Omar holds a buzuq, or long-necked lute – the most important thing that he was able to bring with him to Domiz refugee camp in the Kurdistan region of Iraq. Omar decided it was time to flee his home in Damascus, the Syrian capital, the night his neighbours were murdered. “The killers came into their home, whoever they were, and savagely cut my neighbour and his two sons,” he recalls. Omar says that playing the buzuq “fills me with a sense of nostalgia and reminds me of my homeland. For a short time, it gives me some relief from my sorrows.”

After Tamara’s* home in Idlib was partially destroyed in September 2012, the family decided their best chance of safety was to reach the Syrian-Turkish border. “When we left our house, we felt the sky was raining bullets,” Tamara recalled. “We were moving from one shelter to another in order to protect ourselves.” The most important thing she was able to bring with her is her diploma, which she holds in this photo taken near their tent in Adiyaman refugee camp in Turkey. With it she will be able to continue her education in exile.

Salma*, who is at least 90 years old, wears a ring she was given by her dying mother when she was just 10 years old. Salma says her mother told her, “Keep this ring and remember me.” She intends to wear the ring to her grave. “It’s not valuable – not silver or gold – just an old ring. But it’s all that I have left.” She was photographed in Domiz refugee camp, in the Kurdistan region of Iraq, after fleeing with her three sons and their families from Qamishly City, Syria.

A doctor, Waleed works at this Médecins Sans Frontières clinic in Domiz refugee camp, in the Kurdistan region of Iraq. He holds his most valuable possession, a photograph of his wife. Although they are together, he says, “this is important because she gave me this photo back home before we were married, during the time when we were dating. It always brings me great memories and reminds me of my happiest time back home in Syria.” He fled Syria 20 days after his wife gave birth. “I left the country for the sake of my family. I don’t want to see my children grow up as orphans.”

Alia* sits in her wheelchair in Domiz refugee camp in the Kurdistan region of Iraq. She was living with her family in Daraa, Syria, when fighting forced them to flee their home. Alia, who uses a wheelchair and is blind in both eyes, says she was terrified by what was happening around her. “Men in uniforms came and killed our cow. They fought outside our house and there were many dead soldiers. I cried and cried,” she recalls. Alia says the only important thing that she brought with her “is my soul, nothing more – nothing material.” When asked about her wheelchair, she seems surprised, saying she considers it an extension of her body, not an object.

Mohamed*, who fled Hassakeh Governorate in Syria, is the imam of the only mosque in Domiz camp, in the Kurdistan region of Iraq. He holds the Koran, the most important thing that he was able to bring with him. As an imam, he says religion is the most important aspect of his life. “I love my religion, but I am not so strict in my views. I want to teach the importance of brotherhood and equality between all religions,” he says. Mohamed fled his home with his wife and six children after warnings that armed elements were searching for him.

May and her family made their way by foot and bus hundreds of kilometres from Damascus to the border, where they followed a rough trail in the cold while her mother carried her baby brother. Since arriving at Domiz refugee camp, in the Kurdistan region of Iraq, she has had recurring nightmares. The most important thing she was able to bring with her when she left home is the set of bracelets she wears in this photograph. “The bracelets aren’t my favourite things,” she says, “My doll Nancy is.” She adds that the toy was left behind in the rush to leave. After this photo was published, a young girl thousands of miles away sent May a new doll.

Ayman* says his wife, Yasmine*, 67, is the most important thing he was able to bring with him from Syria. “She’s the best woman that I’ve met in my life,” he says. “Even if I were to go back 55 years, I would choose you again.” The couple, seen here in Nizip refugee camp, in Turkey, fled their rural home near Aleppo after their neighbour and his son, a shepherd, were brutally killed. They used to cultivate olives, grapes, nuts and fruits on their land, but Ayman breaks into tears as he describes how nearby farms came under attack and homes were looted and set on fire. “It is unbelievable that any human being can do this to another.”

Yusuf* holds his mobile phone in the building where he now stays in Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley. He and his family fled their home in Damascus last year. He values his phone highly. “With this, I’m able to call my father. We’re close enough to Syria here that I can catch a signal from the Syrian towers sometimes, and then it is a local call to phone home from Lebanon.” The phone also holds photographs of family members who are still in Syria, which he is able to keep with him at all times.

Leila* holds a pair of jeans that she brought with her from Syria to Erbil in the Kurdistan region of Iraq, where she and her family found shelter. “I went shopping with my parents one day and looked for hours without finding anything I liked. But when I saw these, I knew instantly that these were perfect because they have a flower on them, and I love flowers,” she explains. Leila has only worn the jeans three times, all in Syria – twice to wedding parties and once when she went to visit her grandfather. She says she won’t wear them again until she attends another wedding, and she hopes it, too, will be in Syria. Her family fled from Deir ez-Zor in Syria after their neighbours were killed by a shell. They now live in an uninsulated, partially constructed home; there are about 30 people sharing the cold, draughty space.

Ahmed* holds his cane in Domiz refugee camp in the Kurdistan region of Iraq. Without it, he says, he could not have made the two-hour trek on foot to the Iraqi border. “All I want now is for my family to find a place where they can be safe and stay there forever. Never should we need to flee again.” Together with his wife and eight of their nine children, Ahmed fled Damascus when their home there was destroyed in an attack. Together with four other families – 50 people in all – they left in the back of an open-topped truck. One of Ahmed’s sons stayed behind and was killed in October 2012.

Abdul* holds the keys to his family’s flat in the Syrian capital. Although he doesn’t know if their building is still standing, he dreams every day of returning home. “God willing, I will see you this time next year in Damascus,” he told UNHCR staff in Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley. He and his family fled Syria shortly after his wife was wounded in the crossfire between armed groups. Abdul shares a plywood shelter, constructed by UNHCR and the Danish Refugee Council, with his wife, daughter and grandchildren.