KILL ME INSTEAD! Fadia, 19, traces cracks in the walls of her rented apartment as she describes the death of her father. After returning home from his job as a construction laborer, shortly before the dawn prayer, he collapsed right away onto his bed, dusting the sheets with the debris that fell from his work clothes. Not long after, the shabiha (pro-regime militia) burst into their home and shot him, execution style, in the head. He had barely woken up. When Fadia’s little brother wailed in fear, the guns were turned on him. Fadia screamed, “Kill me instead!” Both were spared. She now lives with her aunt on the outskirts of Amman in a crowded one-bedroom apartment with fifteen extended family members. They survive by digging through trash containers and finding remnants of bread to dry and sell to herders. This earns them a couple of dollars a day.

Jordan, 2014, Seven miles to the Syrian border, view from Jordan’s highway to Ramtha, one of the most populous Syrian refugee communities.

WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME WHEN I NEEDED YOU? Jordan, 2012, "Aysha", 30, has been widowed for one year after 11 years of marriage to her husband, who was a fighter for the Free Syrian Army. Here, she shows a tattoo on her shoulder that reads, “Why did you leave me when I needed you?” The tattoo relates to a dramatic quarrel the young teens had when secretly dating – upon making up, they each had the tattoo made as a reminder of how horrible it was being apart. Aysha never imagined the tattoo would take on such a dramatically different meaning years later. Aysha, 31, has been widowed for four years after eleven years of marriage to Abu Layla, a fighter in Daraa. Here, she shows a tattoo on her shoulder that reads, “Why did you leave me when I needed you?” It relates to a dramatic quarrel the young teens had when secretly dating – upon making up, they each had the tattoo made as a reminder of how horrible it was being apart. Aysha never imagined the tattoo would take on such a dramatically different meaning years later. Aysha is one of the 654,582 registered Syrian refugees in Jordan living both in designated camps and in the cities, in whatever housing their means will allow. For the women in this chapter, who have lost their husbands to a war for a country to which they cannot return, home is now the martyrs’ wives buildings. The six-floor concrete apartment building, where we met the women photographed here, has a cloth banner imprinted with the words “martyrs’ wives” hung from its roof. The identification leaves the residents exposed and vulnerable, even when intentions are good. In the first year, men approached the apartments asking if the women were available for fun or for marriage; others asked about their daughters. To protect their young girls, many mothers forbid them from attending school after puberty, leaving their daughters trapped, day in and day out, inside rooms with windows framed by ugly curtains. Wanting to share their e

Aysha’s daughters during a heat wave, stuck in the apartment, windows yielding little breeze. After their father died, their mother was encouraged by her in-laws to remarry to lessen the financial burden on the family. Aysha’s three young daughters are not allowed to live with their mother now, but remain with their grandparents. According to a report by Save the Children, 35 percent of the 4.8 million Syrian refugees in the region are of school age. Whereas before the conflict, 94 percent of Syrians attended primary or lower secondary school, by June 2017, 43 percent of Syrian refugees are now out of school. Many of these include girls living in Jordanian cities, who upon reaching puberty, are kept at home due to fears for their safety and of sexual harassment. Any tarnishing of their reputation may hurt their chances for marriage, which remains for many, the only hope to improve their situations. The women’s fear is rooted in being outsiders in the places in which they have taken refuge. They worry that strangers from another country (not their own) will not protect their daughters; some feel outright preyed upon.

Five year old Shams displays her healing hand...she is regaining full use of her hands slowly after multiple surgeries. In her home in Homs, her three sisters were in kitchen when a missile hit a gasoline line, and everything exploded. After intensive therapy, she recently gained use of her hands after they had been “melted” together as result of the explosion.

I hope a software wipes everything away, I don’t even want to know my name. I want to forget everything. -Hala I used to be glued to the news. The sadness we carry is taking all of our energy, so I don’t watch the news or keep up with what’s happening in Syria anymore. It’s obvious as long as we are still here, this means the bombing, killing, and death have not stopped. We just pay attention to our own lives; we really can’t do more than that. Only Bollywood films and Turkish soaps to numb our brains.

ONCE HER CROWNING GLORY Poet Hala’s grandmother, 88, brushes her vibrantly dyed hair, once her crowning glory. Her son died fighting in Syria. She had advised him on his wedding night to slap his new wife once, to assert his authority. Despite that abrupt beginning, the marriage had been a happy one until his death. Her granddaughters are respectful but quietly laugh at the elderly woman’s advice about how women should live. She died one year after this photo was made, a Syrian refugee in Jordan.

Hala, 20, reenacts her (second) wedding night. She says that after the nuptials, her mother-in-law brutally beat her, claiming “her son was being too kind to her.” The abuse lasted for six days before Hala returned home. She asked for a divorce, but her husband and his family refused unless she paid back the 3,000 USD they claimed to have paid for the wedding “party” (a humble affair in her apartment), shoes, dress rental, set of gold jewelry, and preparations for her new life. Her mother had to borrow 560 USD to pay a lawyer to enforce the divorce and receive her dowry money (1,500 USD).

"I always feel like I can’t breathe. I feel it in my chest. I get tired from walking, if I shout, if I get sad, and things like that. My husband went to Europe and left us with two Jordanian dinars. Two years alone with three children and not a dime. Not allowed to work. I am done. I am going back to Syria with my children. Whatever happens, I am done." Um Asim She returned to Syria three days later with her three children. She told them, “There are trees there.” 2017