‘I don’t need any luxuries. I don’t need expensive jeans or restaurants. If I can look after my children as I was able to in Syria, then I am happy. I want my daughters to study. I want to give them everything that is good for them.’
At the entrance to this small camp in the Lebanese Bekaa Valley, a large wedding feast is in full swing. Mohammed apparently doesn’t feel the need to attend. He is sitting with his wife and daughters in front of their tent. When Thijs first sees Mohammed, he is immediately impressed by the tranquillity this man radiates.
When I walk up a little later, Mohammed stands up and offers me a seat. He sits down facing me, hides his feet under his clothes and tells his story. This man has a dignity this camp cannot take from him in any way. I think that’s why he seems so at ease as he talks about his sorrow.
‘I am a father. If my child wants something or ask for something I cannot give her, it feels as if my heart is on fire. But if I have no hope, my children have no hope. So if my grandson asks: “Why don’t we live in a house?” Then I say: “ we are only spending the summer here.” I lie to him so that he doesn’t feel sad.’
Mohammed (48), Waleh (20), Isra (15), Sana (20) and Zahra (40) from Al-Raqqah
Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
From 'anything out of nothing'
‘When I returned to my birthplace in Jordan, local villagers said: “Hassan, you left here as a normal man. You return as a refugee.”’
While her father Hassan tells the tragic story of their family, I am watching his little daughter Rachad. She is six. No one shows more clearly the coarse arbitrariness that decides if you’re a refugee or not. She’s a little ballerina, so elegant. The cabin she lives in is really quite ugly and yet it’s also very beautiful. Because I see the meticulous care and attention to detail. In the colourful and banquettes on the walls, in the blue curtains, the games in the cupboard, the pile of cuddly toys on top, the brick wall her father is building around the cabin for the winter.
Hassan: ‘I grew up in this Jordanian village, Umm el-Jimal. I swam in the pool beside the ruins of the old town. I went to school here. I had all my friends here. Ten years ago I sold my house to go and see my brother in Syria. It was a good decision, at the wrong moment.
‘Our house was finished, the children were born and then the war broke out. I fled with my brother to Umm el-Jimal. We first rented a house. But the owner needed it himself. So I bought this cabin and built a brick wall around it.'
‘It’s good to wait in my old village until the war is over and not in a camp like many Syrians. My children don’t quarrel here because they don't live in a crowded place like Za'atari. They can play outside, the neighbours know their names. My family is free. We used to own a house. Now we may live in a cabin. But at least it is ours.’
Rachad (6) from Dara’a
Umm el-Jimal, Jordan
From 'anything out of nothing'
‘Arabic was my favourite subject. I loved writing beautiful letters. And I often got good marks for it. Then I felt proud. In the coffee house where I now work, I never feel proud.’
You can’t miss Ahmed. Flawless skin. Beautiful green eyes. If you make eye contact, he smiles shyly. But he does not avert his gaze.
His story is the story of more and more Syrian children: ‘We needed money. I went to a coffee house here in Beirut and said: ‘Iam Ahmed. I want to work.’ The owner said yes. Now I work from 7 to 7, six days a week.’
‘In Syria, I went to school. After a day at school I felt happy. Thanks to my friends, my teachers, and thanks to writing. But now at the end of a working day I feel sad. Because I don’t have any friends here. And because I’m not good at anything. Customers shout at me if I’m not quick enough.’
Ahmed’s grandma raises his shirt. He has a red burn on his belly. ‘I dropped some tea.’
‘When I get home after a day at work, grandma always says: God be with you. Then she washes me. And she makes food for me. After that I feel a little happier.’
Ahmed (9) from Hama
Beirut, Lebanon
From 'anything out of nothing'
‘I can’t stay strong any longer. I need someone to talk to me, to be with me. I can’t survive on my own.’
During a car journey through the Bekaa Valley we see a tent. All alone, in the middle of a field. It’s striking because almost all Syrian refugees here in Lebanon live in small camps close together. Who wants to live all on their own like this?
We knock on the door. Turkye opens the door just a little. She is 25. The same age as me. She has no children and is at home on her own. She hesitates about whether she should let us in. Then she opens the door wide. And tells her story.
