Lamya Hussain

Refuge and return

“Where would you like to go?” asks a taxi driver a little older than my father, his thick Lebanese accent I barely understand. I reply politely, “Off the airport road to Bourj al-Barajneh.” “The refugee camp? No, I don’t go there,” he replies. 

They call them martyrs

They call them martyrs, their fallen soldiers, their sons, brothers and fathers. Engraved on the walls of the refugee camp are their names and messages from their loved ones. Their faces painted on the alleyways, their eyes dark and alive.