Just this month,Syrian Centre for Policy Research published a report examining the current state in Syria, after five years of war and conflict. Fatalities caused by war, directly and indirectly, amount to 470,000, according to the SCPR – a far higher total than the figure of 250,000 used by the United Nations until it stopped collecting statistics 18 months ago.
In all, 11.5% of the country’s population have been killed or injured since the crisis erupted in March 2011, the report estimates. The number of wounded is put at 1.9 million. Almost half of the population has been displaced. Last week, the International Red Cross said that 50,000 people had fled the upsurge in fighting in the north, requiring urgent deliveries of food and water.
Many of them have nowhere to go to, every country seems to be closing its borders, building up a fortress. The SCPR report notes that the rest of the world has been slow to wake up to the dimensions of the crisis. “Despite the fact that Syrians have been suffering for… five years, global attention to human rights and dignity for them only intensified when the crisis had a direct impact on the societies of developed countries.”
It is estimated that more than one million Syrian refugees found their new home in Lebanon, some in refugee camps, some in basic housing, and some on the streets. If you come to Beirut, you will see Syrian children selling flowers, chewing gum and wet tissues, you will see them playing music or standing silently at the corner of the street.
They became invisible children, something everybody is so used to that they don’t notice it anymore. Lebanese photographer Rania Matar decided to put a face on their individual stories, often crammed into one narrative.
Matar writes: “I was poignantly struck by the Syrian refugee children and teens standing at every other street corner, most often begging for money, sometimes selling red roses or miscellaneous trinkets, or carrying beat-up shoe-shining equipment. They all said they were working.”
She continues: “They were being brought by the truckload every morning, dropped off on the streets and expected to bring money back every day. People often walked or drove by them seemingly indifferent or just fed-up by what the influx of refugees has done to the country’s economy and resources and by what the city has become with kids begging in most cosmopolitan areas of Beirut.”
Matar was moved by the children, the teenagers and the young mothers begging on the streets, and struck by the fact that they had become almost faceless and invisible to the locals.
She noticed how those kids and teens seemed to blend with the graffiti on the walls in front of which they were standing, just like an added new layer of ripped billboard advertising, as invisible and as anonymous.
“Being perceived by people and on the news as ‘the refugees’ the group identity seemed to define them more than their individual identity. Maybe by keeping them individually anonymous, one can more easily ignore the magnitude of the refugee crisis.
I tried through my images to put an individual face to the invisible children, to give them their dignity and portray their individuality”, Matar writes.
To find out more about Matar’s project Invisible Children and see more photos – visit The Story Institute. For more on Matar’s work in general, visit her official website.
The photo pretty much says it all. The following is a photo-essay by Toufic Beyhum and Nadim Dimechkie. You must be wondering about the connection between one of the world’s largest refugee camps (which is gradually evolving into a permanent settlement) and the famous boulevard (the paradise for dead heroes) in Paris? Well, read on, and find out all about it – thanks to the work of Beyhum and Dimechkie, titled What remains when all is lost?
“The salesman on the Champs-Elysées displays the shiny black shoes in neat, even rows. Each time the wind picks up, each time a truck roars past, they are drowned in billows of fine desert sand. And each time, the salesman dusts the sand off each shoe, wipes it down and places it back in line. Another cloud of sand may come along any moment, but the shoes will stay clean.
Named by French aid workers, this Champs-Elysées is the main high street in the Za’atari refugee camp, a three year old Syrian city in Jordan where 130,000 refugees are trying to make a living somewhere they do not wish to live. Most have left their homes, trades, families, and material possessions behind and they want to go back now. But until they do, they must manage with what they have left. And what they have left lies within.”
“Atallah has revived the family bakery here on the Champs-Elysees: the bread is delicious. Mounib has established an impressive perfume shop—which he insists is nowhere near as good as the one his family ran in Syria for generations. Rashed, 14, leaves the camp to buy furniture from Jordanian merchants and comes back to sell it, much as his family once did back home. Where tradition fails, resourcefulness steps in. There are no cars here, and law and order is the preserve of the UN. So Abdul Mansoor, once a policeman in Syria, now makes phenomenal falafels. Omar was a car mechanic; now he sells second-hand clothes.“
“Some jobs have been invented before anyone’s come up with a name for them. What do you call the kids who use wheelbarrows to help people with their shopping for tips, or to resell UNHCR blankets and tents so they can buy what they really need? What do you call the welder-joiners who fuse impossible things from impossible combinations of materials, or the makers of custom-made flat-bed trolleys designed to shift shipping-container homes between buyers and sellers?”
