No money, no network, and a café instead of an office. Soon, the four teenagers would lose that too, evicted only for ordering energy drinks from morning till closing time. Undeterred, they moved to another café in Kart-e Char, a neighborhood in western Kabul, and put their heads together over business plans, dreaming their start-up empire into existence.

“We had just finished school, and we didn’t have a clue,” says Suhail Yadgari, whose entrepreneurial experience came from tips in YouTube videos. Three years later, he is the CEO of Veyaarh Holding Group, which he co-founded with Abdul Basit Amarkhail and now runs seven ventures across technology, media, and education. They include Ayen, a design company with an international client base, alongside Startup Grind Kabul and TEDxShar e Naw, where he is creating the network entrepreneurs lack in Afghanistan.

But the rapid realization of Yadgari’s dreams came at a price. Afghanistan’s start-up scene is sparse, without coworking spaces to swap ideas, incubators where early-stage business models are tested and developed, or accelerators that offer mentorship and access to crucial seed funding. “We’re a third-world country, and startups are not the focus. We have a lot of limitations,” he says.

For his ideas to succeed, Yadgari would have to create his own environment to nurture startups. “That’s the ultimate goal: a stable ecosystem in Afghanistan with successful companies inside it,” he says.

Laying the foundations for an entire sector meant long hours at his desk and little time for rest. “It has cost me time with my family and friends, a lot of sleep, and some of my health,” says Yadgari, who suffered multiple bouts of acute pancreatitis from overdosing on caffeine and stress.

Looking back on that period now, he believes he found a formula for startup success. His new book, The Bootstrapped Brand, charts the route from idea to launch, showing how founders like him can start with nothing and build from the ground up. “I wrote it for founders in emerging markets because almost every brand book assumes you have a budget, a market that works, and infrastructure you can rely on. I had none of those,” he says.

What he had instead was a growing set of skills and a first-hand insight into navigating a market with untapped potential. For Yadgari, the upside of a system that doesn’t support start-ups is the scope it offers to industrious entrepreneurs. “There are a lot of opportunities in Afghanistan that don’t exist anywhere else in the world,” he says, pointing in particular to the huge gap in online services.

Daily life in Afghanistan, even now, is distinctly analog. People visit the bazaar rather than order groceries online, while shops still use notebooks to record transactions. Buying a car or renting a house relies mostly on word of mouth, and cash is frequently the only payment option.

This poses a challenge for digital-first startups that depend on overseas clients to bolster their revenue streams. But it’s also an opportunity. “In a mature market you fight for space in a crowded category. Here the category often doesn’t exist yet,” Yadgari says.

Five years after the Taliban’s return, Afghanistan’s economy is showing signs of growth as it continues to stabilize after the sharp contraction that followed the takeover. The World Bank points to a “modest” expansion in 2025, with real GDP up by an estimated 4.8 percent. However, the recent return of millions of Afghans from neighboring countries has prompted a rapid population spike, straining the country’s fragile economic recovery. Many Afghans feel poorer amid job shortages, rising food prices, climate shocks, and declining humanitarian support.

When Yadgari was brainstorming business ideas with his friends at cafes in Kart-e Char in 2023, the picture was bleak. Government support for aspiring entrepreneurs was non-existent, and many of his classmates left to pursue their ambitions overseas.

Friends in Europe and America urged him to join them, but Yadgari felt compelled to stay and build the infrastructure Afghanistan lacked. He knew he would be starting with nothing. “In most countries, a young founder can find an accelerator, a mentor, an investor, or at least a community of people building the same way. Here that layer barely exists.”

In his book, Yadgari shows how he built businesses with no money or network using free tools and self-marketing. “My advice is to build channels you own first and never make paid ads the foundation, because paid reach stops the moment the money does.”

Start-up capital, he believes, needs to be self-generated in Afghanistan, hence the title of his book The Bootstrapped Brand. “In Silicon Valley, it’s a choice to go bootstrap, but in Afghanistan it’s a must,” says Yadgari, who funded the launch of Ayen Creative Agency through freelance design projects.

Now profitable, the company draws on its international client base to generate revenue from development and design services, some of which it can channel into the group’s other ventures. Each adds another layer to the entrepreneurial landscape that Yadgari is cultivating.

Foundr OS, intended to be Afghanistan’s first start-up operating system, offers a 12-week training program for 50 to 80 founders, at least half of whom will be women. This is produced in partnership with two other Veyaarh ventures, Zdakara, an e-learning platform, and TEDxShar e Naw, which hosts inspirational talks and networking events.

Yadgari remembers the moment he secured the license to run TED talks in Afghanistan. “I applied on the off-chance. I didn’t think I would get it.” He was in the shower when the email came through. Initial excitement gave way to trepidation as he confronted familiar problems. There was no network to make up the guest list, no money, and sponsors were in short supply.

Once again, he drew on bootstrapping principles, paying $2,000 out of pocket and relying on word of mouth to put on the first event. “There were a lot of hiccups, but once I saw people talking and networking, I realized what a big thing this was for Afghanistan.”

Women in particular, denied the chance to study and work in most sectors under Taliban rule, have found a rare space to participate in the start-up community. A tenfold increase in the number of Afghan women holding official business licenses over the past five years shows that many are turning to entrepreneurship when they are barred from work elsewhere. Others are working remotely, finding ways to continue their careers from home.

Five years after the Taliban seized power, women make up just five percent of workers in the country, down from 16.5 percent in 2020. A recent report by the International Labor Organization described it as the second-lowest female labor force participation rate in the world, after Yemen, warning that losing women from the workforce risks undermining the country’s economic resilience by limiting its productive capacity.

Yadgari worries about the long-term impact if women continue to be excluded. His female employees work from home, but many private companies avoid hiring women altogether. “Afghanistan is losing a lot of its best talent,” he says.

The ecosystem Yadgari is building could also create more routes for Afghan women to participate in the economy and create sustainable sources of income across sectors, including technology.

However, the rise in female entrepreneurship is not necessarily a sign of opportunities opening up. A recent UNDP report described many of these businesses as a last resort. “It’s what’s left after the other doors closed. Women who wanted to be engineers or lawyers are weaving carpets and making soap because that’s the path still permitted,” said Doel Mukerjee, Deputy Resident Representative, UNDP Afghanistan.

Entrepreneurs like Yadgari are seeking to change this by creating pathways for Afghan women to participate in the wider economy. Not just in arts and crafts, but tech, online education, and other rapidly evolving spaces where the potential for innovation is huge. “People assume that because we are a developing country under the Taliban, we must live and work like cavemen. The reality is very different. Afghanistan has gone through a real digital shift in the past few years, and it is speeding up,” he says.

Just three years ago, Yadgari was moving from café to café, dreaming up businesses that hardly had a place in Afghanistan’s economy. Now he is showing other entrepreneurs how to build from scratch in a country where venture capital and co-working spaces are scarce. “What it has given me back is a set of skills no course could have taught me,” he says. “I learned them by building, failing, and fixing things in real time, in a place where there is no playbook to follow.”

The multiple sclerosis (MS) diagnosis came as Nesrine Abdellatif was completing her undergraduate degree in fine chemistry. By cruel coincidence, her final-year thesis focused on validating a dosage technique for interferon beta-1a, a treatment used for the disease, which can cause extreme fatigue, coordination issues, and muscle spasms, among other symptoms. Now Abdellatif was experiencing it firsthand.

“It was a deep shock, all the more so because the treatment, which I followed for a year, didn’t work for me,” she says. Months of agonizing muscle pain and other side effects made it difficult to focus on her studies, and she feared the future she had planned was slipping away.

But her doctor refused to switch medications, warning that she risked losing mobility if she changed treatments. Determined to reclaim her life, she stopped anyway. The pain eased, and she completed her master’s degree in industrial chemistry, graduating in 2019.

Armed with academic qualifications, Abdellatif revived her dream of building a cosmetics company that harnesses the healing power of local plants. Convinced that the country’s flora and fauna harbor untapped potential, she planned to create a homegrown brand uniting the wisdom of traditional remedies with rigorous scientific research.

“Tunisia has an asset that many people underestimate,” she says, pointing to the country’s rich biodiversity, backed by a long tradition of distillation and extraction. While some species, including neroli and Damask rose, are sought after by beauty brands worldwide, Abdellatif believes many of the country’s best skincare secrets remain undisclosed.

Lentisk is a small evergreen tree or shrub that thrives in dry, rocky conditions. Its berries have been used for generations in traditional Mediterranean medicine, cold-pressed into an oil that soothes inflamed skin. But despite its remarkable healing properties, Lentisk remains little known overseas. “That’s exactly the kind of ingredient I want to introduce as more than a local curiosity,” she says.

Prickly pear seeds, meanwhile, produce an extremely valuable oil that’s highly prized locally for its antioxidant and moisturizing qualities. The prickly pear cactus is widely grown across Tunisia, but a lack of evidence-backed research on its oil in skincare dampens demand abroad.

“My ambition is to valorize these ingredients through scientific research, so they’re recognized for proven efficacy, not just history. I’m convinced the next generation of iconic natural cosmetics ingredients can come from Tunisia,” Abdellatif says.

But health issues once again pushed her dreams out of reach. In 2021, the COVID-19 crisis struck, and she found herself working as a cashier in a local supermarket. Then her mother was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer, and Abdellatif nursed her through illness while supporting the rest of the family, including her younger brother, who has an intellectual disability. “I felt caught in a tangle of hardship and responsibility,” she says.

At the same time, she quietly questioned some of the skincare products they used daily. “I asked myself why certain controversial ingredients, like endocrine disruptors, were still so widely used,” she says. “I don’t claim that cosmetics caused these illnesses, but these experiences made me deeply aware of the importance of making safer, more transparent, and more health-conscious choices.”

In April 2022, she experienced another MS flare-up and was referred to a different neurologist. This time, a change in treatment allowed her to regain her health after a few months. But now, her outlook on the beauty industry had changed. It was not enough to incorporate Tunisian plants into skincare products; the entire formula needed to reflect her belief that “beauty should never come at the expense of health.”

She spent the next two and a half years carving out a new direction for the cosmetics farm she dreamed of as a student. In October 2024, she was ready to launch. Abdellatif’s cosmetics brand, BiotyNess, would draw on her scientific background to subvert standard skincare production. “You never start from the aesthetic result and work backward to the formula. You start from the raw material.”

Two years later, BiotyNess offers 25 products that harness plants native to the Tunisian countryside. Some of the ingredients, like Damask rose and neroli, are familiar, while prickly pear seed oil and rosemary are less widely known, but all are subject to her rigorous research.

This involves digging into the composition of potential ingredients, examining their stability and testing their behavior before making a final selection. The choice is methodical rather than aesthetic, with the same scrutiny applied to the distillation, extraction, and formulation of the final product. “That scientific discipline applied to Tunisian terroir is, I believe, what sets our approach apart,” Abdellatif says.

Her ambition goes beyond cutting potentially harmful chemicals out of cosmetics. She wants to help build a transparent, conscious local industry where consumers understand the products they put on their skin and know where the ingredients come from. “To me, taking care of your skin is also taking care of yourself,” she adds.

She also believes customers deserve proof that natural products are not just marketing claims. Her plan to provide digital traceability for BiotyNess products means that a quick scan will reveal an ingredient’s origin, qualities, and journey from harvesting to production. “My role as an engineer, ultimately, is to turn an internal scientific standard into a transparency the consumer can verify for themselves,” she says.

It’s not only about visibility for customers. She wants the world to know that celebrated natural ingredients come from Tunisia. More than that, she intends to support the growth of a local industry that harnesses Tunisia’s botanical riches at home, rather than building brands abroad. Ingredients like prickly pear seed oils, cultivated here for generations, are sold cheaply to international buyers before foreign brands reformulate them and sell them at a significant markup.

