In his music classroom, Nidal sits with his fingers delicately plucking the strings of a tamboura as he teaches a group of children to sing. The small room, filled with the sounds of melody and laughter, has become a sanctuary—a place of healing and hope, not just for the children but for Nidal himself.
“It’s been 2.5 years now,” Nidal shares, reflecting on his journey as a music teacher at a community centre in a refugee camp in Kurdistan. During this time, Nidal has encountered many children in the classroom who reminded him of his childhood —quiet, withdrawn, and searching for something to hold on to. Understanding those feelings all too well, he gives his full attention to his class, determined to offer his students the solace and strength he once sought through music.
Nidal’s life began in Damascus, Syria, where childhood dreams were interrupted by the eruption of conflict in 2011. Forced to flee with his family, Nidal sought safety in Kurdistan. The journey, however, was fraught with danger and left a profound mark on him. “I saw death with my own eyes,” he recounts, describing the gunfire-filled streets and children younger than him holding weapons. At only 11 years old, Nidal arrived in Kurdistan with his family, searching for refuge and a chance to rebuild their lives.
The family eventually found safety in Domiz one refugee camp in Kurdistan. But safety didn’t mean life became easier. Adjusting to camp life, with its new challenges and limitations, was tough for Nidal. A new environment where he had to live in a tent and didn’t have access to many services. Struggling with stress and trauma, he turned to unhealthy habits to cope.
“I wasn’t in a good mental state,” he recalls, but things slowly began to change when Nidal attended a music class at a community centre in the camp. “I tried other classes—computer skills and sports—but nothing felt right. When I sat in the music class and saw the teacher singing, I felt something shift inside me,” he says.
Inspired, Nidal decided to learn an instrument. He chose the tamboura, a traditional string instrument, and poured his energy into mastering it. It wasn’t easy on him at first, but the more he practised, the more he felt the weight of stress lifting. Music became his escape and his therapy.
Nidal’s passion for music quickly spread to his family. His father, a poet, encouraged his journey while his brothers picked up instruments of their own. “Music became a family affair,” he says with a smile.
After years of dedication, Nidal’s love for music transformed into something even more meaningful when he began teaching music at the same centre where he had once found solace. The community centre, operated by UNHCR and its partner the Lotus Flower, in collaboration with Nudem, a small community-based organization, offers projects that empower refugees to learn, grow, and work toward self-reliance while addressing their challenges. Nidal quickly became one of their most valued staff members.
For Nidal, teaching isn’t just about music—it’s about creating a safe space where children can heal and thrive. In many cases, kids stay late after class or come early. Nidal explains how he is always willing to teach them, no matter the hour, because he knows they’re trying to escape something, just like he used to.
“Sometimes, a child will come to me shy and unsure, but after a few months of learning, they’re like a different person—happier, more confident. That’s what keeps me going,” he says.
Despite the demands of teaching, Nidal hasn’t given up on his own dreams. He hopes to pursue a university education, a goal that has been delayed due to financial constraints. Nidal believes in the ripple effect of his work. “One of my students might become a famous musician someday,” he says with pride. “Even if they don’t, I know they’ll carry the lessons they’ve learned here with them for life.”
Lilly Carlisle contributed reporting to this story.
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