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.