
might start working to help their
parents,” Souad mentions.
There is hope that students will
continue their journey in public
schools. “We cannot promise that
all of them will go to school, due to
limited spaces in public classrooms,
but if there is space and they can
attend, we hope that we prepared
them to succeed.”
Baker
They arrived by taxi at what
everyone is calling “the highway
border crossing,” a man, his wife,
and 8-month-old baby. Theirs has
been a 17-day journey so far. But
what they hoped to be the
entrance to a new life seems
instead a dead end.
The border between Serbia and
Hungary is closed, there’s no
discernible place for them to go,
and Serbian authorities are telling
them there’s no place here to stay.
World Vision staff who’ve just
walked from another border
crossing nearby, say “Come with
us,” and find that he not only
understands, he asks, “Where?”
Between an apple orchard and a
walnut grove where refugees have
been sleeping there’s a path to
another border crossing. This
crossing has been closed, too,
from the Hungarian side, but
refugees are gathering in a field
nearby, next to the newly-built
razor wire fence that separates
Hungary from Serbia.
As they walk the path, he tells
their story. “We are from
Damascus,” he says, and the
friends who came with them are
from Aleppo.
They had waited until the baby
was old enough to travel. But
finally they couldn’t delay any
longer.
“There is no future for Rashnee,
my daughter, in Syria,” he says.
“No life, no school. She must have
these things.”
They paid their way, but the
journey was dangerous and
stressful. When they crossed from
Turkey to Greece in a small open
boat, they feared they would wash
overboard. A strap-on baby
carrier was swept away by the
waves, along with some other
items.
He has two sleeping bags hanging
off his pack of provisions. This
won’t be the first night they’ve
made camp on the ground.
“We will not depend on anyone
but ourselves,” he says. “All we
need is for a country to let us in,
nothing else.”
Rashnee
Hassan worked and saved for two
years; he and his family traveled for
a month and a half; and now they
are within sight of the Hungarian
border, but unable to cross.
He sits in front of a small tent with
his family and two friends who
joined them on the journey.
They’ve traveled together since
they left Turkey. They want to go
to Germany.
Hassan and his wife Rania’s two
children, Sabrina, 9, and Ahmed, 7,
play in the soft, green grass.
Barely 20 yards away on a hill
overlooking hundreds of tents and
perhaps 1,000 or more people
sitting on the grass, there’s a 13-
foot-tall fence topped by rolls of
razor wire gleaming silver in the
sun.
Hassan and Rania are patiently
hoping that the border with
Hungary will open in the next few
days.
Hassan moved his family to Turkey
two years ago from Aleppo, Syria,
their home. He wants to go to
Paris.
“School is number 1,” says Rania.
As if on cue, they all repeat,
“school number 1” loudly and
laugh. When they were in Syria, the
schools were bombed and closed.
Then, in Turkey the children
couldn’t attend because they were
not registered citizens.
Ahmed, 16, joined Hassan’s family
after his father died in the war. He
completed grade 7 before leaving
Syria, but has had no schooling
since. “School I want most,” he
says.
Hassan and Rania’s son, Ahmed, 7,
has never been to school.
“Do they have toys?” someone asks
Rania, who is sitting in the doorway
of the tent. She turns and pulls out
a teddy bear, two stuffed rabbits,
and more, smiling and trying to
remember the name of each as she
tosses them in a pile.
They're named for the countries
they’ve passed through on their
journey. Serbia is the last one, a
yellow plastic bus with passengers.
Hassan
“Everything got destroyed in Syria.
War. Horrible war,” says Fadi, a
physics professor from Syria as he
sits on thin blanket in a park in
Serbian capital, Belgrade. Besides
some personal belongings, the thin
blanket where he sits is all they
have. They worry about when the
night comes, as they have no other
option but to sleep in the open, with
no shelter at all.
It has taken 20 days for Fadi and his
family members to reach Belgrade. It
was a difficult journey that took
them through Turkey, Greece and
Macedonia. They were robbed three
times in Greece. “Our tent, our
shoes and our money were stolen,”
says Rami.
In Macedonia, they were beaten by
police and had to walk for six hours
until they reached the border with
Serbia where they boarded a bus to
Belgrade.
But their journey is not finished.
Zakariya, Fadi’s brother’s goal is to
reach Sweden or Germany where
they can rebuild a life for
themselves. Once there, he hopes
to continue his geography studies.
