Between two fields close to the Syrian border in one of the neighboring countries, a potholed gravel road cuts through a small strip of land, once a natural boundary in the landscape. Now, the strip stands out as one of the many unregistered camps where Syrian families on the run have settled indefinitely, while their homeland is ravaged by war, violence, and instability.
Light blue tarps are stretched over fragile metal frames or loose wooden structures, now constituting the families’ homes. In the fields, the parents work, and if it hadn’t been for the white tent in the center of the camp, the children would most likely have sat alone in the sweltering tents or wandered aimlessly in the camp’s dusty sand, their gazes fixed on nothing.
But in this particular camp, there is indeed a strong, white tent with a curved roof and a number 5 inside a black triangle above the door. Inside the tent, children’s voices, laughter, and songs can be heard, and if you peek inside, you’ll see happy children with sparkle in their eyes and hands raised, eager to answer the teacher’s questions.