Ala, 13, sits in his wheelchair, shifting uncomfortably from side to side. His father lies on a bed next to him. He looks worn. The skin under his eyes sags. There are four other children in the room, all of them recovering from injuries caused by bombs dropped by President Bashar al-Assad's forces. Unlike many of the patients in the makeshift rehabilitation center in Reyhanli, Turkey, Ala has all of his limbs.
It does not feel like it, he says. His arms and legs are attached to his body, but it's hard for him to move them. Ala was playing soccer in the streets with his friends last month when a bomb fell from the sky. Now he has a piece of shrapnel lodged into his upper neck, and it is pinching a nerve in his spine. He cannot walk or hold anything too tightly. His head bobs loosely from side to side when he answers questions.
"I want to be a writer, too," Ala says. "But not before Bashar leaves," an older man yells.
"Friends? No I don't have friends. Just them," Ala says, flailing his arm to the right, toward the other patients in the room.
The other boys in the room are in their beds, heads tilted up toward the small TV on the opposite wall. News of bloodshed in Syria flashes over the screen as dramatic music plays in the background. One boy flips the channel--more news from Syria. He keeps flipping. Finally, he finds a cartoon--a more soothing alternative.
"I want to be a writer, too," Ala says.
"But not before Bashar leaves," an older man yells from across the room. Everyone looks at the man and then back to the screen. They will watch TV the rest of the day.
For more than two years, Turkey has acted as a space for Syrians like Ala to flee the perpetual violence in their country. They come to Turkey to rehabilitate both physically and emotionally -- to heal and to return back to Syria after the war ends. Thousands of Syrians have flooded into refugee camps with their families, where at least they know they will not hear bombs at night. And wounded victims like Ala are recovering from burns and breaks in temporary rehab centers on the border. But with tensions increasing in Ankara, the Turkish government may not have the capacity to both handle the chaos brewing in the streets and help provide for the Syrians at the same time.
With government supplies running low, Syrians living in Turkey have already begun caring for themselves. Ghassan Abboud, the owner of Orient TV in Syria, funds this rehab center independently from the Turkish government.
There are four rooms in the Orient hospital. The room next to Ala's is painted in pastel blue and faces the mountains thousands of Syrians have crossed on their journey to Turkey. This room is much different--it is filled with the groans of men who were torn from the streets of a war they had made their own. Most of the men in the room fought with the Free Syrian Army in Aleppo before being brought to a hospital in Syria and then transferred to this rehab center in Reyhanli.
The men are swapping stories, propped up on their beds. One has his laptop out on the bed. He can only type with one hand. His left leg and his right arm have been sliced off. The man in the bed next to his has both of his arms, but his left leg is distorted--bent and twisted under his right.