But, not everyone has the same
dream. “I want to go back to Syria,”
says 12-year-old Ahmed Ibrahim,
Fadi's cousin, in a quite voice.
Ahmed Ibrahim had to leave his
parents and five siblings in Syria.
There was just not enough money
for his whole family to leave the
country. "It is cheaper to get
children out of Syria: It costs half of
the price of an adult," explains
Zakariya.
Fadi
Naim
A 13-year-old boy, Naim, looks
intensely at his teacher. He is eager
to learn. This teacher is not
imparting knowledge of geography
or science, but on how to wash hair
and prepare people for a shave.
Naim lives in Lebanon’s southern
coastal city of Tyre. His father,
Hussein, a fisherman, has been
struggling to pay the bills since
Lebanon’s war ended. Naim
dropped out of school to earn extra
income for his struggling family.
Now he works up to eight hours
per day at a local barbershop.
“I love mom and dad, and if I work, I
can help them,” Naim says. “So, I
decided to leave school.”
Naim knew his father wouldn’t
allow him to be a fisherman like he
is. “He always tells me, ‘anything but
the sea,’ and he is right; it is hard
and cold for me,” says Naim.
Hussein, 36, inherited the
profession from his own father. And
even though he loves fishing, it no
longer generates enough income for
his family of six.
Fishing in Lebanon is not considered
formal employment, and thus he is
not eligible for any type of pension
plan or healthcare coverage.
“Whenever any of my children are
sick, I drown in debt, trying to
hospitalize them.”
A World Vision assessment done in
the Tyre area, revealed that people
living in Naim’s neighborhood—the
old part of town—are shunned,
hindering the neighborhood’s ability
to grow and thrive.
It’s common for children, especially
boys, to drop out of school to try
and help their fathers support the
family financially. The decision is
easier when their parents can’t
afford to pay their tuition.
“I dream for all my children and
especially Naim to have a proper
education and not work,” says
Naimeh, his mother.
Naim says, “All I dream about is to
help my parents. I hope I can find a
second job this summer.”
Eight-year-old Qamar isn’t sure what
she wants to be when she grows up.
She is trying to decide between
becoming a doctor, so she can cure
people who ask for her help, or a
tailor, so she can sew dresses for
her toys.
Her two older sisters, Nour and
Zaynab, don’t like going to school
any more, but Qamar still enjoys
learning:
“I love to play in school and enjoy
the breaks between classes. My
favorite subjects are Arabic and
math.”
For the last two years Qamar’s
family have been living in Jordan,
after they escaped the fighting in
Syria. Their first stop was Za’atari
Refugee Camp, before moving three
times and finally settling in their
current building. Six of them are
trying to adjust to a new life.
Right now, the only income the
family has is from Qamar’s mother’s
work selling spinach and chopped
mulukhiyah (a Middle Eastern
vegetable).
It’s a struggle to put enough food on
the table each day and to have
necessary supplies such as medicine
on hand. Qamar’s father, Fawaz, has
diabetes, high blood pressure and a
bad back, making it difficult for him
to move.
In Syria, the family used to own a
four bedroom house, but when it
was hit by a mortar shell, trapping
them inside, they realized it was time
to leave.
While Qamar is adjusting as best as
possible to her new life, her 21-year-
old brother, Mohamed, barely
speaks. He suffers from a speech
disorder and didn’t finish school.
Her mother says, “The future of the
children is lost, just like Mohamed’s,
because he should have studied and
worked, so he can eventually get
married…I just want their future to
be better since they cannot do
anything now.”
Qamar’s family have been able to
make basic improvements to their
accommodation. No matter how
comfortable they make their house
though, it can never be home.
Qamar, who was five when she left
Syria, says, “I prefer the old house
because it is in my home country.
When I was in Syria, I was never
afraid of anything…I want to return
to Syria once the war and shooting is
over.”
Qamar
Hani
“I’ve been here for six months
now,” says 8-year-old Hani, a
Syrian refugee living in
Lebanon. “We used to have a
big house and my uncle lived
on the second floor and my
cousin Khalil* bought the bike
one day, and I bought my bike
the second day. After that, we
started playing on our bikes,”
Hani remembers.
Now that he is in Lebanon,
Hani’s life has changed. He
doesn’t live in his house or
have his bike to play with, his
friends and cousins are no
longer near him.
