Into the late afternoon hours, the blistering light gave way to soft, horizontal rays that crisscrossed over Lebanon’s Beqaa valley. The rays played with the children, casting long silhouettes of their forms, while they chased each other. As the temperature subsided, the elders of the community descended to the lowest level of the mosque-turned-refugee shelter.
Amid the cacophony, Abu Hassan paced back and forth along the dried-up marble fountain, the centre-piece of the makeshift living room, eventually settling at its edge. With a watchful eye on his four grandchildren, his chin resting on his staff, he gently scolded them as their cackles grew boisterous.
“You see that horizon, there?’ he pointed. ‘That is Qusayr [in Syria], which we fled.”
