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A family from Dara'a, now living in a caravan in Zaatari. "Even the children have forgotten how to smile," the woman remarked to me. (All photos: Max Blumenthal)
As Abdel mashed his cigarette into a tin ashtray and reached to light another, a woman appeared at the shop window with three young children. She said she had no money and had not been able to purchase baby formula for three days. She had trudged to hospitals across the camp seeking help and was turned away at each stop. Without hesitation, the shop owner, a burly middle-aged man also from Homs, pulled a can of formula off a shelf and handed it over to the woman. She made no promise to pay him back, and he did not ask for one. Like so many in the camp, she left Syria with nothing and now depends on the charity of others for her survival. In a human warehouse of 120,000, the fourth-largest population center in Jordan and the second-largest refugee camp in the world, where few can leave and even fewer are able to enter, the woman's desperate existence was not an exception but the rule.
"We're in a prison right now," Abdel told me. "We can't do anything. And the minute we try to have a small demonstration, even peacefully, [Jordanian soldiers] throw tear gas at us."
"Guantanamo!" the shop owner bellows.
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