Ukraine Was my Safe Haven as a Palestinian. Then War Came

I was born in Lebanon within a family of seven. We were raised in a refugee camp called Ain al-Hilweh—one of the 12 Palestinian camps that were built in Lebanon after 1948, when hundreds of thousands of Palestinians fled from their homes.

My grandparents were raised in that camp, a community filled with child abuse, mental illnesses, and ongoing conflicts. People would often be killed, intentionally or accidentally, and we always heard gunfire, bombings, and shootings.

Growing up, we somehow got used to those sounds; it became a normal part of our lives. As a child, I never understood why people were so angry, why they would always shout or resort to violence as a means of expressing their needs.

It wasn't until I grew older that I understood those people, who left their homes thinking they would be back in days, and are still denied the right to go back—even for a visit— after 75 years, and were never taught a healthy way of expressing their pain.

In 2006, when I was 6 years old, a war erupted between Lebanon and Israel. That was the first time my family had to flee a war seeking safety.

My mother is Ukrainian, so we found refuge with my grandparents in Kyiv, where I adapted to life well. I finished my second grade with excellency—which my mom still mentions to this day—and learned the Ukrainian language really quickly.

Of course, it was very difficult for my mother, who had to raise three children on her own in Ukraine while my dad stayed in Lebanon, and she feared we would be separated from our father. So, after a year and a half, we returned to Ain al-Hilweh.

Life was still harsh in the refugee camp. For a very long time, I lived in a single room with my parents and my four siblings. During summers we would go and visit my grandparents, which was difficult.

I felt like I was living two realities; one inside the refugee camp, where houses were on top of each other and there was no space even for children to play, to Ukraine, which seemed like a totally different world.

I used to think it might be easier for the kids who had been born and stayed in the refugee camp, because they had never experienced anything else. It was a shock every time we went back to Lebanon. I remember us all crying.

As a student at a Lebanese school, I was always afraid of one thing. The question: "Where do you come from?"

When other students were worried about their grades, I worried that my reality—the reality of being a refugee—would be discovered. I was living in a single room with my whole family, people would not understand.

I was afraid of being judged and felt ashamed of the camp. I never shared with anyone where I was living or where I came from.

During my teenage years, I would study in the bathroom; we never had space in that single room, so I had to get creative. Unfortunately, even then I knew that with certain restrictions placed on Palestinian refugees in Lebanon, education may not be enough.

It wasn't until I was 15 years old that clashes erupted once again in that refugee camp. There were bombings and shootings, and our house was completely consumed by fire. We lost everything—it all burned.

While this was extremely challenging, those experiences made me and my family more resilient. They have shaped us into who we are today, and I believe that as a refugee now, whatever life throws at me or at my family, we refuse to play the role of victims.

We're always fighting back. We fight with our education, with our resilience, with our inner strength.

In 2020, an explosion in Beirut, which killed at least 200 people and injured more than 5,000, caused widespread damage and saw an economic crisis unfold. The situation became so bad that many people migrated from the country.

Our living situation was so dire that I was poisoned four times because of poor food quality. We didn't have enough fuel, electricity, or water.

My mother had recently traveled with my younger siblings to Ukraine, and was unable to get back because of the COVID-19 crisis. I remember calling her and saying: "You're not supposed to come back."

I was 22 years old at the time, and felt a huge responsibility for my younger siblings. I didn't want them growing up in a country where this was going on.

After graduating from the American University in Lebanon, where I had received a scholarship, I had been employed as a nurse at a hospital that allowed Palestinian refugees to work.

The situation became so bad that at one stage I had to sleep inside the hospital for three days because there were no taxis. I knew this was not sustainable in the long term. That was no quality of life. I decided to travel to Ukraine to join my family for a fresh start.

Once again, my siblings and I had to adapt to life in Ukraine. For them, it was a little more challenging, as they had to learn the language, but for me, finding stability was a relief.

In Lebanon, we were never allowed to own property outside of our refugee camp, but in Kyiv, we were finally able to buy our own home. I began discovering myself in Ukraine; I started building the life I had in my dreams.

Then the war came.

I could feel tension before the full-scale invasion of Ukraine began. Two weeks before the escalation, a Lebanese friend of mine, who was also living in the country, left and told me to do the same.

Around the same time I applied to work as a nurse, and was told that if I registered, I had to agree not to leave the country if war broke out. I remember asking a Ukrainian neighbor of ours whether she thought that would happen; she assured me it would not.

My family didn't want to believe that anything was going to happen. Ukraine was our safe haven—it didn't make sense. For a while we had a false hope that nothing would happen, Kyiv represented a safe space for us. We didn't think it was fair.

On the morning of February 24, 2022, my mom rushed into my room, woke me up and said: "Zoya, the war has started." At first, I was in shock, but then I heard a bomb go off, and realized it was real.

That first night we stayed in a shelter. Like other Ukrainians, we were afraid. For the next three nights, we stayed in a corridor.

It was difficult for us to decide whether we would leave, because my grandfather said he would stay behind. He was born during World War II, and told us that he was born in a war, and he would die in a war.

My aunt and my cousin stayed with him, but I only had one purpose, which was to make sure that my mom and my little siblings were in a safe place.

The train station was on the opposite side of the city, which made it difficult to leave. Of course, there were no taxis, we even called an ambulance, but they didn't answer. My mom told us to leave everything and take one backpack.

So, for the second time in my life, I put my possessions into one bag, and left my home. We started walking to the train station, which would have taken around nine hours, but God sent us a guardian angel in the form of a taxi, who was already on his way to the station.

The situation was incredibly emotional. There were many children saying goodbyes to their fathers, who were not allowed to leave. There were thousands of people, but our group of 12 managed to cram ourselves into a cabin that was meant for two.

Despite everything; having to flee our home, our history, and the fact that my mom had spent 24 years of her life in that refugee camp, she remained positive, and told us that we needed to sing.

When everyone was so trapped, anxious and terrified, we started to sing Ukrainian folk songs. The resilience we had before, here it was growing stronger and stronger.

At that moment, I knew I didn't want to become another victim. I wanted to become a warrior and a fighter.

When we reached Poland, we were housed by a Polish family for four days. Their kindness helped my strength grow; knowing there was still compassion in the world helped me to maintain a positive mindset.

Coming to Switzerland, we were hosted by a Swiss family for three months who were so compassionate and kind; they never made us feel that we were a burden, or pitied us because we were refugees.

We came to this country needing a physical space, but what they gave us was a home.

During one of our dinners with this Swiss family, their oldest daughter, Elin, told me that my story was very powerful, and suggested I share it. I came across One Young World, a global community of young activists and became an ambassador for the organization.

I come from a background of violence and war, so I wanted to challenge this reality and talk about hope. I have come across many stories of other refugees, and feel there can be so much power in sharing these traumatic experiences.

We are trying to tackle stereotypes, change policies through these stories, and celebrate the resilience of refugees. I believe the way we tell our own stories directly impacts our lives, and I refuse to see myself as a victim.

Refugees are not just numbers and statistics, we are human beings. Every refugee has a mother and father. When I was living in the camp, tourists would come and take pictures of us, assuming we were victims. That image is something I want to change.

When we talk about our pain and let our emotions out, we free ourselves from the mental prison we have within and in the process gain even more resilience. I decided to fight, not with violence, but with words.

Zoya Miari is a registered nurse and One Young World Ambassador.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

As told to Newsweek's My Turn associate editor, Monica Greep.

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