This is the gap Abdellatif aims to close, ensuring the benefits and recognition of these precious natural resources stay rooted in Tunisia. “I deeply believe these ingredients deserve recognition not because they’re ‘exotic,’ but because they’re rigorously documented, characterized, and built into formulations with the same standards as any international cosmetic active,” she says.

It’s also a way to keep the value chain in the country, support local job creation, and build expertise across the sector while reducing Tunisia’s dependence on imported products. “If more Tunisian companies adopted this kind of vertical integration, it would fundamentally shift Tunisia’s position in the global natural cosmetics market,” Abdellatif adds.

Forging this path as a small start-up has not been easy. Rather than building her brand in a logical order, from cultivation to finished product, she was forced to start in the middle. After her initial loan application was rejected, Abdellatif began lab work with her own funds, using ready-made vegetable oils and hydrosols. Only later was she able to circle back and start plantations, gradually developing distillation and cold-press extraction facilities to create her plant-to-product cycle.

“That approach taught me that you can move forward with method even when you don’t start in the ideal order,” she says. It’s a realization she hopes to pass on to other entrepreneurs, particularly women who often face additional challenges to launch their own business in Tunisia. Her advice is never to wait for perfect conditions to get going.

“It’s not a path you choose for ease, but opportunity exists too,” she says, pointing to programs like GreenUp 2.0, run by GIZ, and the Tunisia Association of Women Entrepreneurs, which provided access to a network of support.

After an arduous journey beset by health challenges and financial setbacks, what strikes Abdellatif looking back is how rapidly her company has grown. Six months after launching, Bioytness was accepted into the 41st edition of the International Fair of Creation and Craftsmanship, and within a year the company signed its first B2B partnership with AKWEL, as part of Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

“That was a meaningful milestone: seeing a company choose to partner with BiotyNess to support a cause, not just to sell a product, confirmed that the brand carries meaning beyond the product itself, she says.

More milestones followed, including their first point of sale in a pharmacy and welcoming their first intern. “It means BiotyNess is starting to pass things on.”

Opening the door for other Tunisian women feels significant. Abdellatif knows how difficult it can be to balance family responsibilities with the challenges of launching a business. Her personal experience has been harder than most, but over time it has become a source of motivation on difficult days at work. “Once you’ve survived a diagnosis, a treatment that didn’t work, and a parent’s illness, a loan rejection or an administrative delay just doesn’t weigh the same anymore.”

Financial challenges continue to complicate day-to-day operations, but she remains steadfast in her goal to build a Tunisian brand that blends science with nature to align cosmetic beauty products with better health. “That level of standard isn’t something I improvise,” she says. “It comes directly from my own journey, from what I lived through and came to understand about what our skin actually absorbs.”

Two photographs capture the ethos of Osama Al Maqdoni’s photojournalism. Neither tells the whole story.

The first was taken during the October 2019 protests in Baghdad, when thousands of young people filled the streets daily to demand reform. Courage mingled with desperation in the scenes he photographed around Tahrir Square, where protesters celebrated their solidarity and lit candles for the dead amid a police crackdown that killed hundreds and wounded thousands more.

One image in particular stands out. It shows unarmed youth crowded onto a concrete barrier at the frontline separating security forces and protesters. The sky in the background is filled with smoke from tear gas canisters, but a young man still stands above the crowd, raising the Iraqi flag high over his head. Another sits on the shoulders of a friend, arms outstretched, capturing the hope and defiance of the country’s largest popular uprising since 2003. But this image only tells half the story. Moments later, more tear gas filled the street, and the menacing rattle of live ammunition sounded nearby, puncturing the momentum of the scene.

For Al Maqdoni, what happened outside the frame mattered just as much, completing the story behind the protests. “That photograph represents the contradiction that has shaped Iraq since 2003: a country blessed with enormous oil wealth and vast financial resources, yet one where millions of people continue to face unemployment, poverty, and limited opportunities,” he says.

These tensions have long provided a focus for Al Maqdoni’s lens. In a country where wars dominate headlines, he balances breaking news with humdrum reality, showing everyday life alongside dramatic events. His reporting has taken him to the forefront of conflicts and protests in Syria, Lebanon, and Iraq for outlets including the BBC, Anadolu Agency, AFP, and Getty Images. But his photographs also show people going to work, children playing in the street, families striving to maintain normality, and people living in poverty, finding ways to survive.

“I document conflict because it is an important part of reality, but I also strive to capture the quiet moments of everyday life. For me, journalism is not only about recording tragedy—it is also about showing that life continues, even under the most difficult circumstances,” he says.

Al Maqdoni intentionally chooses not to document some moments. In 2015, he was on assignment north of Aleppo, where thousands of civilians were fleeing the fighting. Humanitarian assistance was sparse, and people had to fend for themselves in cold, muddy conditions. From a rooftop, he watched a truck carrying emergency food donated by a private benefactor rumble towards the crowd.

Within moments, hundreds of people rushed forward, struggling to secure a share. “It was the kind of image that could easily become a major front-page photograph, powerfully illustrating the scale of suffering,” he says. Even so, he chose not to take the shot. “I felt that such an image, on its own, risked stripping people of their dignity and reducing them to a moment of desperation rather than telling the full story of the humanitarian failure surrounding them.”

In a 10-year photojournalism career, Al Maqdoni has photographed some of the decade’s defining events, but knowing when not to press the shutter carries equal weight. “My purpose is never to create sensationalist images. I avoid exploiting pain and moments of vulnerability,” he says.

Covering the impact of conflict on communities means he photographs people who have suffered severe trauma. Documenting these accounts is a crucial step towards holding the perpetrators of war crimes and abuse to account, but the stories he encounters are often harrowing.

For the Yazidi women who survived ISIS, the wait for justice continues more than a decade on. Producing a documentary about their ordeal brought Al Maqdoni face to face with details of the brutality they endured in captivity. “Some stories stay with you long after the assignment has ended,” he says.

In these moments, the human connection is vital, says Al Maqdoni, who faced similar challenges working on a documentary about female victims of domestic violence. “A photojournalist’s responsibility extends beyond documenting events. It also includes protecting the dignity, privacy, and safety of the people who place their trust in us during the most difficult moments of their lives,” he says.

It helps that Al Maqdoni is effortlessly friendly, with a warm smile that puts his subjects at ease. Traveling widely across Iraq, he engages with people of all backgrounds and understands different perspectives across the country’s many religious and cultural communities.

“I usually begin with simple, genuine conversations to break the ice and create a comfortable atmosphere before ever raising my camera,” he says. “Authenticity is everything. If you are humble, honest, and treat people with respect, they are far more likely to open their lives to you and allow you to tell their stories in a meaningful way.”

For personal accounts, he uses a 35mm lens because it balances the subject with the surrounding environment, making it ideal for storytelling. His camera, a Sony a7R IV, is popular with photojournalists, who prize strong low-light performance and fast shooting speed—features that matter in unpredictable, fast-moving situations.

Al Maqdoni bought his first Fujifilm camera at age 22 after working construction jobs to save up. His fascination with photography grew in quiet moments spent leafing through old newspapers and archival materials in his parents’ house. The youngest of eight siblings, he filled countless hours pouring over images of the Lebanese Civil War, the First Gulf War, the Soviet-Afghan War, and the Iran-Iraq War.

Studying these pictures prompted him to consider the role of photography in conflict zones. The U.S invasion of Iraq in 2003 confirmed his ambition to become a visual storyteller. He spent the next 10 years developing his technical abilities and learning how to tell stories through a camera lens. But when ISIS launched a major offensive across Iraq in 2014, Al Maqdoni found himself trapped between Mosul and his hometown Al-Dhuluiya.

Forced to flee, he sold his camera and left Iraq. He spent several months living on the streets of Istanbul, sleeping in public parks before a friend found him a job in the humanitarian sector. For the next three years, he worked with refugees and documented the impact of conflict on people inside Syria as millions were forced to flee their homes.

He returned to Iraq in 2017 and continued taking pictures alongside communications work with UN agencies before becoming a photojournalist full-time in 2023.

The logistical and security challenges faced by journalists in Iraq are magnified for freelancers. Each assignment requires a risk assessment, though growing up surrounded by conflict, Al Maqdoni is rarely daunted by commissions. He is used to verbal attacks or threats when covering an event for international media. “Most people do not understand that a journalist’s role is to inform and report, not to persuade,” he says.

Careful planning is crucial to secure the necessary permits and identify areas to avoid, but preparation only takes him so far. His job often relies on the ability to adapt to rapidly changing circumstances in the field. “Every assignment requires balancing the responsibility of documenting the truth with the need to protect both yourself and the people whose stories you are telling,” he says.

These lines often blur in unpredictable settings. Covering conflict zones across Syria between 2014 and 2018, Al Maqdoni found himself drawn away from work to assist displaced families and help wounded citizens before rushing back to document unfolding events.

“In those environments, the greatest challenge was simply staying alive while carrying out your job, but there was another challenge that was equally difficult: balancing my professional responsibility as a photojournalist with my human instinct to help people,” he says.

In 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic would push this tension to the limit. Covering the outbreak in hospitals, he watched the virus devastate families and claim the lives of friends and colleagues. The work was “emotionally exhausting.” Simply waking up to find himself free of infection in the morning felt like a blessing.

Seeing people suffer up close, whether in hospitals, refugee camps, or communities ravaged by war, is among the most difficult aspects of Al Maqdoni’s work. But it’s also what compels him to overcome formidable barriers in an oppressive media environment. Legal threats, intimidation, arbitrary arrest, detention, violence, and assassination are real risks for journalists in Iraq, which scored 162 out of 180 countries on the Reporters Without Borders Press Freedom Index this year.

But in those fraught, messy moments, amid the clamor of protests or the muddy chaos of an informal refugee camp, the dangers melt away. Covering the fall of Bashar Al-Assad’s regime in Syria, Al Maqdoni found himself entering the prisons and intelligence facilities that represented nearly 50 years of repression under Assad rule. “It reminded me that no political authority lasts forever,” he says.

In these moments, he is documenting history, creating a visual record of the human stories that can easily disappear when the headlines move on. “Governments change, leaders leave, but people endure. That experience reinforced my belief that societies ultimately shape their own future,” he says.

Al Maqdoni’s work in Syria attracted the attention of international media organizations, marking a turning point in his career. He is looking ahead to new collaborations, but his lens always swings back to Iraq, where everyday life shows another side to the country so often sensationalized by the press.

These are the photographs Al Maqdoni is most proud of, scenes that challenge tattered stereotypes of war-torn Iraq through city streets that bustle with life, rural villages where traditions have weathered centuries, mountain forests swathed in greenery and historical sites that date back to the first civilizations. “Many people who have seen my work have told me that it changed their perception of Iraq,” he says.

For Al Maqdoni, the essence of Iraq is not protesters raising their flags in defiance or refugee camps covering the hillsides of Kurdistan. His Iraq is captured in a simple street scene that reflects the realities of daily life in Baghdad, Mosul, or Basra. It’s where vendors sell their wares, children play outside, friends meet in cafes, and families share picnics on the riverbanks. “This image captures the real Iraq—the pain and the hope,” he says.

In the entrance hall of the Egyptian Museum, a large screen takes viewers behind the scenes, where conservators are hard at work. Eid Mertah smiles when he sees the crowd gathered. “They watch the film, then go into the galleries to search for the object. It makes me feel happy and relieved to see people appreciating the work you have done for them and future generations,” he says.

Their enthusiasm reminds Mertah of his first visit to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. It was a school trip that would shape the course of his career. Peering into glass cabinets housing treasures from the tombs of pharaohs, he found himself captivated by golden antiquities that glinted with secrets from a distant age. He longed to get closer—to touch and hold them so he could better understand the stories they carried.