They were sleeping when the
first bombs started going off—
the earth was trembling.
“We were there playing and
they started bombing. We
heard the sound of the
missile…We didn’t know it
was going to hit here. The
electricity went off.” His
cousin Yusuf* and his uncle
went down to fix it but they
got electrocuted. Hani’s uncle
managed to escape but Yusuf*
was killed because an
electricity cable was on the
floor and the floor was wet.
“We fled our house and the
rockets were still coming. The
next day we went to see our
place. It was destroyed…My
cousins Hakim* and Khalil*
were in the house when the
rocket came. God protected
them.”
Those in Hani’s family who
were left alive decided it was
time to leave after seeing too
many family members injured
and killed in their own homes.
“The family was divided. Half
of our family went to Jordan
and then the other half came
here to Lebanon.”
While he doesn’t experience
war in Lebanon, Hani misses
the life he knew. “My home
back in Syria is better. Here,
it’s unfinished and it’s broken.
Back in Syria it was beautiful…
I’ve forgotten my bicycle. I’ve
forgotten all my toys. I’ve
forgotten my computer.
They’re gone now. They’re
pieces.”
*names changed to protect identities
Muhammed
In a park full of refugees in the
Serbian capital, one family tries
to find a place to rest before
they continue on their journey
towards other countries.
Muhammed, 72, sits on the
park bench with two of his
grandchildren on his lap. His
daughter-in-law is sitting
nearby, fixing a little red jacket
for one of the boys who are
only 2 and 1 years old. In front
of them, on the park's ground,
pieces of cardboard are
covered with a thin stripped,
blanket. This is where they
slept the night before.
“It was cold and we didn't have
blankets to cover ourselves,”
says Muhammed, whose home
in Syria was completely
destroyed. “It is very difficult,”
he adds. He has nowhere to
return to.
After being a refugee in
Lebanon for three years,
Muhammed returned to Syria,
but as violence there
worsened, he had to seek
refuge once again. Eight months
ago, he and his family escaped
to Turkey. After some time
spent there, they continued to
Greece. “That was the hardest
– travelling by sea,” he
remembers. “We were in a
small rubber boat and travelled
for eight hours. I was afraid for
my life. Had the waves been
bigger, we could have
drowned,” he says.
Like many others, Muhammed
crossed Macedonia on foot and
entered Serbia. Now,
Muhammed is hoping to
continue his journey towards
Austria where his sons live.
The family sat on a mat in the
shade of trees in a paved area
near the border. Teasadi, the
mother, says “sleep” and
pantomimes sleeping with her
hands folded under her tilted
head, then patting the ground.
Now she doesn’t know when
they’ll move along and what
their chances are for crossing
the border from Serbia to
Hungary.
Teasadi was a teacher in Daraa,
Syria, before she and her
husband decided to sell
everything and take their family
away from the war. As a
helicopter buzzes overhead,
patrolling the border from the
Hungarian side, she points to it
and says, “In Syria, helicopter”…
then makes hand motions to
show bombs falling. “Children –
mort,” she says. “Dead.”
What draws them forward is the
hope of another life, in Germany
or Sweden maybe. But that life
seems very distant and unreal.
The children use rocks and
broken chunks of paving to crack
walnuts they’ve gathered. Noor
hands them around to World
Vision staff and tries to also give
them packs of cookies from one
of the family’s bags.
Teasadi turns her head and
coughs quietly. She’s had the
cough for a while, likely
aggravated by heat and
exposure. She packs water
bottles and bananas the World
Vision staff gave her in a few
small bags arranged around her
on the ground. Her eyes weigh
every item carefully—there’s no
room for any extras.
Not on any of the distribution
lists is one item that brought
delight to the children, and
smiles to their parents’ faces – a
bottle of bubble soap and a
wand. World Vision
communicator Aida Sunje
handed it out to the first
children she saw today – Noor
and Abdul. And for a brief
moment wars, helicopters, and
tomorrow’s challenges were
forgotten as Noor blew shining
bubbles and everyone watched
them rise on a gentle breeze.
Teasadi
Yazdan, at 7 months old, knows
that he’s adored. His mother,
Balnafshan, 27, cuddles, feeds, and
diapers him, wipes his face and
hands with a wet wipe, and lays
him down to sleep in a tent in
Serbia.
