Tripoli, Lebanon
Childhood—so often imagined as a time of pure joy, laughter, and safety. And yet, why do some of those memories feel like folded pages hiding a quiet sorrow?
This image was taken in Tripoli, Lebanon. A child stands behind rusted bars, arms raised, eyes meeting the world outside with a gaze that’s far older than their years. There’s no laughter here—only stillness, only resilience.
I look at this image and feel something stir. A memory. A question. How much have I buried from my own childhood, and why did I need to? Between moments of play, I remember that familiar sense of unease—the feeling of being in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Children don’t get to choose where they’re born or what they’re born into. Their geography, their family, their walls… all chosen for them.
Do we choose our starting point? Or are we placed at random into the stories we must live through?
Whenever I return to my homeland—or simply drift back in thought—I feel something tight and shadowy tugging at me. Like ghosts tucked into the corners of a closet, waiting to be remembered. Is it like this for everyone?
Yes, children don’t choose where or how they live. But the task set before them—before all of us—is monumental: to live through it, to emerge with a spark still intact, and then somehow… to rise. Not just holding on to hope, but phoenixing into a better life.
That, perhaps, is the most heroic part of growing up.