That opportunity arrived sooner than expected. In 2015, a few years after qualifying as a conservator, Mertah was chosen to participate in the conservation of the golden funerary mask of Tutankhamun, widely recognized as a masterpiece of Egyptian art. “It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience that will never come again. I started with my career highlight,” he says.

Now a conservator of archaeological materials at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, Mertah, 36, has worked with hundreds of antiquities, including many from the tomb of Tutankhamun, the third-to-last pharaoh of Egypt’s 18th Dynasty. His career has taken him to archaeological sites across the country and exhibitions around the world, where he has restored objects ranging from painted wooden coffins and gilded shrines to bronze statues of Osiris and delicate papyrus scrolls. Each object presents its own challenges, but the guiding principle remains the same: work slowly and document every decision. “There is no space for mistakes,” he says.

The past decade has seen rapid advances in conservation methods, revealing hidden information in pieces after decades on display. Mertah is most proud of his work on Osiris statues from the first millennium BC.

Modern techniques, including portable X-ray fluorescence (pXRF) for elemental analysis and microscopy for surface examination, revealed traces of Egyptian blue, gold leaf, glass, and Lapiz Lazuli. After removing a thick crust of dirt, he uncovered facial features and decorative details from the statues, which were often given as offerings to the Egyptian god of the dead to secure a person’s passage to the afterlife.

A rush of excitement accompanies these discoveries. “You feel relieved when you bring something new for the audience and the object,” Mertah says. Working on priceless antiquities is a huge responsibility, but “you need to trust yourself.”

Mertah proceeds like a doctor, operating under the oath to ‘do no harm.’ He begins with a thorough analysis to determine the treatment direction. Everything from the object’s original condition to the methods and materials used must be meticulously mapped to provide a permanent scientific record for future research.

These days, conservators rarely make mistakes, but older methods have caused long-term damage. When papyrus scrolls were unearthed at burial sites in recent years, Mertah was able to restore those in good condition and stabilize pieces affected by insect and biological damage.

Environmental impacts are unavoidable, but many papyri found in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were severely degraded by acidity in the glue and cardboard supports used to display them. Fixing clumsy conservation work is time-consuming and “very frustrating,” Mertah says.

In the past, pieces were routinely scraped for samples, a practice that’s all but banned today as non-invasive modern technologies help secure the future of ancient treasures. Non-destructive techniques like multi-spectral imaging and portable X-ray fluorescence (pXRF) allow conservators to visualize microscopic details and identify an object’s composition.

The conservator’s aim is to preserve the object in its original form, but sometimes intervention is necessary to prevent further decay or fix previous errors. “It’s easier to deal with an object that has never been touched than to intervene when it has already been restored,” Mertah says.

New discoveries often emerge when pieces travel abroad. Mertah frequently collaborates on international exhibitions, which involves the often-overlooked but deeply delicate work of transporting collections overseas.

Packing ancient artifacts takes a team of specialists who carefully dismantle the objects and reassemble them on the other side. “We start with the easiest,” says Mertah. “We don’t always know what we’re going to find.”

This work taps into an internal dilemma for conservators. Alongside a duty to protect and preserve is the need to share ancient artifacts with the world. But public interest is secondary for Mertah. “You always care for the object before anything,” he says.

That’s why he supported the decision to move the Tutankhamun collection to a new facility in Giza. “It’s better for the objects—conditions at the new museum are of the highest standard.”

The Grand Egyptian Museum is the world’s largest archaeological facility for a single civilization. At its launch last November, the Tutankhamun collection was prominently positioned with the golden mask, throne, chariots, sarcophagus, and jewelry presented through a thematic and chronological narrative that guides visitors through the king’s life, death, and burial assemblage.

The presentation aims to evoke, as closely as possible, the original spatial arrangement of the objects, as they were when British Egyptologist Howard Carter discovered Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1922. At the time, more than 5,000 artifacts were brought to light, but only now is the complete collection on public display.

Watching the collection leave the Egyptian Museum, where it has been housed since Carter’s men transported it from the site in Luxor, was a poignant moment for Mertah, but other treasures still keep him occupied.

Despite re-homing many of its pieces to other institutions, the old museum still holds the world’s largest collection of Egyptian antiquities. The building is a piece of history in its own right, dating back to 1902, when it became the first purpose-built national museum in the Middle East. “We call it the mother of all the museums because every museum in Egypt has objects from here,” Mertah says.

Plans are underway to rearrange displays. “Now we focus on developing the Egyptian Museum to say it still exists. We still have the biggest collection of Egyptian art in the world, and we are trying to present it to the public in the right way,” Mertah says. Walking through these halls, he remembers his 12-year-old self gazing in wonder at relics from the boy king’s rule. Tutankhamun was just eight or nine when he ascended the throne. For the young Mertah, he was “a star” whose civilization achieved extraordinary feats. Now, as an adult, he is still trying to get closer to the ancient Egyptians, preserving artifacts that have survived for millennia so humanity can learn more about the fascinating people behind them.

One year after our last interview, Safaa Odah still lives in a tent in Al-Mawasi, the Khan Younis area of southern Gaza. It is from here that the Palestinian cartoonist continues to draw. Despite the ceasefire and hope that the end is near, she often hears gunfire, with military operations encroaching closer and closer to her makeshift home.

“Summer has made life even more difficult,” Safaa tells Middle East Uncovered, “tents are not designed to protect people from extreme heat, so even the simplest daily activities have become exhausting. Military operations have moved closer to us, and now we hear gunfire much more often. We live with constant anxiety, never knowing what might happen from one moment to the next.”

Odah, born in Rafah in 1984, is a cartoonist and animation artist with a master’s degree in psychology. Before the war, her work consisted of drawings and animated images that explored the relationship between art, society, and mental health. But since October 7, 2023, her life changed dramatically. Like hundreds of thousands of Palestinians in the Strip, she was forced to leave her home and move several times, searching for safety.

Her house in Rafah, now largely depopulated, was destroyed. “A home is not simply a place to live,” she explained. “It is our homeland, our parents’ sacrifice, our memories.” After multiple displacements, the tent in Al-Mawasi is now her new home. But it has also became her art studio. For a while, Odah drew on the sides of her tent because paper was impossible to come by.

Odah’s story has attracted international attention. “At the beginning of the war, when I ran out of paper, I drew on the sides of the tent because they were the only surface available to me,” she said, “later, I returned to drawing with pen on paper. For now, I am temporarily working on a computer, waiting until I can have a dedicated drawing device that will allow me to work more effectively and return to my usual artistic process.”

She turned the tent into a canvas, drawing the war as she experienced it. While much of her work depicts destruction, hunger, and displacement, it’s important to her to also showcase the ordinary acts of care and routine that continue around her.

Through Instagram, where she has nearly 45,000 followers, Odah publishes her cartoons in real time, using the social network as a visual diary of sorts. Her style is immediately recognizable by the essential lines, black-and-white drawings with blue shading, and simple images that convey complex emotions.

The collection “Safaa and the Tent,” published in English and later released in Italy under the title “Safaa e la Tenda” by Fandango Libri, brings together all of her drawings from 2023 to 2025. It has since become one of the most significant artistic testimonies of the war.

In 2025, Odah received the Special Award from the Lakes International Comic Art Festival. Her work has been praised by Joe Sacco, a cartoonist, journalist, and author of Palestine, who described her images as among the most powerful works to come out of Gaza during this period.

Her pieces have made their way to Italy thanks to the exhibition “Al di là del mare. Palestina Italia” (Beyond the Sea. Palestine Italy), born of the artistic dialogue between Odah and the Italian cartoonist Pat Carra. The exhibition, dedicated to the relationship between two united by their shared language of comics and ability to portray the present, is currently on display in Lecce and Rome as part of the Bande de Femmes festival and will continue in Modena in September.

For Odah, who cannot leave Gaza, seeing her drawings exhibited so far from the Strip allows her to travel, in a way. “It means a great deal to me because, although I am still in Gaza, my drawings have managed to travel where I cannot,” she says, “through these exhibitions, I feel that my voice and the stories of the people here are reaching a very distant audience.”

Her hope is that the public will not stop at images of war alone. “I hope visitors will see more than images of the conflict. I would like them to understand the humanity behind every drawing: the dreams, the fears, the resilience, and the daily lives of ordinary people. If someone understands that the people of Gaza are not just numbers in the news, but human beings with hopes and stories, then my work has achieved its purpose.”

For Odah, comics do more than tell stories. They document history as it unfolds, capturing the human element other forms of media cannot. “A news report tells you what happened, but a drawing can show you how it felt,” she says. “I do not draw to replace journalism, but to add the human dimension that is sometimes missing from the news.”

Each of her cartoons is a reflection of something she has experienced directly. “I am not drawing as an outside observer. I am part of the story myself. Sometimes it is painful to transform these experiences into art, but I feel responsible for continuing.”

The lack of materials, limited electricity, the summer heat inside the tent, and the sound of gunfire make even the creative process tough. “The challenges I face are both practical and emotional. Finding drawing materials is still difficult, and there is no proper place to work. At the same time, the uncertainty of every day makes it hard to concentrate.” There are efforts underway to help her leave Gaza, but the process is slow and uncertain.

When the war ends, Odah dreams of returning to more ambitious projects. “I would like to create a graphic novel. I also dream of making an animated film. There are many stories waiting to be told.”

Outside her tent, the gunfire is still too close. Inside, Safaa Odah keeps drawing, documenting a place, a people, and a life that war has already changed beyond recognition.

Hasan Al-Habib was supposed to be in Iraq in April. It would have been only his second visit to the country where much of his family history is rooted. But at that point the war was still raging between Iran, Israel, and the United States, drawing in the wider Middle East, including Iraq.

Al-Habib’s plans, naturally, were put on hold.

For the British comedian, the distance between his place of birth and Iraq has been a source of fascination, frustration and, at times, envy. As a child, he watched his South Asian classmates head off to weddings on weekends and wondered what it would be like to have that kind of family life nearby.

“I remember feeling jealous when they would complain, ‘I’ve got a big family, I’ve got to go to a wedding in such a place’, and I thought, ‘I can’t do that because they’re all in Iraq’,” he tells Middle East Uncovered.

Al-Habib is speaking from his hotel room in Edinburgh, where he will be performing his latest show “Stuck in the Middle (East) with You” at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe—the world’s largest performing arts festival—throughout August.

Even in Scotland, Iraq is difficult to escape. Al-Habib is wearing a bright green Iraqi football jersey, and we briefly discuss the national team’s performance at this year’s World Cup.

His connection to the country has always been mediated by family. When he was 16, his grandmother visited the UK. He credits her with the Arabic that he knows.

“My parents would speak to us in Arabic, and I would reply in English. My listening is decent, but my speaking isn’t as good,” he says. “My grandmother came over, and she didn’t speak any English. So all the Arabic I speak is thanks to her.”

Al-Habib was born in London and is the eldest of three children of Iraqi parents. His dad, who had a PhD in engineering, was from Baghdad and his mum, a medical doctor, was from Najaf.

The family moved near Birmingham, in the West Midlands, when he was two.

His first visit to Iraq was in 2016, to bury his uncle Amer in Wadi-us-Salaam, in the holy city of Najaf. For Al-Habib it was more than just a physical journey.

“It was amazing,” he says. “I felt like a part of my soul was unlocked, something I’d never felt while in the UK.”

However, while he enjoyed meeting extended family members, the trip for him also cemented just how British he truly was.

“I realized the UK is home. English is my first language,” he says.

That complicated relationship with family and sense of belonging runs through his comedy, including in his latest show. Al-Habib’s skits are normally self-deprecating, littered with anecdotes about everyday racism or anti-Muslim prejudice. He often jokes about once trying (unsuccessfully) to pass off as white British to fit in.

