Dar Al-Salam School for Syrian Refugees

A collaborative painting by Syrian children in art therapy class for trauma 

Reyhanli - It's 10:30 when the sharp ring of the mid-morning bell pierces the silence at the Dar Al-Salam school for Syrian refugees. Hundreds of students begin pouring out of their classrooms, yelping excitedly as they make their way to the playground. In the distance, a couple of rundown old school busses are approaching, carrying a fresh load of eager students ready to start their day. As one of the first and largest (1,200 students at the time of this writing) schools established for Syrian refugees fleeing violence in their home country, Dar Al-Salam has become an invaluable resource to displaced children and families. However the school, whose name means "House of Peace", is faced with a continually growing student body which has already outmatched the resources of their facility. In order to handle such a large number of children, the school operates in three separate daily shifts, constantly loading children on and off of the busses and moving them back and forth.

Children lining up for the next school shift rotation

As I stood there, observing the controlled chaos that is a daily shift change, my attention drifted to several young girls hard-at-work in the sandbox over in the corner of the playground. For almost a half-hour they diligently toiled over several rows of sand pillars, each one carefully and lovingly shaped. Once every grain of sand was in its proper place, the girls dispersed to the gardens to gather flowers to adorn their creation. As they carefully laid rose petals on each mound, one of the girls approached me and placed a rose in my hand, pointing to the last unadorned sand pillar. Taking the hint, I laid the flower on the final pillar and stood back to take in the site before me.

At this point, the school's director approached me and offered some explanation, "These are in memory of the Syrian children who have died. Memorial graves for their former classmates from Syria who couldn't make it out, and were killed in the war." The director and I stood in silence for what seemed a small eternity, the painful meaning of these girls actions laid bare before us. Another moment, and the bell rang, breaking the silence. The girls hurried back to class, leaving the memorial graves standing in the midday sun, a stark reminder of the horrors and bloodshed visited upon Syria's youngest, all but forgotten about in the international community.

An orphan in the gardens to pick roses for the memorial graves

Most days, Dar Al-Salam just manages to keep going. The emotional and physical strains placed on the school by the constantly growing student body, coupled with the fact that they almost entirely supported by donations, makes day to day subsistence a challenge. Basic schooling provisions such as books, chalk, pencils, markers, stationery, and art supplies for students with trauma usually come up short, and often the school barely has enough to pay its 60 teachers. Despite this, the school continues to grow and recently made headway at constructing additional facilities for its students. However, soon after the building for the new, desperately-needed classrooms began, it ground to a halt due to a lack of funding. Now the skeletal foundation of the new structure must await an additional $30,000 in donations before it can reach completion. The new building would provide space and much-needed relief for the overcrowded classes, as well as the creation of high school level classes for advancing students.

Two teachers walking through the unfinished addition to the school

Many of these children have nothing to hold on to; they now live in this foreign land, separated from their homes and families, traumatised by the bloody fighting that has torn all they knew asunder. Some have seen their fathers killed in the aimless barrel bombings, and their brothers imprisoned and tortured by Syrian government forces. Some have seen their mothers and sisters raped and brutalised by power-crazed militia thirsting for a sense of domination. Too many have experienced all of these tragedies, and yet have somehow managed to make it out alive, only to now begin their lives anew as orphan refugees.

A young child leaving the physiologist's office

I discussed this seemingly impossible situation Dar Al-Salam's physiologist, Dr. Hassan Kurdie over tea later that afternoon: "These are just children and innocent teachers," he says. "We know we are not terrorists, but they (Assad's regime) call us terrorists, and the people here (in Turkey) treat us the same way. We have done nothing wrong. We only want to care for these children who have lost everything like us." After a moment of reflection while sipping his tea, he solemnly finished by saying, "We want to be treated as human beings. We want Assad to stop killing us. We want to be left alone. After all we've been through we struggle to remember love, but we can't loose our humanity. If we do, then the regime has won."

A Syrian orphan looking for peace in the school's rose garden