“A combination of good governance and the opportunity for dignity has quelled many of these less desirable elements, while providing opportunities for the better instincts to grow. For some, there is even excitement here—in the relative law and order, in the electricity (which some Syrian villagers had never had on tap before), in the entrepreneurial opportunities. But nobody wants to be here. For all their ability to survive the present moment, no one can build lasting happiness here, for that would mean accepting their fate. Still, there is enough tradition and resourcefulness to make life bearable.”
“And there is always pride – another resource from within. Pride keeps the streets tidy and the wedding dresses moving. Pride keeps the homes orderly, the teenaged boys groomed and fragrant, the barbershops busy. Pride keeps the shoe salesman in business.”
According to UN data, more than 43 million people worldwide are now forcibly displaced as a result of conflict and persecution, the highest number since the mid-1990s.
More than 15 million of the uprooted are refugees who fled their home countries, while another 27 million are people who remain displaced by conflict within their own homelands — so-called ‘internally displaced people’ (IDPs).
Children constitute about 41 percent of the world’s refugees. Many of them spend their entire childhood far from home and without access to basic education.
Following are the photos from refugee camps outside of Islamabad, home to almost over a million displaced Afghan children (registered and unregistered); and from Jordan’s Zaatari refugee camp, home to some of the more than one million displaced Syrian children.
Refugee children from Pakistan’s troubled Swat Valley who fled fighting, play in Jalozai camp, Monday, May 18, 2009 in Peshawar, Pakistan. The Pakistani Taliban have vowed to resist until the “last breath” as security forces entered two militant-held towns and fought on the outskirts of a third in what could turn into bloody urban battles near the Afghan border. (AP Photo/ Mohammad Sajjad)
An Afghan girl smiles as she rides on a hand-operated ferris wheel with other children in a slum on the outskirts of Islamabad March 19, 2013. REUTERS/Faisal Mahmood (PAKISTAN )
/Photos by: Mohammad Sajjad, Mohammed Muheisen, Nathalie Bardou, Pedro Ugarte, Emilio Morenatti, Faisal Mahmood/
I love photography. Sometimes it speaks in a language louder and more comprehensive than words do. When it comes to Afghanistan, I always try to show diverse photo projects and essays. From Massimo Berruti’s black and white photographs which show the daily distress, destroyed lives and broken country to Riverboom’s interesting twists in their Baechtold’s Best – Afghanistan series.
Today, it’s Souvid Datta and his project Contemporary Kabul. I stumbled upon his work while reading an article in The Guardianand I am really happy about this little discovery. About his Contemporary Kabulproject, Datta states:
“Common, contemporary perceptions of Afghanistan’s capital, Kabul, is based on three decades of war coverage. From the Soviet and Mujahideen battles, to Taliban rule, US invasion and subsequent security struggles, the stories and images most internationally pervasive are those coloured in conflict, bloodshed and tribulation.
Today, the Kabul that exists is one of many faces. One where bombed out buildings stand aside fresh internet cafés. Where more children and girls are attending school that ever before. Where shops and streets are populated by musicians, artists, athletes and activists who are trying to live connected to 21st century lives in spite of the massive infrastructure problems and the ever-present military attacks. Against the backdrop of Afghanistan’s first and messy democratic transfer of power as well as the Taliban’s recent tide of violence, this series explores contemporary trends in youth culture, arts and daily life. It is an ongoing, unfinished project.”
The everyday life in Kabul is a life in a twilight zone between war and peace, as many of the different photo essays I wrote about show. This one lets a little more sunshine in.
I think it is visible that a lot of time and dedication went into this photo project. This isn’t one of those cases where a photographer picks a ‘hot spot’, snaps hundreds of photos in couple of days and then leaves. Datta took his time to discover the culture of Afghanistan and meet its people.
It’s refreshing to see such a detailed and in-depth look at Kabul at this moment in time. I think more of this kind of work – with genuine interest and emphaty – is needed in the photo-journalism community.
Enjoy these photos but also remember war is still out there – and just tomorrow one of these faces could never again smile, watch a film, fly a kite, run, play, study, walk, work or breathe.
Undeserving and senseless death is nothing new in Afghanistan. Luckily, strength and resistance are also ever-present.
Khaled Juma is a Palestinian poet, author of children’s books and plays. He was born in Rafah, lived in Gaza city for a long time, and has recently moved to Haifa. First Juma’s poem I ever read was Oh Rascal Children of Gaza, tribute to the children of the Gaza Strip which he wrote while the missiles were falling on Gaza last summer.
Today, I wish to post his text The Unseen Aspects of War, also written during the latest Israeli attack on Gaza.