In his current show, however, he will tackle something considerably more painful—the abuse he says he suffered from his mother.

Their relationship, he says, has always been difficult. For a long time, he “didn’t tell anyone what was happening. One, because I was ashamed, and two, I thought, ‘What are you going to do about it?’” he says.

Living in that environment, “it’s easy to be gaslit,” he continues. “You’re told ‘this is not happening’, and ‘what you did was bad’. I’m a 32-year-old financially independent man. I’m not the kind of person you would think would be a victim.”

Having got out of the situation with his mother only months ago, it’s clearly still raw for Al-Habib. There are longer silences between his words, and fewer smiles and jokes.

Asked for more details about what he experienced, he starts and stops several times before saying, “It’s complicated.”

But in a strange way, discussing the emotional subject in front of countless strangers is cathartic in a way that therapy might not be.

“It feels like the audience is with you. Sometimes that’s enough,” he says.

Al-Habib’s life has been full of trials and tribulations. His parents got divorced when he was still in elementary school.

“I don’t remember them ever being happy,” he admits.

Being the “conduit” between two adults who would refuse to speak to each other also put a lot of pressure on him, even on his own relationships in later life.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of having children with someone and then splitting up. I didn’t want [the children] to go through what I did.”

For a while he lived with his dad. “I have nothing but huge admiration for him,” he says. “We grew up with a single dad. I have a better relationship with him now.”

His difficulties at home were compounded by the bullying he encountered at school. It was just after 9/11, and he was the only Arab in a class full of white children.

“I got into comedy because I realized if I was being funny, if I made people laugh, they couldn’t make fun of me—especially if I made fun of myself first,” he says.

Al-Habib began doing stand-up shows as a university student—he studied biochemistry at Imperial College London and completed a PhD in oncology at Cambridge University.

He laughs as he recalls his first live show in London. “I was terrible! But I got through it, because I was less terrible than everyone else and I was confident,” he says. “I delivered bad jokes terribly.”

He includes Sacha Baron Cohen, John Stewart, and Dave Chappelle among his comedy icons.

Al-Habib realized soon enough that his background could prove to be an advantage in comedy.

“Being Arab and Muslim growing up in Birmingham was rare, and it gave me a different perspective,” he explains. “An audience is more forgiving if you tell a bad joke, but if it’s something they’ve never heard before.”

Since then, Al-Habib’s career has been on an upward trajectory. His sketches have chalked up over 20 million views on social media, and he has appeared on multiple comedy shows on British television and radio.

His solo debut in 2025, “Death To The West (Midlands),” sold out its entire run and received nominations for Best Debut at the Leicester Comedy Festival Awards

It’s not just comedy that plays a huge role in his life. Al-Habib is also a practicing Muslim. Earlier this year he appeared on the new series of “Pilgrimage,” a popular factual show on the BBC, where seven celebrities of different faiths (or none) walk along a religious route.

“The show was fantastic; it was a unique experience. I wish more people could take part,” he says.

The program also gave him the opportunity to visit a synagogue for the first time, alongside fellow participant Ashley Blaker—also a comedian—who was previously an ultra-Orthodox Jew.

Al-Habib was also allowed to pray inside, something he described as a “privilege.”

“I’ve never been to a synagogue before; I’ve always wanted to go,” he says. “It was a unique introduction into Jewish belief. Ashley had different views to the people inside; you get that in every faith. There are big splits in Islam as well, which have caused so many deaths and fights.”

The show also caused him to reflect on his faith while he was a student. Al-Habib recalls the Muslim students who would regularly go out drinking, but a conversation with one of them made him realize that he had judged him without knowing about his inner turmoil.

“You can’t judge people, especially if they’re having deep psychological issues,” he says. “They might drink alcohol, but they might be dedicated in other aspects of their faith.”

Like many successful comedians before him, Hasan Al–Habib has spent much of his career turning difficult experiences into jokes, often making himself the punchline before anyone else can. His latest show at the Edinburgh Fringe takes that instinct into more uncomfortable territory, but the aim remains the same—finding humor in pain.

Had the world looked away, Iran’s Baháʼí community might no longer exist. That’s the warning from Bani Dugal, the Baháʼí International Community’s representative to the United Nations.

She argues that sustained international attention has prevented the Islamic Republic from carrying out what could have amounted to the eradication of the country’s largest non-Muslim minority.

“The government could have eliminated the Baháʼís through brutal means, which they are known to use,” Dugal tells Middle East Uncovered. “But I think it’s the international condemnation and the spotlight that’s shone on them, by these resolutions and other actions and statements by governments, that has prevented them from doing so.”

While global attention focuses on wars and bloodshed across the Middle East, another decades-long struggle has continued, largely unnoticed: the persecution of the Baháʼís.

The largest unrecognized religious minority in Iran, Baháʼís have been the target of harsh, state-backed repression since their religion was established in the 19th century. After the 1979 Islamic Revolution, Iranian authorities executed or forcibly disappeared hundreds of Baháʼís, including their community leaders. Since then, the regime has codified its repression of Baháʼís into law and official government policy. Baháʼí homes and businesses are often raided or confiscated.

That persecution continues today, even as Iran is engaged in a war with the United States and Israel.

Dugal discussed the plight of the Baháʼís at a recent conference in London organized by the AMAR Foundation, a charity that aims to help persecuted communities around the world.

A UN group monitoring human rights abuses in Iran recently warned of a sharp increase in arrests, torture, and violations of Baháʼís, with at least 61 currently being held in detention centers or serving prison sentences, having been tortured to extract forced confessions.

Cousins Peyvand Naeimi and Borna Naeimi, the group observed, were subjected to “mock executions” to coerce confessions and remain held under dire conditions.

Such stories hardly get media coverage, says Dugal, because it’s “the same old story.” For journalists to cover the subject, she believes, “There should either be a lot of blood on the ground or something new or heinous.”

When Iranian poet and former prisoner Mahvash Sabet wrote about her ordeal from behind bars, she became the voice of thousands of Baháʼís who could not speak freely. Sabet and other members of the informal Baháʼí group, the Yaran-i-Iran (”Friends of Iran”), were labeled as spies working for foreign powers by the Islamic Republic. After spending two-and-a-half years imprisoned before trial, Sabet and six colleagues were sentenced to lengthy prison terms.

Sabet would ultimately spend a decade behind bars before being released in 2017, only to be re-arrested in 2022 and sentenced to another ten years. Now aged 74 and suffering serious heart and lung problems, she is still under the threat of being returned to prison.

Her translator, Bahiyyih, spoke with Middle East Uncovered earlier this summer.

“Mahvash writes so well,” says Dugal. “Reading extracts of her book and account of her treatment was bone-chilling.”

Dugal recalls a brief phone call with Sabet while the latter was in France visiting Bahiyyih, but the conversation was limited as Sabet does not speak much English and Dugal doesn’t speak Farsi.

Sabet managed to send Dugal a piece of art that she created while she was held in Evin Prison.

“I don’t know how to describe it,” says Dugal, searching for words. “It’s just beautiful.”

Dugal admires the “strength and resilience” of her fellow Baháʼís and the “courage of their convictions,” adding: “Yet they harbor no ill will towards the government. Baháʼís don’t wish the Islamic Republic ill. All we want is for them to respect [our] right to believe.”

Dugal, a 66-year-old retired lawyer, was born to Punjabi parents in northern India. A devout Sikh herself, she never imagined one day she would convert to another faith.

She made the decision after moving to the United States. Surprisingly, her parents didn’t object.

“My mum asked me, ‘Do Baháʼís believe in God?’ I said yes, it’s the same God. Then she said, ‘Next time you’re in India you will go with me to the Gurudwara [Sikh temple], and I will go to the Baháʼí temple with you.’”

“My father-in-law [also a Sikh] said to me, ‘I want my grandchildren to be raised in religion, it doesn’t matter which one.’”

Dugal had exposure to the Baháʼí faith in India, which is home to the largest Baháʼí community outside Iran. New Delhi is home to the famous Baháʼí Lotus Temple.

For centuries, India has absorbed countless minority groups, many of whom have assimilated successfully.

Dugal shares the fable of the Zoroastrians, or Parsis, who fled persecution in Iran between the 8th and 10th centuries and arrived on the shores of Gujarat in western India.

According to legend, the king gave the refugees a cup full of milk to show his land was full and had no space for new people. The Parsi priest added sugar to the milk without spilling it, to show his people would blend in and enrich the local culture without causing disruption. Pleased with the answer, the king let the new arrivals stay under the agreement that they respect local customs and learn the local language.

Today, the Parsis are a successful community that has retained the Zoroastrian faith while adopting Gujarati customs.

In a similar vein, Baháʼís are a model minority wherever they live, says Dugal.

Which is why their persecution is even more painful for her.

“We must stop othering people,” she warns. “If all individuals were to do their part in contributing to the wellbeing of their society, I think we would have a much better world than we do today.”

While scrolling through social media during the war in Gaza, I came across a post saying that a friend of mine had been detained by the Israeli army while sheltering in Khan Younis. No one knew where he had been taken, and I did not know whether I would ever see or speak to him again. Months later, when a post from him appeared on Facebook, I rushed to message him. After hearing what he had endured, I promised him I would help make his story heard.

Mahmoud Alhadad was detained at Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis on February 14, 2024, while sheltering at one of the last functioning hospitals in Gaza after much of the enclave’s healthcare system had been devastated by the war. Blindfolded and handcuffed, he was taken by Israeli soldiers to Israel, where he spent a year in detention without ever being charged with a crime.

Alhadad is not the only Gazan who was detained during the war without being charged with a crime. Like hundreds of Gaza’s residents, he was held under Israel’s Incarceration of Unlawful Combatants Law. Following the Hamas attacks on October 7, 2023, Israel massively expanded its use to detain Palestinians from Gaza en masse without charge or trial. The law allows the Israeli military to imprison people the army considers affiliated with groups engaged in hostilities against Israel.

Asking him to describe the first moments of his detention, he said: “They gathered all of us in a crowded room, then a truck came to take us all together,” he recounted. During his initial interrogation near the Gaza border, Alhadad said he was beaten and threatened by the Israeli soldiers. “They asked me where the hostages are? Where does Hamas store guns? The interrogator told me either you answer me, or you are going to die at my hands.”

Mahmoud thought his answers would save him, but they did not. He told interrogators he had no information about hostages or weapons, explaining he was a civilian seeking medical care at the facility. Despite this, he was transferred into Israel’s prison system.

His first stop was the notorious Sde Teiman detention center in Israel’s Negev desert. The facility drew international attention after a leaked video showed five Israeli reservists beating and sexually abusing a Palestinian detainee, who survived with a ruptured bowel, severe internal rectal injuries, broken ribs, and punctured lungs.

“It’s like a storage facility,” Alhadad said. “We will be on our knees, handcuffed. We were something like 100 prisoners, with our hands to the back, from 6 am to 11 pm.”

He described being forced to kneel for up to 17 hours a day, where even the slightest movement was met with beatings. “You cannot stand or change your position to lean, look at others, or sleep; if you try, you will be beaten,” he said. Even basic needs were restricted. “When I want to go to the toilet, I go handcuffed, and my eyes are closed. Even when we want to sleep, we sleep handcuffed, and our eyes are closed.”

Alhadad said guards used dogs to intimidate prisoners. “They used to freak us out with dogs; sometimes they unleashed them on us. People peed on themselves from fear.”

Alhadad’s account confirms details from other reports by human rights organizations who demanded the closure of this facility, including Amnesty International and B’Tselem (The Israeli Information Center for Human Rights), which described the facility as “only the tip of the iceberg” of a broader, institutionalized network that has effectively been converted into de facto torture camps.

