By John Davison/Reuters
BAALBEK, Lebanon – Seven-month-old Nour lives in a tarpaulin tent pitched on a muddy patch of earth in Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley. The tent, one of a dozen in a small refugee camp, contains a metal stove, a prayer mat and worn rugs on the floor. A leather jacket and a plastic mirror hang from nails hammered into its wooden beams.
Swaddled in a faded pink blanket against the cold, Nour is the first of her Syrian parents’ three children to be born as a refugee. Her family fled their native Homs at the start of Syria’s civil war. Crammed two to a seat in a bus, her parents and two older siblings traveled 70 miles into Lebanon, where Nour was born.
Now her mother and father, Asheqa and Trad, face a new challenge. They need to register Nour with a local government office in Lebanon by her first birthday in early September. A birth certificate is the crucial first step to securing Syrian citizenship. Without it, Nour could join a fast-growing generation of children who are stateless – lacking legal recognition as a citizen of any country.
UNREGISTERED: Asheqa holds her unregistered seven-month-old daughter Nour inside their tent in a refugee camp in Lebanon’s Bekaa valley. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir
But as Nour’s parents are learning, even something as simple as registering a baby’s birth is fraught with hurdles for a refugee in Lebanon.
Posted on May 16, 2016