”Nighttime is horrible”

By Magnus Wennman and Carina Bergfeldt

One child misses her bed.
Another misses her dark-eyed doll.
A third dreams of the old days, when her pillow didn’t feel like an enemy.

Two million children have fled Syria.
Leaving behind their friends, their homes, their beds.

A dozen of these children have invited us to come and see where they now sleep, now that everything they once had is gone.
The journey takes us through seven refugee camps, three countries, and countless traumas.

Fara, 2

AZRAQ. Fara, 2, loves soccer. Her dad tries to make balls for her by crumpling up anything he can find, but they don’t last long. Every night, he says goodnight to Fara and her big sister Tisam, 9, in the hope that tomorrow will bring them a proper ball to play with. All other dreams seem to be beyond his reach, but he is not giving up on this one.

Mohammed, 13

NIZIP. Mohammed, 13, loves houses. Back home, in Aleppo, he used to enjoy walking around the city looking at them. Now, many of his favourite buildings are gone, blown to pieces. Lying in his hospital bed, he wonders whether he will ever fulfill his dream of becoming an architect.
– The strangest thing about war is that you get used to feeling scared. I wouldn’t have believed that, says Mohammed.

Iman, 2

AZRAQ. Iman, 2, has pneumonia and a chest infection. This is her third day in this hospital bed.
– She sleeps most of the time now. Normally she’s a happy little girl, but now she’s tired. She runs everywhere when she’s well. She loves playing in the sand, says her mother Olah, 19.

Gulistan, 6

SURUC. There’s a difference between closing your eyes and sleeping, as six-year-old Gulistan knows. She prefers to shut her eyes and just pretend, because every time she really falls asleep, the nightmares start.
– I don’t want to sleep here. I want to sleep at home, she says.
She misses the pillow she had in Kobane. Sometimes she lies against her mother and uses her as a pillow.

Tamam, 5

AZRAQ. Five-year-old Tamam is scared of her pillow. She cries every night at bedtime. The air raids on her hometown of Homs usually took place at night, and although she has been sleeping away from home for nearly two years now, she still doesn’t realize that her pillow is not the source of danger.

Esra, 11, Esma, 8, and Sidra, 6

MAJDAL ANJAR. When Selam, 37, puts Esra, 11, Esma, 8, and Sidra, 6, to bed, she takes comfort from the knowledge that her children are safe and won’t come under attack during the night. What saddens her is the fact that they constantly dream about their father, who disappeared after being abducted, and wake up distraught.
– I often dream that Daddy is bringing me candy, says Sidra.

Maram, 8

AMMAN. Eight-year-old Maram had just come home from school when the rocket hit her house. A piece of the roof landed right on top of her. Her mother took her to a field hospital, and from there she was airlifted across the border to Jordan. Head trauma caused a brain hemorrhage. For the first 11 days, Maram was in a coma. She is now conscious, but has a broken jaw and can’t speak.

Ralia, 7 and Rahaf, 13

BEIRUT. Ralia, 7, and Rahaf, 13, live on the streets of Beirut. They are from Damascus, where a grenade killed their mother and brother. Along with their father, they have been sleeping rough for a year. They huddle close together on their cardboard boxes. Rahaf says she is scared of “bad boys,” at which Ralia starts crying.

Moyad, 5

AMMAN. Moyad, 5, and his mother needed to buy flour to make a spinach pie. Hand in hand, they were on their way to the market in Dar’a. They walked past a taxi in which someone had placed a bomb. Moyad’s mother died instantly. The boy, who has been airlifted to Jordan, has shrapnel lodged in his head, back and pelvis.

Walaa, 5

DAR-EL-IAS. Walaa, 5, wants to go home. She had her own room in Aleppo, she tells us. There, she never used to cry at bedtime. Here, in the refugee camp, she cries every night. Resting her head on the pillow is horrible, she says, because nighttime is horrible. That was when the attacks happened. By day, Walaa’s mother often builds a little house out of pillows, to teach her that they are nothing to be afraid of.

Amir, 20 months

ZAHLE FAYDA. Amir, 20 months, was born a refugee. His mother believes her son was traumatized in the womb. “Amir has never spoken a single word,” says Shahana, 32. In the plastic tent where the family now lives, Amir has no toys, but he plays with whatever he can find on the ground. “He laughs a lot, even though he doesn’t talk,” says his mother.