Three weeks after he arrived, Alhadad was transferred to another detention facility, known as the

“Al-Moskobiya” detention center in Jerusalem, where he remained for 33 days. He was then moved to Ofer Prison for 120 days, followed by a stint at Negev Prison, where he stayed from July 2024 until his release in February 2025.

Alhadad said the conditions in the Negev prison were no better. He described severe overcrowding, with 30 to 40 prisoners housed in tents with only 14 beds. “The winter was extremely cold, and the summer was extremely hot,” he stated. “I wept due to the cold weather; we lacked warm clothing.” Each morning, guards would confiscate blankets and mattresses, only to return them at night. “Rather than cleaning them, they are causing us to endure additional hardship,” he told me.

On top of the psychological and physical torture, there was a widespread outbreak of skin diseases, especially scabies and boils amongst the prisoners, due to lack of hygiene.

Alhadad’s ordeal extended beyond his own treatment. Cut off from his family in the Gaza Strip and denied any phone contact, he had no way of knowing whether or not they were alive. During interrogations, he says he was threatened with their murder if he did not provide information about Hamas and the hostages—a tactic he says was also used against many other Palestinian prisoners and detainees.

The abuse of Palestinian prisoners in Israel is an open secret in Gaza. I remember hearing stories from the older generation in the Strip about numerous Palestinians who were arrested and tortured in the aftermath of the first Intifada, and the pattern is continuing now. Beating, threatening, humiliating, and recently sexually abusing Palestinian prisoners. Suspicion of affiliation is enough to justify it—absent any concrete proof.

When I asked about the food, hoping to steer the conversation toward something less painful, his answer did little to lighten the mood.

“We eventually recover from scabies after we’re released,” he said. “But no one gets enough food. I lost 30 kilograms during my detention.”

He added that everyone was held under the same legal framework, regardless of who they were: “People who had lost a leg, the elderly, young people, women, doctors, and criminals.”

When I asked whether he had access to a lawyer, Alhadad said legal representation was largely symbolic.

“Lawyers visited only a limited number of prisoners, and no prisoner was allowed more than one visit,” he said. “The lawyer only asked about prison conditions. He had no authority to defend you or look into your case. Basically, his job was just to see that you were alive.”

Alhadad was released a year later as part of the February 2025 hostage-prisoner exchange. Today, he lives in a makeshift tent in Gaza.

Torture is a war crime. When committed systematically and on a large scale, it constitutes a crime against humanity. Multiple human rights organizations argue that this standard applies to the treatment of Palestinian detainees in Israeli custody.

At least 98 Palestinians have died in Israeli detention facilities since October 2023, according to Palestinian authorities and human rights organizations, citing violence, starvation, inadequate medical care, and other inhumane conditions.

Mahmoud Alhadad survived. He left detention thirty kilograms lighter after a year without charge or trial. He contracted scabies, was forced to kneel for up to 17 hours a day, threatened with the murder of his family, and released without ever being told why he had been imprisoned.

I recounted my own experience of torture and imprisonment at the hands of Hamas in my recently published book, Seashells at the Shores of Gaza: Testimonies and Memories from a Shattered Land.

As my friend spoke, I recognized much of what he was describing. Our captors were different—his were Israeli prison guards, mine were Hamas—but torture has a way of stripping away those distinctions. You are thrown into a place where your body and mind are systematically broken. Even after you leave, part of you never does.

The Israeli detention centers where Alhadad says he was abused are still open, and the legal framework that enabled his imprisonment without charge remains largely intact. Many of those implicated in allegations of abuse continue to serve, while new reports of mistreatment continue to emerge.

(Just yesterday, 60 prisoners were released from Israeli custody and transferred to Nasser Medical Complex in Khan Younis. Many arrived in wheelchairs, appearing visibly malnourished and exhausted.)

As we spoke, it became clear that Alhadad was not seeking revenge. Like so many survivors of torture, he simply wants acknowledgment, accountability, and the assurance that no one else would endure what he did. Hamas has never claimed to be bound by the rule of law. Israel does. That is precisely why it has a duty to investigate these allegations, hold those responsible to account, and ensure its detention system reflects the standards it expects others to uphold.

“What It’s Like To Be” takes readers inside the lives of people working in remarkable and often demanding professions across the Middle East. Each installment offers an intimate look at the realities shaping their daily world. Look for WILTB in your inbox on Sundays.

The pain always arrived with stress. Leaving England for Dubai. Packing up the family villa before another international move. Putting the children to bed each night. “My back would flare at 7:15 p.m. on the dot, always,” says Gemma McFall. Sometimes the pain was so severe that someone else had to step in.

Her back problems began a week before she moved to Dubai with her husband in 2010. While performing at a dance conference in London, she felt a sharp click as something in her back gave way.

Leaving London and saying goodbye to family and friends, her discomfort intensified. It would be eight years before she freed herself from these pain episodes. “If we had stayed in England, it would have just settled, but I was so anxious about the move,” the 43-year-old says.

Arriving in Dubai, she went down a route familiar to many bad back sufferers, bouncing from treatment to treatment in search of respite. The city’s booming healthcare scene presented a dizzying array of remedies, and she progressed from TENS machines, to doctors, to physiotherapists, to muscle relaxants, to epidural injections in her spine.

Then, in her desperation, she found a doctor abroad willing to perform surgery.

It wasn’t until years later that she read a book about the mind-body connection and understood her mistake. The classic signs were there. Her pain was not fixed, but resurfaced in different areas of her back. It was also inconsistent, continuing to flare up during stressful life events.

McFall had always pushed herself to be a high achiever, pursuing athletic challenges and a demanding career as an HR director. She is also a self-described people-pleaser and perfectionist, traits that make her more susceptible to neuroplastic pain, when the brain misinterprets safe signals from the body as dangerous.

The good news, she discovered, is that this pain is caused by learned neural pathways rather than ongoing tissue damage. It can therefore be unlearned and reversed by retraining the brain.

It would be a while before McFall grasped the full significance of her discovery. After years of suffering and chasing treatments, she had uncovered a completely different way of understanding pain. It would not only banish her chronic bad back. It would also allow her to help others overcome problems from migraines and shoulder pain to Irritable Bowel Syndrome and tinnitus.

“Once you realize the pain is emotional, not physical, the edges start to soften, and you no longer spiral,” she explains.

Not everyone responds with relief. “It’s a hard pill to swallow—hearing that the pain you have endured for years could have been fixed all along,” McFall adds.

As a pain recovery coach, she sees the debilitating physical and mental effects of persistent pain, which can also lead to depression, anxiety, and sleep issues. Gradually, people’s lives get smaller, and they stop doing the activities they once enjoyed.

The strain is felt by the entire family. “It’s really hard to live with somebody who has pain,” says McFall, who often hears partners express guilt for carrying on with their lives.

McFall’s first step with a new client is to ensure there are no signs of an underlying medical condition that requires standard care. Conventional medicine has historically focused on identifying structural or biological causes, such as arthritis or disc problems. However, there is growing recognition that pain is influenced by interactions between the nervous system and emotional states. For some people, persistent pain can continue long after an injury has healed because of changes in how the brain and nervous system process pain signals.

Many find this can be reversed when they realize their pain is neuroplastic and learn to manage the emotional triggers that prompt it. “Their recovery blows me away every time,” McFall says.

In a recent episode of his podcast, British physician and television presenter Dr. Rangan Chatterjee talks to Dr. Howard Schubiner, author of Unlearn Your Pain, about the science behind neuroplastic pain.

They discuss how all pain is created by the brain as a protective mechanism. This can be a warning due to physical injury, or a response to emotional trauma and anxiety.

Exposure to stress or fear can cause the brain to become hypervigilant and turn up the volume of physical symptoms that may have healed long ago. This is evident from the way that a person can be injured without experiencing pain, or experience pain without injury, says Dr. Schubiner, whose work aims to expose the “myth” that chronic pain is irreversible and incurable.

“In structural pain, there’s clear tissue damage so your brain creates pain to help you protect the area... In neuroplastic pain, there’s some sort of perceived danger but no real injury. Both types are real. You are feeling pain. The difference is in the treatment,” he explains.

Back in 2017, McFall was desperate. The pain was intolerable, and basic tasks were becoming impossible. Even lifting her children into high chairs required support. “I was googling how people with disabilities look after small children,” she says.

She sent her MRI scan to a surgeon in Singapore, who agreed to operate. Her “aha moment” would come years later, when she understood that “abnormal” findings on MRI scans can be common signs of aging rather than an explanation for pain. “We get sent for MRI scans very quickly these days and once you see signs of damage, the brain panics and sends more pain signals,” she says.

Her journals from that time reveal the regimented exercise routine she followed to strengthen her back. “I can see that the harder I was trying to get rid of the pain, the worse it was getting. The exercises were not helping at all because they were putting my brain into fight or flight mode.”

At the last minute, McFall’s insurance company blocked her operation, questioning the surgeon’s justification for the procedure. Instead, they sent her case notes to three specialists for a second opinion. All three returned different verdicts on her condition. “That’s when the alarm bells started to go,” she says.

The family had just moved again, this time to Sri Lanka. As her husband started a new job, McFall packed up the family villa and finished her notice period at work while caring for two small children. By the time she arrived, her stress levels were soaring. Still, she enrolled in an executive coaching course, unwilling to let her career stall.

She learned about the mind-body connection from a book recommended by her teacher. “I felt I had found this magical secret,” she recalls.

As she took on clients to coach, McFall realized she could help people with more than their careers. “I worked with three people who had chronic pain. All three had such good outcomes; I thought, I have to do this.”

Returning to Dubai after five years, McFall decided against resuming her HR career. Coaching was already a crowded field, so she specialized, training with SIRPA in the UK and the Pain Reprocessing Therapy Center in the US before introducing the concept to a region where it was relatively unknown.

“In Sri Lanka, coaching was a new phenomenon, but I quickly realized that in Dubai, when you tell people that you’re a coach, they roll their eyes because everyone is doing it.”

Still, Dubai was the ideal environment to launch a new business. In the five years they spent abroad, visa regulations had relaxed, and the city’s entrepreneurial scene was buzzing. The challenge for McFall was standing out from the crowd.

She engaged with the city’s entrepreneurial communities, participating in panel events and networking in the medical sector to raise awareness around the mind-body approach to pain. “My kids joked that I should be a pain influencer,” she says.

At first, it felt like there was little room for low-tech treatment methods in Dubai’s state-of-the-art medical landscape. “Everyone has insurance, so they just keep going to different doctors. Why pay for something alternative?” she says. More recently, however, the growth of wellness centers and holistic treatments has begun to shift attitudes.

“People get the fact that the body shows physical symptoms from suppressed emotions. Everyone knows a migraine can be because of stress, but now they are also realizing that things like IBS, fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue syndrome, back pain, and other conditions could be due to stress or pressure.”

Now, when a physio refers a patient to McFall for treatment, they have more faith in her methods. “Mental health is on the map,” she says.

In some cases, it can be as quick as one or two sessions. One client’s chronic pain ceased immediately. “The discovery call was enough. He was so grateful he left a video testimonial on my website,” McFall laughs.

She finds it most rewarding when people are able to resume the activities they love. One 77-year-old woman was forced to give up a ballroom dancing career before she learned to reprocess her pain. Now she is back to performing in competitions and is the lead dancer.

Helping parents of young children feels especially meaningful to her. One patient, a man in his early thirties balancing a demanding senior role with family life, had lived with back pain since childhood. Watching people like him return to the lives they want to live again “gives me goosebumps,” she says.

McFall knows how good it feels to be liberated from pain. She spends her weekends cycling around Dubai, swimming at the beach and camping in the desert. She has trained herself to respond calmly when stress surfaces, resisting the panic spiral that fast-tracked her pain.

