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Gaziantep, Turkey — I'm at a school for refugee children and orphans in Turkey, less than half a mile from the Syrian border. A group of about 20 of us are here, in partnership with Project Amal ou Salam (Arabic for Hope and Peace), a grass-roots organization that works with Syrian children to teach them about trust and unity and help them deal with the trauma of their lives.
Before my trip, I braced myself to hear the stories that come from the horrors of this war – chemical attacks by the government, family members missing for years, the terror of fleeing the Islamic State.
What I do not expect to encounter is … Scooby-Doo.
It's a chilly, overcast day, and we're outside on the playground near the town of Gaziantep, about two hours north of Aleppo and areas in Syria that are fighting for independence from the Islamic State and Bashar Assad's regime.
Kids in bright blue jackets stream out of the school and line up on the pavement. They bounce up and down with excitement as one of our volunteers from Damascus screams, "Scooby-Dooby-Doo!" as loud as she can.
Three hundred voices shout, "I love you," in reply.
So goes the chant: "Scooby-Dooby-Doo" and "I love you," repeated over and over as we break into music, art, gym, photography and face-painting groups.
Amal ou Salam is a non-political group that hosts workshops for Syrian orphans and refugees. Activities are designed to help these children express themselves out from under the burden of conflict.
"Scooby-Doo" is featured in many of the songs we sing in music class, because it is easy for the children here to pronounce and remember. "Asfar," the Arabic word for yellow, is also popular, sung to the music of Queen's We Will Rock You. All of our activities, lyrics, art themes and games focus on inclusion and positive images.
"We want to stay away from patriotic songs or anything that is political," founder Nousha Kabawat says. "I see kids drawing the Syrian flag, and I ask them, 'Don't you know something else to draw? Draw a rainbow.' "
This month marks the four-year anniversary of the Syrian uprising. A conflict that began as a non-violent revolution and part of the Arab Spring, the civil war in Syria has deteriorated into one of the bloodiest conflicts in the Middle East. More than 200,000 people have died since it started, and more than 11 million people have been driven from their homes and into the neighboring countries of Jordan, Lebanon and Turkey to escape the violence.
Turkey has received about 1.7 million Syrian refugees since 2011. Many live in towns near the border and hope to return to Syria. (Photo: April Umminger for USA TODAY)
Today, I am the face painter, which I quickly learn makes me the popular kid on the playground. I'm besieged by children, and despite the language barrier (I don't speak Arabic, they don't speak English), we quickly learn how to communicate that they want a tiger, moon, butterfly or flower drawn on their faces.
One little boy demands to see the results of my handiwork through the camera on my cellphone. He looks at the half-moon and star drawn on his face, then looks at me and cocks his right eyebrow as if to say, "Is this your best?" Then he smiles and runs off.
Throughout the week, I'm struck by how these kids seem no different from ones I've babysat or my niece at home. They're sweet, playful and a little bit sassy. I'm surprised and inspired by their resilience, given that they are children of war with an uncertain future.
When I ask about their chances of adoption, I'm told it is not possible. The interpretation of Islam here forbids these children from living in the same house with the opposite sex of a different bloodline.
Some of these children will find cousins or other extended family members to help them resettle. The majority will go through childhood and enter adolescence alone, relying on the international community at best, or extremist groups at worst, to provide a foundation of community and family.
On our last day, at a school in Hatay, where I can see Syria just beyond the mountains, teachers share their disbelief that the fighting has lasted so long, their frustration at the palpable decline in aid from the West and their fatigue at having to deal with the Islamic State as well as the Assad regime and other rebel forces.
"Thank you for coming," one says to me over tea and bread, "and do not forget us."
April Umminger is a master's student in the School of Conflict Analysis and Resolution at George Mason University.
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