She stood there waiting for the journalist to ask her the question so that she answers how she hates everything here. She hates living in a camp, living away from her country Syria. She realizes her parents’ suffering to offer her the slightest of happiness. They don’t have money and are surrounded in their camp. If her father leaves, he might not come back because his stay is illegal. If her mother goes out she might not be able to buy her gifts because they are expensive or because she might be harassed. Furthermore, Syrians are are subject to curfew after a certain hour. Rim, the ten-year-old girl, knows all of this. She also realizes someone is trying to grant her a bit of joy, despite everything. However, she does not want any of this. She wants to be back in Syria.
She said all this, then took the microphone and asked her friend the same question: Are you happy today? Her friend hesitated to reply. Rim told her: Don’t be afraid. Your words will not go on TV... Just tell me what’s in your heart.
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Since Syrians started their exodus to Lebanon to flee death surrounding them in their country where violence was continuously expanding, they have been the focus of media attention. From the discussion of whether they were displaced or refugees, to their number and needs, passing through how to accommodate them and control their entrance process to Lebanon, then restricting their movement, as well as the stereotypes they received, the allegations about how they negatively affect their host communities, even linking their presence in Lebanon to any minor or major problems Lebanon is facing. Media has contributed to showcasing all of this, at times consecrating it, and at others dissipating and fighting it. At the same time, this controversy created a somewhat complex relationship between those people and media in general. It is a prolonged crisis; still, the Syrian refugees were not able to get acquainted with the presence of these creatures around them. They had no privacy left in this temporary life, in light of the raids of those looking for a scoop here and there.
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His name is Alaa. He works as a flower salesman. He fled with his family from Aleppo. His father does not work, and he might be deprived from the assistance that is slowly fading. Every day, he has to bring back no less than sixty dollars, or else a punishment will be awaiting him. Alaa won’t let you offend his father; he loves him and is aware that he has to push him to work. He remembers how four years ago, his illiterate father would insist that his mother makes sure Alaa had finished his homework before going to bed. Today however, they no longer have a house. Rent is expensive in Beirut, and going back to Syria is not an option in the near future; that’s why Alaa’s job is temporary, just as life in Lebanon is.
In a rest house on Corniche Raouche, Alaa ponders the jet skiers as they pass underneath the rock. He turns to me and asks: how many roses do I have to sell to own one of these Jet Skis?
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In the beginning, they thought we (journalists) might be a means to ease their suffering that kept escalating, year after year, in the absence of ways to alleviate it. At the same time, fear always accompanied any contact between them and anyone wearing a journalist tag.This has made trust an essential key to break this barrier, a key that Syrians always consider if the person is worthy of holding it for a short period or not. Many questions cross their minds: Why would I tell you my story? Do you have the capability of finding the solution? What will happen to me after you publish what I am going to tell you? How can I make sure that what you are trying to reassure me with is true? How will you use my story afterwards? Will I regret it? Will you ask about me after I give you what you need for your report?
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Her husband was arrested while they were fleeing the countryside of Homs. She was pregnant with her fifth child, who was born in Lebanon; a brother to four siblings whose mother is suffering today. They live in an abandoned underground compound in the South; as though they were really buried. The relief authorities have not visited them for the last two years. When asked about her biggest suffering, she says that her children need medical care, and «the physicians here abuse them. They note down their names in the international organizations’ records, and do not give us the required medication. They think we don’t know what they are doing. They want to turn our lives a into living hell. We get no sunshine, no clean water and no affordable food. I swear that death under the bombs is kinder than what we are enduring here.» She becomes quiet all of a sudden, then she says: «Please don’t expose my face. I am afraid of no one, but it is my children that I fear for.»
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Many experiences have made Syrians feel that these creatures who go by the name of journalists do not see them as people in the first place. With time, they have come to prefer aching in silence over telling us about their suffering; a suffering they are now convinced we are incapable of easing or impacting. Although sometimes there is a slight hope for a small number whose conditions have improved, but sometimes, while conversing with them, I worry that they might be right. Their voice often go with the wind.