Her client base is international, including a growing number of people from the Middle East, where back and shoulder pain and migraines are among the most common symptoms. “We’re not trying to get rid of the pain; we’re trying to get rid of the fear around the pain,” she says.

These days, bedtime is no longer a source of stress in McFall’s house. There’s no stabbing sensation along her spine when the kids play. Instead, she turned the most stressful time of day into a game, driving the children to bed on an imaginary train and harnessing the brain’s immense power to govern her body. “I wish more people understood they have control over their brains,” she says. “I wish they knew that pain pathways can be unlearned.”

Looking back on her childhood, Jane Hannouch remembers feeling peaceful and free. Born in Beirut and raised in Kyiv until she was nine, she had a dual identity that was both a blessing and a challenge, teaching her to be adaptable and resilient. But nothing could prepare her for the hardship of seeing both her homelands at war in recent years.

“I never imagined that the homes I once considered safe havens would become places marked by fear, trauma, and uncertainty,” said Hannouch, who now lives in Lebanon. “Nothing looks the same anymore.”

The 26-year-old lived the first few years of her life in Kyiv before moving to Lebanon in 2005 to be closer to her father. She maintained the connection to Ukraine and visited often, embracing her Lebanese-Ukrainian identity. Meanwhile, she threw herself into life in Lebanon, discovering the other half of her heritage.

She finds that both Lebanese and Slavic influences enrich her view of life, but it can also be difficult to straddle two cultures. At times, her dual identity left her confused and wondering where she fit in.

Now, after years spent reconciling these differences, recent events have left her adrift. The conflicts in Ukraine and Lebanon have forced her to watch as both her homelands are battered by war.

“Sometimes, I do not fully realize how deeply I am affected by having both of my countries at war,” she said. “The impact often feels invisible, working beneath the surface. There is no certainty about tomorrow.”

Places that once brought her peace and serenity have been scarred by the war between Israel and Hezbollah and Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. She fears for her family, some of whom have faced conscription in Ukraine. “I have not been able to visit since Russia’s invasion in 2022, and it brings me deep sorrow to wonder what will remain when I finally return. Will the places I remember still exist? Or will the memories I treasure still have a physical home?”

As the Russia-Ukraine war enters its fourth year, the conflict has devastated the lives of Ukrainians. Since February 2022, about 10 million people have been displaced. Infrastructure, energy grids, schools, and hospitals have all been targeted by Russia’s military. According to a 2026 UN report, more than 15,000 Ukrainian civilians have been killed as a result of the invasion. The past winter was especially difficult for millions who endured subzero temperatures for days without access to electricity, heating, or water.

Hannouch speaks regularly with elderly relatives in Ukraine but is frustrated that she cannot visit in person. “My family is deeply connected to their homeland. At their age, leaving everything behind and starting over elsewhere is not desirable,” she said.

The stress of worrying about loved ones in Ukraine adds to the pressures of life in Lebanon, where years of financial and political crises have been compounded by war.

The Hamas attacks on October 7, 2023, reignited the decades-old conflict between Israel and the Iran-backed Hezbollah. Following the death of Iranian Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei in a joint U.S.-Israeli strike in early March, Hezbollah intensified its attacks in support of its principal patron, triggering a new escalation in the fighting.

The conflict has deepened the strain on Lebanon, where the economy has been weakened by years of financial and political crises. Massive destruction across southern Lebanon has led to the displacement of more than 1 million people, forcing the state to convert schools into shelters to absorb the waves of people who are now homeless.

“The instability in Lebanon has deeply affected my family,” said Hannouch, who finds it difficult to care for her parents amid rising prices. “Like countless households across the country, we have experienced the burden of economic hardship and uncertainty. Watching that level of stress and responsibility carried by my parents brings me great sadness.”

Lebanon’s severe economic woes have made it even more difficult to absorb the high costs of war. Many of Hannouch’s peers have fled the country in search of better prospects, prompting her to consider leaving.

For now, she has decided to stay. “In times like these, I value every moment. Being together and supporting one another is far more important to me than any opportunity elsewhere,” she said.

Hannouch finds solace in serving others, working with Hope Worldwide, an organization that supports vulnerable individuals and families. Helping people in the local community, she draws on her Christian values to prioritize others’ needs at a time when many people in Lebanon are living below the poverty line.

Following the peace deal announcement between the US and Iran on June 15, hope for a cessation of hostilities between Israel and Hezbollah is slowly beginning to materialize. Despite Israeli refusals to withdraw from the south, many Lebanese families have begun returning to their homes. Peace might finally be on the table, but the threat of another wave of attacks lingers.

While progress is seemingly being made in Lebanon, Russia and Ukraine remain entangled in a war of attrition. As support for Ukraine wavers in Washington, peace talks between Russia and Ukraine have yet to bear fruit. It is unclear whether, and how, peace will materialize in Europe. However, Hannouch believes that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

“My story is one of two homelands, two identities, and the pain of witnessing both nations struggle through conflict,” she said. “Yet it is also a story of resilience, faith, and hope—a belief that even in the darkest circumstances, light can still be found.”

Shabir Ahmad Tabib Zada’s ambition to support students in Afghanistan began long before the Taliban came to power. Living in Parwan Province, he saw the struggles young people overcame to complete their education, learning in crowded classrooms with scarce resources.

Those who were in a position to apply to university faced further challenges in a country where access to higher education relies as much on resilience and luck as on academic achievement.

“In many parts of the world, applying to university is a structured and supported journey,” Tabib Zada says. “Students have access to counselors, reliable internet, and clear pathways to higher education. But for thousands of young people in Afghanistan, the reality is very different.”

Growing up in a family that prioritized education, Tabib Zada encouraged friends to continue their studies. People knew him as academically motivated, so when the time came to apply to university, they turned to him for advice.

It started small—reading through cover letters and sharing tips on writing a CV. Word spread, and soon people were contacting him on social media. “I never planned it as a business. It grew naturally because people trusted me and knew I genuinely wanted to help.”

Then, in August 2021, the Taliban seized power. University placements and career plans were thrown into doubt, and the country waited to see how the future would unfold. As the group intensified its campaign to erase women from public life, the opportunities narrowed.

Tabib Zada was in school at the time and, like many young Afghans, he felt lost and uncertain. Some days, depressive thoughts consumed him, but gradually, he found ways to manage the stress. “I realized I needed to make a serious decision to protect my future and continue my education,” he says.

Around him, other young Afghans also wanted to regain control over their lives. Denied opportunities at home, many had the same question: “They asked me how to apply to go abroad,” Tabib Zada says.

Barriers such as poor internet access and a lack of information make applying to overseas universities extremely difficult, but this was rapidly becoming the only hope for ambitious students living under the Taliban.

In December 2022, women were banned from attending universities in Afghanistan, denying more than 100,000 students access to higher education. Interest in pursuing higher education abroad soared.

It quickly became clear that the need for support extended far beyond Tabib Zada’s circle. “I realized that even without money or big resources, you can still make a difference by giving your time, knowledge, and support to others,” he says.

In February 2024, he set up the Sigma Career Center, which hosts seminars online and in person for students in Kabul and Parwan. Sessions covered the basics: how to write a CV, present themselves in a personal statement, request a letter of recommendation, and apply for scholarships effectively.

“Students were eager to learn. They were motivated, ambitious, and determined, but they lacked access to even the simplest tools,” he says.

Expanding the program, he leveraged family connections and secured permission from Taliban authorities to run sessions that included women in Parwan. Out of 57 female participants, 45 have since secured scholarships to universities abroad. Another young woman began working as a nurse with the Red Crescent.

“It shows how access to opportunity can translate into immediate, life-changing results,” Tabib Zada says. “Students who once faced uncertainty are now stepping into global academic environments.”

Students like Marzia*, who hoped to become a software engineer and use technology to improve access to education for young people in Afghanistan. “Under the current conditions, education no longer guarantees employment or growth,” the 22-year-old says.

With opportunities disappearing at home, Marzia enrolled at the Sigma Career Center to take an English course and attend sessions offering scholarship advice. She no longer believes there is a path for her to learn in Afghanistan, but studying abroad offers hope.

“My dream of creating a better future drives me. I believe education is the only path that can change my life and allow me to contribute positively to society,” she says.

According to Tabib Zada, more than 8,000 students across Afghanistan have now benefited from Sigma’s training programs, which prioritize practical, accessible advice. Many participants have never received career guidance and are daunted by the requirements for studying abroad.

Students like Fahim, 23, who secured a scholarship to study in Switzerland with Sigma’s support. Adapting to life in a new country while worrying about friends and family in Afghanistan threatened to distract him from his studies, but he knows education is his best chance. “I want to prove that despite the challenges, I can succeed,” he says. “Opportunities abroad are not easy to access, but they offer more scope for personal and professional growth.”

In recent years, international application processes have grown increasingly complex as Afghan students face mounting restrictions on studying abroad. Visa policies are becoming stricter, with Afghan students often subject to additional scrutiny. “Even when opportunities exist, accessing them is becoming more complicated and uncertain,” Tabib Zada says.

In March 2026, the United Kingdom implemented a student visa ban on people from four countries, including Afghanistan, claiming “an unsustainable threat to the UK’s asylum system.”

Pakistan and Iran have also clamped down on educational pathways for students from Afghanistan.

Pakistan, which was one of the last hopes for Afghan women to study abroad, deported more than 146,000 Afghans in 2026 alone, while Iran, historically a major destination for Afghans seeking education abroad, has also moved to drive out undocumented Afghans.

Others have been forced to suspend their studies because of the conflict in Iran.

Whichever way they turn, young Afghans see the space for higher education narrowing as the Taliban tightens restrictions and foreign countries close their doors. Trust in international pathways is declining, but for a population that has already overcome learning challenges, there is still hope through grassroots programs like Sigma that support students in studying abroad. In Kabul, 65 young men secured scholarships to universities in Russia after participating in courses through the Sigma Career Center, while others have applied for scholarships in Malaysia. “Students still believe education is the only path to a better future, but repeated restrictions and uncertainty are slowly affecting their confidence,” says Tabib Zada. “That said, every scholarship success story helps restore that belief.”

*Pseudonyms have been used to protect the identity of our sources in Afghanistan

It was a difficult Spring for Kurdish farmer Hin Omar. Freak snowstorms destroyed two of her greenhouses, and soggy soil postponed her planting schedule. Then the US-Israeli war with Iran spread to the Kurdistan Region of Iraq and upended supply chains. Unable to import seeds or export produce, the 27-year-old felt like giving up.

What stopped her was the food security crisis facing Iraq, as escalating regional conflict threatens to deplete local supplies. That, and the rewards of working on the land. “I never wear gloves to handle the soil; I love the feel of getting my hands dirty and being closer to nature,” she says.

Omar still has two greenhouses left, enough to produce a crop of flowers and vegetables for the summer selling season in July. Operating in such an unpredictable environment is a constant challenge for small start-ups like hers, but thoughts of the country’s farming crisis spur her on. “The current situation is a motivation for me to fight and not give up,” she says.

It could also be an opportunity for Omar, who has a small stash of seeds stowed away. After a good year in 2024, her agricultural business has grown, and she now cultivates a range of crops, including aubergines, broccoli, legumes, peppers, cucumbers, and tomatoes, as well as various flower species.

Local sellers like her are critical to Iraq’s food security as rising fuel costs and disrupted supply chains threaten to exacerbate local shortages during the war. Iraq relies heavily on imported vegetables, particularly from Turkey and Iran, which announced a freeze on agricultural exports in early March.