“The most dangerous thing that happens in war is what is not said, what is not photographed, and what is not talked about. It is not just stories that are told here and there to stir up peoples’ emotions and make them cry, but it is the real crime against humanity: the crime that does not receive attention because the sound of blood is always louder. However, in the end the tragedy is the tragedy, and it is huge, but should not override our sense of the small tragedy. This is not a comparison between what happens in democratically advanced countries and what happens in Palestine, especially in Gaza, but it is an attempt to convey an image of what it means to live in a state of war, even if your house is not bombed, your son is not killed, and your wife is not injured.
The first thing I will talk about is the sound of the missile and its imaginary weight. What is the effect of the sound of a missile from an F-16, even if it does not kill or injure, a missile that weighs at least 250 kilograms, and often over 1000 kilograms. For its safety the plane cannot descend lower than 2700 metres, and therefore its noise cannot often be heard, nor the sound of the missile it drops. But all of a sudden, you hear the sound that usually comes after the explosion, because the speed of the missile’s explosion is much higher than the speed of sound.
The matter is not just related to the explosion, which gives you an idea about the Day of Judgement, but also the tremors that happen after the explosion. Israel tested the characteristics of missiles in order to destroy tunnels supposedly in the area of the bombardment. Therefore, you hear a sound, which at first sounds like thunder on the open sea, before the sky lights up momentarily. Then come the tremors, and before you recover from the shock of the missile, the next one comes at you. You cannot start counting to know when it will end, because they possess an unlimited number.
For example, they once bombed a ministerial compound next to my house with 13 rockets. It is not important if the missile kills or injures you, as the matter concerns where you are at the time of the explosion. Are you asleep? Drinking tea? Standing next to the window? You might get lucky in how your body reacts. Sometimes you fall to the ground from the rush of hot air caused by the missile. Or the window falls out of the wall, marking the end of its resistance. Or tea and sugar fall to the ground from the shelves. Or you find your neighbour at your door as the tremors forced him out of his house. All of this is only related to the sound of the missiles. As for what they do, no one remains who can tell us about what happens when a missile falls near them.
Second is the issue of terror and waiting, even in situations where there is no shelling. In war the body’s ability to gauge its surroundings, the shape of the eyes, and nerve sensitivity all change. Hearing becomes more acute, sense of smell surpasses that of dogs, and skin acclimatizes. Even the concept of time changes. These changes do not lie in a single factor, but hold sway over children’s fear, your personal fear, the smell of the air, spirits floating in the air, the horrible silence of mothers, and the worry of fathers who try to hid it. In war we become something else, somewhere between human and machine.
Third is a matter related to a of sense of security, for in all wars there are different sides. Anyone who is not a party in a war can feel relatively safe. But in Gaza, there is no such luxury. You are exposed to death if you are involved in a battle, if you are the neighbour of someone involved in a battle, or if you are the neighbour of a friend whose nephew is involved in a battle. Of course, this does not stop you from being bombarded even if none these of factors are present, as was the case with the four Bakr children, killed in plain sight of a large gathering of foreign journalists.
The fourth matter is related to you feeling as if you have transformed from victim to executioner. How would you feel if they bombed your house and you saw it on the Western news being displayed as the house of a poor Israeli, blown up by missiles coming from Gaza? Your tragedy of being bombed and killed is stolen from you, while you are prevented from screaming. In war you feel like you are alone. Nothing is with you. No one is with you. Even the doors, the television, the people and the crowds. It is most noticeable when you hear an expression like: “Israel has the right to defend itself.”
Fifth is what happens after the bombardment of houses. If you survive the missile, the house is the place in which we are raised and have memories. In this sense, when Israel bombs houses, it kills the life of the resident even if they are not at home. Are the memories we grew up with which are destroyed not pieces of us? Should we not consider the destruction of the places in which we were raised with these memories to be the destruction of a part of us, just like our hands, our heads, or our hearts?
Sixth is the issue of the wounded. For example, during the massacre of the al-Batesh family, 50 people were injured in the same raid. These injuries included 32 people who had to have limbs amputated. However, because the death toll was so large, these injuries were nearly ignored. After every war in Gaza, thousands of people with disabilities are not mentioned, other than as statistics.
The seventh matter is a psychological factor. Can you image a situation in which people who are being subjected to all of this pressure cannot scream or cry? Whether it is those who lose consciousness at the sound of a missile, or those who have lost their children, fathers, friends, an acquaintance, or maybe all of the above? I know a friend whose library was destroyed by a fire after being shelled by tanks in 2008. Even though he was educated and well aware of the situation, he has yet to recover from that situation and gets a tear in his eye anytime it is mentioned. So what will be the situation of our children? They do not understand what the word “Israel” means, or the meaning of the word “death.” They only know — as a child once told me — “Why doesn’t God love us?”
