June• 2019 | 65day into two ‘shifts’ – one in the morn-
ing for Lebanese and another in the
afternoon for Syrians – in practice
it wasn’t available to all. The head
teacher at the local school welcomed
Takwa’s younger siblings, who’d never
been in school before, but said Takwa,
then ten, and her brother Rashid, then
nine, would have to start again. Syrian
schools teach only in Arabic, whereas
Lebanese schools teach some subjects
in English or French – and there was
no language support available for the
older children.
But those children living near Zefta
were fortunate. In June 2017, a school
for refugee children opened its doors
in the village. Housed in a modest
apartment building, the school doors
open at 8.30am when children stream
into four classrooms from a school
minibus. Coloured drawings of giant
bees plaster the walls and a sign reads:
‘Welcome to the Hive.’
In one classroom, children aged
three and four sit around low tables
passing crayons to one another, col-
ouring in red shapes. A tape plays in
the background of a woman singing.
“It’s to calm them,” explains Sarah as
Younes, who gives a tour of the cen-
tre. Sarah leads psychosocial support
sessions that make up an hour of each
child’s day. When some refugees start
school, they cry or can’t sit still, she
says. In Sarah’s classes they’re encour-
aged to express their feelings. Difficult
stories come out. But she lets each
child talk, and – when they have fin-
ished – gently moves the subject on.
“It’s so as not to let them feel sad all the
time. They have to learn to start from
the beginning, in a new atmosphere,”
she says.Riman Ezzeddine looks over Takwa’s shoulder as the class of older children –
eight to 15 year olds – work on their tablets during a lesson in the ‘Hive’