‘I have one girlfriend here. She lives further along the road. I see her once a week. I feel very lonely.
‘In Aleppo, I used to get up at six o’clock in the morning. I worked on our family farm, on the land. Every two or three hours we took a break. Then I could shower, relax and we carried on working later. At seven o’clock in the evening, we stopped to eat with the whole family.
‘Now I get up at noon. I clean up a bit. Then I sit around all day. On my own. Until my husband comes back from work. I miss my girlfriend Khadija most of all. I miss laughing, talking and sharing my secrets with her.’
‘So why do you live so alone?’
‘I don’t really know.’
Turkye (25) from Aleppo
Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
From 'anything out of nothing'
‘These are all my photographs from Syria. I framed them in Jordan. The most precious are on the left: my father and mother. But the most beautiful memory is top right: The feast of Eid al-Fitr with my brother Hassan, six years ago. I am very close to him, but he is still in Syria, so I haven’t seen him for three years.’
‘What did you say to your brother, when you left Syria and didn’t know if you’d ever see him again?’
‘Well, bye for now!’
Ahmed himself is the first to laugh. Then Thijs dares too. Then his wife Ghada follows. I only dare laugh after that. In the end, his children join in the laughter, even though they don’t know why, and everyone sips their tea and sighs.
Ahmed (43) from Dara’a
Umm el-Jimal, Jordan
From 'anything out of nothing'
‘Winter is coming. But we’re not afraid.’
Suleyman (42) lives with his family in a skilfully constructed tent in Umm el-Jimal, Jordan. He collected plastic and jute sacks which his wife turned into tent cloth. It took no more than a week to finish this neat construction.
The tent is spacious, cool and clean. While it is so hot, a tent is much more comfortable than the cabins often used in refugee camps. However, in the winter it’s a different story. And winter is on its way.
This tent is not watertight. And it’s a lot more difficult to heat than a cabin. Suleyman is not worried. ‘In the winter, you have to lay plastic sheets under your tent cloth. You make a hole in it to let the smoke escape. That’s basically all. You do need a fire and you have to make your tent watertight. And you shouldn’t complain. Because that's not going to help you.’
Suleyman (42) from Dara'a
Umm el-Jimal, Jordan
From 'anything out of nothing'
‘I had ambitions for Nahla. I wanted her to find out everything she was curious about, to get answers to all of her questions. To become whatever she wanted. She was an excellent pupil, her teachers said. Those dreams have evaporated. I can’t read or write so I can’t teach her anything. I wanted her to be better than me.’
That’s what Badrija, Nahla’s mother, tells me about her daughter. Nahla is from Al-Raqqah and now lives with about a hundred others from her old hometown in the Bekaa Valley in Lebanon. No supervision. No aid organisations. And certainly no school.
From the moment I first see Nahla, I feel how much potential she has. She is the first one to approach me. The first to take my arm. The first to smile at me. And when I talk to someone else, she stands there with her arms crossed watching. Almost as if she thinks I’m entertaining.
Nahla (9) from Al-Raqqah
Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
From 'anything out of nothing'
In one of the two market streets in the vast Al-Za’atari refugee camp, we come across a brand-new restaurant. The owners have use the limited materials at their disposal to create a smart bistro with plenty of atmosphere.
Inside, the chef decorates hummus with flowers made of cucumber and carrot skin. His love for his craft is obvious. He entertains us with jokes. And later he proudly shows this photograph of his daughters; Zafirah and Ain are six and seven years old.
He gestures: two hands held together and then against his ear. We think he says they’ve gone to sleep.
‘Sweet!’ we reply.
Until we understand that he means: dead.
‘Bashar. Assad.’ Fouad imitates a plane dropping bombs. ‘Mort.’
No one has anything to say. Then the chef picks up his cigarettes and shakes out a couple. “Cigarette?”
Fouad (38) from Damascus
Al-Za’atari camp, Mafraq, Jordan
From 'anything out of nothing'
'Anything out of nothing ' is a book about strength, dignity and independence. Because that’s what touches us most each time we meet Syrian refugees. Their stories are heartbreaking - yet they are always about hope, trust and love. The ability of people to make something of it, even if the world around you completely collapses.
For more info on the book visit www.anythingoutofnothing.com