Eight is something related to the concept Carl Gustav Jung called “crisis storage.” The nature of this concept is related to a defence mechanism designed by the body for dangerous situations, especially in front of children so as to not terrify them. After the dangerous situation ends, the body recalls all the fear and confusion at once, which leads to misfortunes only known by God, that often produce imperceivable abnormalities. I recall that after the 2012 war, many people said to me: “It is strange that we did not feel scared during the war, but after it finished we feel terrified.” This is precisely the concept of “crisis storage.”
The ninth matter is the issue of geographical memory loss. When there is a place we are connected to that is bombed and destroyed by Israel, years later you are not able to tell your friend “I played here,” or “I studied here,” because “here” no longer exists. There is an erasure of geographical memory, and Israel tries to erase our connections to this land.
Tenth is the loss of safety and confidence in mothers and fathers due to their inability to protect their children. This subsequently leads to the breakdown of relationships between parents and their children.
War is cruel, it distorts the human characteristics within us, no matter our ability to withstand. Before anyone thinks about the restoration and reconstruction of Gaza after the war, they must think seriously about the way to restore the lives of the people of Gaza, and sew up the holes within them, because what Israel ultimately aims to do is kill us, or at least demolish our spirit and ability to live.”
Parkour is on the rise in Gaza for several years now, and I already wrote about the beauty and freedom it brings to Palestinians (another great example is the story of a surf club in Gaza). It is all about breaking from conventional paths in life and finding your own. As Abdullah Enshasy, who co-founded the Gaza parkour team with Mohammed Aljkhbeer, explains it:
“There is a big relationship between parkour and barriers that we’re surrounded by in the Gaza strip. There’s the blockade, walls are everywhere. …parkour gives us a sense of freedom and allows us to endure these conditions without getting deeply depressed.”
And now, after Israel’s nearly two-month assault over the summer, parkour is blooming in Gaza again. These photos show Palestinian kids doing parkour in a heavily battered Shuja’iyya neighbourhood in Gaza.
Young Somali refugees living in Dadaab refugee camp in Kenya (the world’s largest refugee camp, home to nearly 400,000 refugees) have sent letters of encouragement to Syrian refugee children who have also had to flee their homeland.
In their letters, they write to to their „brothers and sisters“ with great kindness, encouraging them in their hours, days, months of darkness, emphasizing the importance of education and studying.
Hibo Mahamed Dubow wrote:
„I am really encouraging you not to lose hope, you will get peace and stability. I am encouraging you, I personally , to go to school and learn, in future you can rebuild your country, you will get peace and no longer be a refugee…“
Dahir Mohamed wrote:
„Our beloved brothers and sisters, go and work hard in schools, be the stars and the new presidents of Syria.“
Abshir Hussein wrote:
„Don’t become hopeless, have less worry about the matter. Try to start a new life which is much better than before. I wish peace for Syria. Always peace is the best.“
Zahra Dahir Ali wrote:
„How are you my dear brothers and sisters? How is the situation over there?
I am encouraging you to be educated in your country and go on with your learning, with your education… So, don’t be hopeless, we are with you, and if there’s war in your country tolerance is necessary. My friends, I am telling you education is the key to sucess in your life, so be confident and be patient, so I am advising you to go back to your country and rebuild your nation so that it may be good and well. And the more you get tolerant, the more you get goodness.”
Anthony Dawton lives and breathes his photography. It’s his life, he says. Various NGOs use his skills of capturing the moment (UNICEF, Red Cross Lebanon, Save the Children, etc), and he always tries his best.
He has done some wonderful projects in the Middle East, and one of them is Children of Gaza. Children are the greatest victims in Gaza, not just those killed (and many of that 1000 + number in these last three weeks are indeed children) but those who have survived but lost their parents, lost their limbs, lost their homes, lost their schools, lost their hospitals, lost their playgrounds.
Children should never go through that. There is no excuse for that, and no comfort in ocassional brave reports from justice-biased journalists (although I applaud them for that), or in ocassional celebrities tweets, bravely tweeted and deleted (them I do not applaud that much), there is no comfort while the general silence drowns the screams. While there’s no real changes. As King of Crimson put it:
Knowledge is a deadly friend If no one sets the rules The fate of all mankind I see Is in the hands of fools
Confusion will be my epitaph As I crawl a cracked and broken path If we make it we can all sit back and laugh, But I fear tomorrow I’ll be crying, Yes I fear tomorrow I’ll be crying
(These) children deserve better.
Khan Yunis.
Gaza City.
Beit Lahya.
An Nazlah.
Beit Hannoun.
Deir Al Balah.
Government Girls’ School.
Petrol is a rare commodity. Khan Yunis.
Heba: she sells packets of tissues to car drivers in the middle of the main road in Gaza City. She spends her spare time at the Al Qattan Centre library.
/image © Rania Matar/
middle east revised 