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It wasn’t easy to enter the house where Syrians took refuge.

Their fear of the Assad and Syrian intelligence go as far as using phrases such as “they would decapitate us.”


There were houses we got expelled from, but there were also houses we were served coffee even before we entered the premises…

But the difficulty of convincing them to take their photos did not change.

‘Vertical lives’’ was going on in houses where fifteen, twenty people stayed and every space was made use of with bunk beds.

Despite the verticality, everything seemed to consist of repetitions. Houses were the same as if they all came from one source.

Everywhere there were bunk beds, most of the people unemployed, all alone, almost everyone’s name Muhammad.

They smoked contraband cigarettes, they refused to give up on their pleasure of drinking mate tea with a strawed teaspoon and enjoying hookah… Everything was the same; but most of all the pain…

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