We first met Mussab on a long and troubled day. He was at the hospital in one of the poorest and most marginalized districts in Tripoli, a town in the north of Lebanon.
It took us a very long time, many efforts and strong determination, but in the end Mussab was granted the possibility to come to Italy, in Genoa, to cure his serious disease. This was possible thanks to a network of solidarity composed by dozens of people and organizations. This is a story of courage, strong will, and change. What we share with you here is another chapter of this wonderful story…

Today Muss, as we now call him, has ended his career at the lower secondary school with an online presentation in front of us, his teachers, who had tailored the questions to suit him. He held the presentation in such a brilliant and involving way that we were really moved and were left speechless, so that we felt unable to say goodbye at the end.
The title of his presentation was “No more wars” and it started with a quotation from an Italian song “C’era una volta la mia vita, c’era una volta la mia casa, c’era una volta e voglio che sia ancora” (Il mio nome è mai più, Jovanotti, Pelù, Ligabue) .
We were his teachers for 2 years, and these were 2 special years for us.

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“One should not go through such a pain just to have her kid admitted to the hospital” I thought, while sinking into the cold metal chair of the waiting room. Then, suddenly, a woman started coughing, each cough stronger than the previous one. It seems she could choke any moment: she was coughing and crying. I am not proud of this, but I must admit that, for a second, I got scared she might have something infective. I asked her and she minimized the issue, while keep coughing. She could hardly talk, but her gaze was kind.

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In these days we are witnessing the umpteenth and most serious crisis of the Syrian war in the northern province of Idlib. We are in contact with people, activists and civil society representatives who are living there in a desperate situation and from them we received this appeal which we invite you to download and make known. We have already delivered it to the German government in the past week and now we ask you to present it to the groups and associations you know and to let us know about eventual adhesions and mobilizations at the following address: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.,
We hold these people in our hearts while we are thinking together about how to act now.

We, the civilians of Idlib governorate, Syria, , ask you to make our voice heard!
Help stopping this destructive war on us!
Help us stay in our homes!

As you read this message, 21 families have left their homes as a result of the attacks on civilians by the Russians and regime forces backed by the Iranian militia. These families haven’t not found even tents to house them!!

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“They couldn’t beat up his soul”. I keep repeating this to myself, because I need to find a part of this man which hasn’t been tortured. A piece of peace.
I was told his story a few days ago, and now that his wife is telling it again, I keep searching for an intact, pure part in this man.
I’m looking for a tiny fragment of peace, an untainted space, a fertile and uncontaminated soil.
At night, I cannot sleep because of the heavy rain tapping on the tent, and I keep thinking over him, and I keep searching for a silent and intact part in his story.
He was freed from prison after 6 years, and arrived in Lebanon a few weeks ago. But Lebanon doesn’t want him now, he could be arrested anytime and “deported to Syria in 4 hours”, as a recently approved Lebanese law states.
Six years ago, he was separated from his wife, pregnant with their first child, he was arrested, beaten up, isolated in a dark room, and he could only breathe violence, eat violence, experience violence for 6 years.

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A few days ago Paola, Inès, Valerio and I went to Bebnine to visit a family that has just lost their baby.
One of our Syrian friends had asked us to visit them a few days before, in order to understand if they needed something, or even just to meet them. We had put the request in our to-do list of visits, thinking that sooner or later we would complete all the visits, despite our hundreds things to do and the frenzy of some days at the camp.

We get inside their house. The air is thick. The baby’s mother is constantly drying tears from her eyes. She is really beautiful, with freckles on her face. She is young. The baby’s father is down on his knees, staring at the floor. Their son was 7 months old and died in the hospital of Tripoli.


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