Prior to the conflict, some Iraqi markets were dominated by produce from Iran, a key exporter of vegetables such as tomatoes and cucumbers, as well as fruit including apples, watermelons, and dates. Now local farmers must fill the gap. “Weather, war, I must not stop,” Omar says. “The community needs farmers like me.”

The Iraqi government has placed restrictions on the import of certain fruit and vegetables to bolster local farmers, who already grapple with declining soil quality and severe water shortages. Climate change is reshaping the agricultural sector in Iraq, where drought undermines production and desertification encroaches on once-fertile arable land.

In 2023, the government announced that eight of Iraq’s top ten crops, including vegetables and legumes, were in decline and that the country was no longer able to meet its national food market demand. While the Ministry of Agriculture claims self-sufficiency in 48 products, including tomatoes, potatoes, and lettuce, climate vulnerability poses a major threat to long-term stability.

Omar believes that reducing reliance on chemicals and supporting the soil will improve the outlook for Iraqi agriculture. The government currently subsidizes 50 percent of pesticide and chemical costs, while doing little to promote environmentally friendly farming practices.

Supervising projects on large farms after graduating in agricultural engineering, Omar was shocked by the vast quantities of fertilizers and pesticides plowed into the land. “Farmers don’t realize how terrible these chemicals are. You get a short-term benefit, but after that it makes the soil worse,” she says. “You kill off one pest and leave the crop exposed to different types of insects and disease.”

Organic farming is her ultimate goal, but with few resources to support the shift, Omar has adopted a staggered approach. Each season, she reduces the chemical ratio and increases the percentage of organic fertilizers, using animal manure and composting to nourish her soil.

Sourcing organic pesticides and seeds is difficult in Iraq, but she believes the health benefits will drive demand as consumers taste the difference. A friend’s cancer diagnosis spurred her motivation after the doctor advised a switch to organic fruit and vegetables. “If people want to eat healthily, they have more fruit and veg, but the produce here is often full of harmful chemicals,” Omar says.

One giveaway is appearance. “Sometimes you see vegetables that look shiny and beautiful but taste terrible,” she adds. Omar hopes that word will spread as more people make the connection between health and clean veg, but at the moment uptake is low. “A lot of people just don’t care, but I’m passionate about this change,” she says.

Despite constant uncertainty and worrying about the weather, farming feels more like a vocation than a job for Omar. Agriculture is the second-largest contributor to Iraq’s GDP after oil, but farmers are increasingly being forced to abandon land degraded by climate change. Omar believes organic farming methods are part of the solution. In recent weeks, road closures and security concerns have prevented her from making the 45-minute drive to her farm outside Duhok in northern Iraqi Kurdistan. But when a degree of normality returns, she’ll resume daily visits, aware that the future of the country’s food security rests on small-scale farmers like her persisting against the odds.

“The first time I was truly scared was in 2015,” recalled Anas Al Bakri, a Yemeni engineer now based in Lebanon. “One of the largest bombs of the war struck the famous Attan mountain in Sana’a. It was summer, and I was 14 years old. The blast was so powerful that it threw me out of bed, and every window in our house shattered.”

Growing up in Sana’a, Al Bakri’s childhood was deeply impacted by war and uncertainty. Normalcy was a foreign concept. For many Yemenis who came of age after the Arab Spring, instability was not an interruption to daily life but its defining condition.

The 2011 uprising that forced President Ali Abdullah Saleh from power after more than three decades in office initially raised hopes for political change. In 2012, his vice president, Abd Rabbuh Mansur Hadi, was elected to lead a two-year transitional period. But those expectations quickly faded. Economic hardship deepened, political reforms stalled, and public frustration mounted. Hadi’s decision to lift fuel subsidies in 2014 sparked widespread protests, accelerating a crisis that culminated in the Houthi takeover of Sana’a and the outbreak of Yemen’s civil war in 2015.

“For foreigners, it is difficult for them to comprehend growing up in Yemen,” Al Bakri said. “I’ve experienced a lot of trauma, and one of my saddest memories was when one of my best friends died as a result of an airstrike in 2019. A facility that was supposedly housing Houthis was bombed next to his home, and his house was completely flattened. He and his grandma both died, but his parents survived. He was like a brother to me.”

Yemen’s civil war resulted from the country’s failed political transition. In 2014, the Houthis, a Shiite militia later designated by the United States as a terrorist organization, capitalized on growing public frustration over economic downturn and stalled reforms. By September, they had seized Sana’a and gradually consolidated control over key state institutions. President Abd Rabbuh Mansur Hadi was placed under house arrest before resigning in January 2015. He later withdrew his resignation and fled to Aden, appealing for regional intervention against the Houthis.

In March 2015, a Saudi-led coalition that included the United Arab Emirates and Egypt launched a military campaign in support of Hadi’s government. Airstrikes became a daily occurrence across Yemen, and what began as a political crisis became one of the world’s most devastating humanitarian catastrophes.

“You’re 30,000 feet in the air, and you launch a missile toward a place where families have lived for generations,” said Al Bakri. “You press a button designed for ease of use, and an entire family disappears. It’s a very sad reality to accept.”

For Yemenis, the war wrought destruction on a staggering scale. According to the United Nations, more than 377,000 people had died as a result of the conflict by 2022. Roughly 60 percent of those deaths were linked to indirect causes such as hunger, disease, contaminated water, and the implosion of healthcare services, while the remainder were a result of armed violence. The humanitarian crisis continues today. As of 2026, the UN estimates that 4.5 million people are internally displaced. Out of more than 22 million people requiring aid, approximately 4.5 million children remain out of school, and nearly 11 million children urgently require humanitarian assistance to survive.

Al Bakri realized quickly that pursuing a future in Yemen was untenable, so he began searching for ways to spend his college years abroad. Luckily, he received two scholarship offers, one in Turkey and another in Lebanon.

“My sister was already in Lebanon, who was pursuing a similar program,” said Al Bakri. “So, I decided to go there because I didn’t know when I might be able to see my sister again if I decided to study in Turkey.”

Al Bakri arrived in Lebanon in April of 2021. His program was scheduled to begin in the fall of 2020, but the Beirut port blast, which devastated a large portion of Beirut’s infrastructure, delayed his travel plans until the following year. The blast was one of a few major events that tormented the state of Lebanon during that year. The Lebanese uprising that broke out in October of 2019 was followed by a gradual collapse of the Lebanese currency and the outbreak of COVID-19 in March 2020, severely straining Lebanon’s economy. Al Baqri became increasingly nervous about his choice, with a nagging feeling that he was about to trade one place of suffering for another.

“I remember that during the first night I landed in April 2021, the streets and buildings in Beirut were blacked out,” Al Bakri said. “There was no electricity, and I started to question whether I was in the right place, as I had just left Yemen where power outages were a norm.”

Nevertheless, Al Bakri began his studies at the Lebanese American University in Byblos, slowly adapting to Lebanese culture and making new friends. According to Al Bakri, he came to forget the sound of planes and fighter jets that had haunted him during his days in Yemen. However, those memories began to resurface when Israeli fighter jets started to roam the skies of Beirut in the wake of the horrific attacks on October 7^th, 2023. The chaos and instability Al Bakri had fled from were beginning to catch up with him.

“I loved forgetting the feeling of supersonic sounds of fighter jets before a bomb drops,” Al Bakri said. “But it came back, and I regularly anticipate hearing it again. It will always come back, and you will always be reliving the PTSD. You can’t say that you’re used to it. It’s a painful topic to tackle, and I’d love to forget that feeling like it never existed. But it did exist, and I have to acknowledge that.”

The conflict between Hezbollah and Israel further intensified in early March following the death of Ali Khamenei in a US-Israeli airstrike. More than a million Lebanese were internally displaced as a result, with shelters beginning to overflow, and various schools across Lebanon transforming to meet the demands of displaced families. Many, however, have been forced to sleep in the streets.

Al Bakri ultimately decided he would leave in the coming year. However, he expressed deep love and sorrow for the country that hosted him for the past 5 years.

“My time [in Lebanon] made me fall in love with the country and the resilience of the people.” He said. “They are very similar to Yemenis, where they still love life despite losing their homes, their jobs, or even their loved ones.”

He hopes to start another degree program abroad and continue his work as an engineer, joining many of his friends from Lebanon who have left the country to pursue a better life. He hopes to return and visit when the situation becomes more stable, but it is unclear when either Lebanon or Yemen will offer the stability needed for people to build long-term futures there.

“Maybe we’ll unite Yemen once again,” Al Bakri said. “But for now, it is unfeasible for me to go back home or stay in Lebanon for the long term.”

Al Bakri’s story is far from unique. Across the Middle East, millions of young people have come of age amid war, economic crisis, and political upheaval, forcing them to make difficult decisions about where they can safely live, study, work, and build a future. Leaving is rarely a rejection of home. More often, it is an acknowledgment that opportunity and stability are simply out of reach. As conflicts continue to wreak havoc across the region, many young people like Al Bakri find themselves searching not for a permanent destination, but for a place where they can finally stop running long enough to start building their futures on their own terms.

Middle East Uncovered uses pseudonyms to protect our sources in Iran.

When I first spoke with Kazem earlier this year, he was in Turkey. He and his wife left Iran after the regime shut down internet access in the wake of the January protests and the crackdown that followed. Both had participated in the anti-regime demonstrations and watched security forces open fire on fellow citizens. But it was the internet blackout that made it impossible for them to continue their work online and ultimately pushed them to leave the country.

A few months later, they returned to Iran. Then war broke out.

“We came back, and days later, the war started,” Kazem told me from Isfahan. “It looks like it’s our destiny to be here when there’s no internet.”

Since April, Iran and Israel have operated under an uneasy and increasingly strained truce linked to broader U.S.-Iran ceasefire negotiations. Following the most recent exchange of strikes between the countries—the most serious breach of the truce since it was announced—Kazem told me he was safe and had not heard of any repercussions among those close to him. But the ceasefire is now facing its most serious test since it was announced, with President Donald Trump describing it as being on “life support.”

Despite the ceasefire, Iranian-backed groups have continued to attack American and Israeli targets across the region, and Israel has signaled that it is prepared to formally resume military action if it believes Tehran is rebuilding its nuclear capabilities. Iran is portraying its survival thus far as proof it has weathered the storm. The Strait of Hormuz continues to be severely disrupted, and oil prices have risen again after the latest escalation. In Kazem’s view, Tehran may be betting that time is on its side: that economic pressure, rising costs, and growing public fatigue in the United States will eventually weaken Washington’s position.

Inside Iran, Kazem says he is both deeply disappointed and increasingly afraid.

What will the regime do to its own people now that it has survived?

The regime remains firmly in control, while the political change many hoped for—and that President Trump suggested military pressure might help bring about—has yet to materialize.

In the early days of the conflict, he said, many Iranians believed they were watching the beginning of the end.

“That first night of the war, people came out to celebrate,” Kazem told me.

For years, Iranians opposed to the Islamic Republic had imagined what it would feel like to celebrate the deaths of the rulers who lorded over them. Suddenly, it seemed possible. Senior officials had been successfully targeted, and the regime looked shaken. The fear that normally kept people inside appeared, for a few hours, to dissipate.

Then the motorbikes arrived.

“People were out trying to celebrate, then suddenly we heard the motorbikes. The anti-riot bikes quickly turned up to send people back home,” he said. “They were offended by people celebrating.”

Years of crackdowns on protest movements have left little room for organized opposition or spontaneous celebrations.

“A lot of people have lost hope,” he said. “The last grain of hope for any change was foreign intervention. And that looks like it didn’t work.” He said the only way he sees the regime falling is with American boots on the ground, a scenario that few observers see as realistic.

Kazem says the regime’s current priority is to make sure the next uprising never begins.

