where stateless voices become unforgettable stories
noor- from the heart of a syrian refugee girl
Under the vast sky, I love the stars the most. They never discriminate. They shine equally on everyone, on me, a refugee, and on those who belong here. When I sit beneath this sky, I feel, for a moment, that I belong too.
I think of my home, and I believe the sky there is just the same. Maybe tonight, my childhood friends are also looking at these very stars. Maybe these are the same stars that watched over the rooftop where I used to sleep as a child. The same stars that once shone over Damascus, my homeland.
In the sadness of Damascus, I weep for a homeland that was once a jasmine garden.
She recites Nizar Qabbani, her voice trembling with both longing and hope.
When a Dream Isn’t Enough
A Kadwal Story from an Afghan refugee girl- Fatima in Pakistan
I wanted to become a politician. I didn’t just dream about it, I lived that dream. From an early age, I chased it like a firefly, believing it held the power to light up the dark corners of injustice.
To me, politicians were magicians with microphones. They had the power to rewrite rules, to stop discrimination, to give people like me a voice. So I became fluent. Fluent in the language of my host country, fluent like a leader. I trained my tongue to sound like authority. I mimicked speeches, wrote better ones, and even decided which political party I would join one day.
I was 13. Maybe 14.
I believed so deeply that I could fix things. Fix what hurt me, what hurt others. I saw the brokenness and told myself, one day, I’ll change it all.
Then one day, my older sister looked at me with those quiet, tired eyes and said, “You can’t become a politician here. You’re not eligible. You’re not one of them.”
I laughed. I thought she misunderstood. But slowly, like dust settling in a room, the truth dawned.
I wasn’t eligible, not because I lacked talent or ambition, but because I carried the wrong nationality. I was born here, yes. Raised here, yes. But I did not belong here, not in the eyes of the law.
I couldn’t vote. Couldn’t stand for office. Couldn’t even work in administrative roles. I had the words, the dreams, the fire, but no rights.
That dream, once so bright, shattered in front of me. Picking up the pieces at 14 was harder than I can explain. I had always thought I belonged.
But I was just a refugee. A girl with big dreams in a country that only saw my papers, not my potential.
MUSA
Musa didn’t come to Europe with a CV or a degree. He came with hands that remembered the soil and a heart that carried more memories than belongings. Back in Sudan, he came from a family of farmers. Generations who worked the land, who knew how to speak to the earth without needing words.
When life in Sudan became too heavy to survive, Musa left. Not for adventure. Not for a dream. Just for the chance to breathe.
He landed in a place where no one was waiting for him. No job. No language. No map. So he picked up whatever work he could find. Carrying crates at a warehouse, washing dishes, delivering groceries. Anything that kept him moving, surviving. And in the quiet evenings, behind the small place he was renting, he began to plant. Just a few things at first. Tomatoes. Mint. Onions. The kind of food that reminded him of home and gave his hands something to hold on to.
Months passed. His first harvest was small, but it was real. He signed up for a tiny stall at the local Sunday market. No signboard. No marketing. Just rows of fresh vegetables and a quiet presence.
He didn’t shout or sell hard. He just showed up, week after week, with honest food and a calm smile. At first, people passed by. Then they paused. Then they started returning. His vegetables were different. Cleaner. Real. His face was warm and familiar. His story? They didn’t know it, but they felt it.
The Sunday market spot grew into a loyal following. And that following grew into a shop. Not the biggest. Not the cheapest. But the one that sells out within hours. Because when Musa says it’s fresh, people believe him.
He didn’t arrive to be helped. He arrived and helped build something better. Trust. Belonging. Roots.
He didn’t ask for space. He grew into it.
The Pain of Being Denied
A Syrian Story from Turkey
Nobody chooses to be a refugee.
Nobody wants to leave behind their land, their home, their job. But when you’re forced to flee, you carry your dreams with you. Dreams that often get buried beneath borders and bureaucracy.
That’s the hardest part.
It’s not that you lack intelligence. It’s not that you lack potential. You’ve studied hard, worked harder, and dreamed just like everyone else. Sometimes more.
But you’re denied not because you aren’t qualified but because your documents say you’re not from here. That’s all it takes.
You watch others succeed while you wait, not for a chance, but for permission to exist beyond survival. And it stings. Deep.
When you’re refused not for your ability but for your identity, it doesn’t just break your heart. It itches at your soul.
Being a refugee, it hurts.
Kadwal 