Yazdan is the youngest of her
three children. Adib is 3; his sister
Dunya is 2. Along with
Balnafshan’s husband, Paez, and
brother, Rafur, they are all that is
of value in her life.
Balnafshan’s family is traveling with
another couple and their two
children and a group of men.
Fareed, spokesman for the group,
says, “We have been three days
here. We want to go to Germany,
but we have to pass through
Hungary…We are all of us from
Kabul (Afghanistan).”
In a month of travel, they’ve
exhausted their resources. When
they reached this wasteland near
the Subotica city dump, the
nearby border with Hungary had
been closed.
Now they are dependent on aid
for everything.
Fareed speaks for them all when
he says, “I cannot go back to
Kabul. I must take my family and
try (to go on).”
Dusanka Djurovic, a psychologist
with Humanitarian Center for
Integration and Tolerance, a local
aid group, says refugees at the
brick factory tell her they are
confused.
Her greatest concern is for
refugee women, like Balnafshan,
and their children.
Balnafshan and Fareed’s wife,
Leeda, spend most of their time in
their tents, which are backed up
to 8-ft.-deep concrete pits that
were once part of the brickworks
and have bent and rusted iron
bars in them. As long as the
children stay in front of the tents,
they are in sight and safe, but
inevitably those black holes draw
them like a magnet and they stand
staring down into them.
All the adults in their group are
watching out for the children, but
still they are vulnerable in this
place with its physical dangers and
unknown people coming and going
day and night.
Balnafshan
Still smiling and optimistic about his
chances of reaching Germany, Syrian
refugee Mo Aziz, 24, and five
relatives boarded a bus in Serbia on
Thursday evening at the Horgos
border crossing between Serbia and
Hungary. But Hungary closed the
border the night before they were
able to cross.
A bus to Croatia became the
family’s fallback plan, in effect their
only hope of going forward. There’s
no way to know whether Mo Aziz
and his family made it across.
One thing is certain: for Mo Aziz
and his family, there’s no turning
back to Syria. “Life has stopped
there,” he says.
Mo Aziz completed two years of
study at a university in Deir ez-Zor,
Syria. Despite intense fighting in the
city – Syria’s seventh largest and the
home to several universities,
according to Mo – classes
continued. At the same time, armed
forces attacked and took control of
different parts of the city.
“We had to leave,” he says.
His lively eyes dart about in a thin,
and thinly-bearded face as he talks
about his dreams. “I want to get my
degree and be a teacher,” he says. “I
want to teach English to children.”
Now, more than anything, he wants
to reach Germany to enroll in a
university.
In the mean time, his English fluency
became a lifeline for other refugees
who only spoke Arabic.
At Horgos, while he still had hope
for passage through Hungary, Mo
Aziz was pressed into service as an
interpreter between Arabic-
speaking refugees and English-
speaking medics at a medical tent
set up by Golgata, the European
association of Calvary Chapel, a
fellowship of evangelical churches.
Nobody knows what the next days,
weeks and even months may hold.
Mo Aziz may be soon standing in
another medical tent in another
makeshift camp beside another
elderly woman who says in Arabic,
“I am hurting, please talk for me.”
Croatia, if they made it there, could
be just another step in his journey.
Mo Aziz
Learn how you can share these stories with members of Congress and the President at
www.worldvision.org/advocacy
God, You are the Great Provider. You see Syrians’ needs with a tender heart. Just as you sustained the Israelites
in the desert and fed the 5,000 with just a few loaves and fish, bring the Syrians exactly what they need each
day to survive. Comfort them as they struggle, and nourish their souls with renewed hope each morning.
The Syrian conflict, now in its fifth year, and the chaos it has bred have become background noise to many
people—even those who consider themselves compassionate. The political ramifications of the conflict keep
many caring individuals at a comfortable distance. But there is an urgent need for donor governments to allocate
funds to meet this humanitarian emergency, for churches to raise a cry of prayer and support for people in
desperate circumstances, and for all of us to find a way to engage meaningfully for the sake of Syrian children
and their families.
Gracious Lord, awaken us to the needs of Syrian children and their mothers and fathers. Let us not grow weary
in doing what is right and good in Your eyes. Remind us to engage on their behalf as we would if it were our own
families who were suffering. Help us be advocates for peace in this troubled land and open our hearts and
wallets to pray and give gifts to help.
Amen.