Across cities, regime supporters now gather at key intersections at night. Many use temporary religious stalls known as mawkibs, which are normally associated with religious festivals, free tea, and public displays of piety. Now, he says, they have become political checkpoints.

“They’ve set up mawkibs in every corner now,” he said. “They’re present in every important cross section, especially ones where riots happened. They’re holding station at key points in every town.”

Many of those gatherings include armed Basij and Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) personnel.

“In many of these mawkibs, there are people with guns, with AK-47s,” he said.

Kazem was stopped once while traveling for a camping trip. The men searched his car, saw camping gear, and let him go. But he does not believe these checkpoints are really about catching spies or dissenters.

“It’s just to threaten people,” he said. “It’s just to create an atmosphere of fear.”

And it’s working.

Kazem told me about women and children being trained to handle AK-47s. In one case near Isfahan, he said, middle-aged women volunteers were taken for weapons training. One accidentally shot and killed another volunteer.

The image of civilian women training to fight US troops is absurd until Kazem explains what he thinks it means.

“You may ask, hang on, how is a middle-aged woman with an AK-47 any threat to an American Marine?” he said. “But they’re not training them to fight Marines. They’re training them to fight me if I come out on the street.”

Kazem describes a regime that has absorbed the shock of war and subsequently turned its attention back to the threat it fears most: its own citizens.

“If we have another 8th of January, it’s going to be over,” he said. “So they’re doing everything they can to prevent that.”

Kazem does not think people will risk protesting again.

He told me about someone he describes as one of the bravest people he knows, a man who has taken part in every major protest movement since 2009. He had been arrested before and continued to protest after his release.

Even he wouldn’t dare to protest now.

“He made it very clear to me that he’s not going to go anymore under these circumstances, and nor should anyone go,” Kazem said. “Even he says we shouldn’t go out because we’re just going to die.”

Daily life, meanwhile, has resumed in the strange way it often does under dictatorships. During the day, Kazem said, shops are open. Food is available. People work, shop, visit relatives, and try to preserve whatever pieces of ordinary life they can.

At night, the mood changes.

“Every night there’s a lot of noise pollution,” he said. “They play loud music by speakers, pro-regime music.”

He and his wife try not to go out after dark.

“We do all our business during the day,” he said. “Because if we go out at night, they create traffic jams. You would think there are a lot of them on the street, whereas we know they’re not. But it doesn’t matter. As long as one of them has an AK-47, that’s enough.”

The economic consequences of the war are felt, though not always in ways outsiders might expect. Kazem said there are no major food shortages where he lives. But prices have risen sharply in specific sectors hit by the conflict.

Plastic goods, he said, have become far more expensive because of the petrochemical companies that were attacked. Disposable plates, cups, and milk bottles now cost much more.

“Milk itself has not seen a price rise,” he said. “But milk bottles have.”

Cars have also become more expensive because steel factories were targeted and production is expected to slow.

But for Kazem and his wife, the most damaging economic blow is lack of reliable internet access. He spoke to me via WhatsApp using an expensive VPN.

“We technically didn’t make any money for the first four months of this year,” he said.

In January, they lost weeks of income. In February, what they earned went toward surviving in Turkey. In March and April, they were back in Iran with no reliable internet. They only began earning again in May.

VPNs, once an inconvenience, are now a necessity. Kazem described buying access to the open internet like buying illicit drugs.

“You have to ask a friend, ‘Do you know anyone who sells VPNs?’” he said. “Do you know a dealer?”

The prices, he said, have exploded. Some VPNs now cost up to 100 times as much as before because only the most powerful ones can bypass the new filtering systems. Worse, people fear that some VPN providers are tied to the IRGC.

“We heard about some VPN providers that are actually connected to IRGC,” he said. “So they can see what you’re doing.”

One person, he said, was arrested after using an insecure VPN to speak to a foreign journalist. “He did what I’m doing now, and he was caught,” he told me. He said he felt comfortable speaking only because he trusted the security of his VPN provider.

Despite everything, one area where the regime appears to have retreated is the hijab. When I asked whether more women were covering their hair, he didn’t hesitate.

“No,” he said. “No, they’re not.”

But Kazem does not read this as proof that the regime has softened.

“What we fear is that if a peace deal is achieved, and they are to stay, then we’re going to face even more suppression,” he said.

If the regime believes street protests can be crushed and foreign intervention can be survived, it may feel freer to reimpose the social controls it has temporarily deprioritized.

“They know they’re not going to lose power thanks to a street riot,” he said. “Foreign intervention… didn’t get rid of them either.”

The fear now is not that the Islamic Republic will return to normal, but that it will return more confident and brutal than ever before. Kazem says the IRGC is effectively running the country. The formal government, in his view, is secondary.

“President Pezeshkian is basically just a shadow government,” he said. “IRGC is the actual group in power because they are the ones with guns.”

Still, he and his wife are not planning to leave.

Their lives and loved ones are in Iran. Besides, Kazem said, leaving is not simple.

“It’s hard to leave home,” he told me. “Especially when you leave home with a broken heart.”

He knows people who say they will leave if the regime stays in power, and he understands that. But he also knows how hard that choice has become. Countries around the world are turning away migrants and refugees. Politicians win elections by promising to keep people out. Iranians who want to escape are left asking where they can go.

He and his wife try to make life bearable. They went to the cinema recently. They make small projects at home. A few nights before we spoke, they made kiwi jam.

“I strongly suggest you make that or try it,” he told me. “It’s really interesting.”

They used to travel often. In 2024, they camped eight times in four months. This year, they have gone once. Even then, they were stopped and searched.

“If the regime is to stay, life is not going to be very happy,” he said. “Not just for us, for a lot of people in the region.”

President Trump promised liberation at the outset of the war. Instead, Iranians who were encouraged to rise up are trapped inside a country where the regime that was supposed to fall is regrouping, launching fresh attacks against its enemies, and, most concerning to Kazem, turning its weapons inward.

The Islamic Republic has survived the war thus far. What comes next, Kazem fears, will be directed not only at foreign adversaries, but at the Iranians who still hope to see the regime fall.

“What It’s Like To Be” takes readers inside the lives of people working in remarkable and often demanding professions across the Middle East. Each installment offers an intimate look at the realities shaping their daily world. Look for WILTB in your inbox every Sunday.

Two months after launching Rawi magazine, Yasmine El Dorghamy faced a challenge few publishers anticipate. As the first issue hit the stands, uprisings broke out across the Arab world, reaching Egypt on January 25, 2011.

Somehow, Rawi, a boutique heritage magazine that documents Egyptian history, art, and culture, survived this turbulent start. In the years that followed, its audience grew, resisting the shift towards digital-first publishing as traditional magazines closed and Egyptian media moved online.

“The readership has never been a problem. It’s just expensive to produce,” says El Dorghamy, whose passion for history drove her to devise a title that would bridge the gap between academic research and the general public.

“I felt like there was a big disconnect between the world of people producing the knowledge and people who are consuming it,” El Dorghamy says.

Now published annually in English and Arabic, Rawi unpacks Egyptian history for ordinary readers, delving into topics and time periods that have been glossed over by mainstream media.

El Dorghamy wakes each morning, “excited about the things I’m going to read and write about today”—an enthusiasm that permeates the pages of her publication.

She started small, launching the first issue in late 2010. A glossy magazine dedicated to history and heritage was unusual in Egypt, but El Dorghamy felt confident. “There was a real need for it,” she says.

Two months later, the country spiraled. Large-scale protests erupted across Egypt, prompting the overthrow of long-time Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak.

Sustaining a fledgling title amid national chaos proved “extremely challenging,” but El Dorghamy has spent her life adapting to changing circumstances.

The daughter of a diplomat, she moved every few years throughout her childhood, living in Japan, Greece, Turkey, Mexico, and Sweden before settling in Egypt. She credits her fascination with history and culture to this early exposure, but making friends and maintaining her grades in school were difficult.

Each time she was uprooted, El Dorghamy built on the resilience that would prepare her for the “endless uphill climbs” publishers face in a fraying media landscape. “My default mode is to expect things to be difficult. When they are easy, I start to worry,” she says.

So, as political upheaval and economic turmoil gripped the nation, she threw her energies into crafting a second issue that would chime with the public mood. Stories explored topics such as looting and the unrest’s impact on antiquities, connecting current affairs to the country’s ancient past.

“I managed to survive,” she says.

El Dorghamy spent the next few years carving out a space for Rawi with historical deep dives packaged for a contemporary audience. Articles were light on jargon and engagingly written. “I always made sure the language was accessible she says.

As she built a team around her, the magazine developed a reputation for striking design. Determined to incorporate “fun and whimsy,” El Dorghamy looked to the past for creative freedom and variety.

“Editorial design has lost its joy over recent decades,” she says. “The industry standard has become very austere.”

Good design, El Dorghamy believes, is where print retains its edge, offering a tangible experience that digital platforms can’t replicate. Rawi has a strong digital presence, using multiple platforms to share stories and anecdotes, but while other publications moved fully online, Rawi’s identity remained rooted in print.

“A phone screen can never compete with a beautifully printed book,” she says.

The shift from traditional print models to digital-first media has transformed the publishing landscape in Egypt, where a young, highly connected population drives the demand for online content. Broader economic challenges and the rising cost of paper have made magazine production increasingly expensive, accelerating the decline of publishing in Egypt, historically the cultural giant of the Arab world.

Two years ago, El Dorghamy decided to relaunch Rawi as a coffee-table book. Her distribution manager had stopped working in magazines—“he said they no longer exist in Egypt”—and her local newsstands were only selling books.

“That’s when it hit me,” she says.

In 2025, she published the first edition of Rawi, investing in her belief that books will always be a cornerstone of Egyptian culture. “The magazine may be perceived as something archaic, but the book isn’t. They’ve become very expensive in Egypt, but people still respect books the way they always have.”

A book also felt like the right medium for the product Rawi had become. Early editions were lighter and covered a cross-section of Egyptian culture, but in 2016, that changed.

At the time, the art market in Egypt was thriving, but there was very little coverage to accompany the evolving scene. Several people had suggested Rawi tackle the subject, so El Dorghamy plunged herself into research that would result in a bumper issue.

“The eighth edition on modern Egyptian art got out of hand,” she says. “But it turned out this was exactly what people wanted.”

Other hefty issues followed—focusing on Egyptian cinema, Egypt’s culinary history, and the 7,000-year evolution of Egyptian fashion. El Dorghamy immerses herself in every theme, discussing stories with journalists, reading the latest works by academic contributors, and debating angles with editors.

Brainstorming sessions result in noisy WhatsApp groups and Dropbox folders filled with ideas. Even when the magazine runs to more than 200 pages, it feels like they have to “slice Egyptian history very thin.”

El Dorghamy aims to balance the advice of her editors, who insist she has to “kill your darlings,” with her desire to tell the long story of Egyptian history, illuminating lost chapters and forgotten tales. “There’s a lot of focus on Egypt’s ancient history, but we have about 3,000 years separating us from that period,” she says.

This willingness to foreground less trendy topics and resist AI-style summaries resonates with readers of all ages, from university students who turn to Rawi for research and academics who use it as a teaching tool, to ordinary Egyptians leafing through the pages of their country’s past.

One of El Dorhmany’s proudest moments came early on, when she learned that a waiter had stashed his café’s copy of the magazine and covered it in sticky notes. “The guy had hidden it for himself to read cover to cover. I thought it was wonderful,” she says.

There have been many highlights since. The day she learned sales of Rawi in a popular bookshop had outstripped The Da Vinci Code, the best-selling novel by Dan Brown, or when the magazine went on sale at The British Museum in London and The Louvre in Paris.

Unfortunately, these successes don’t translate into profits at the newsstand. El Dorghamy is “not a salesperson” but has to devote considerable time to fundraising. Economic turmoil, currency devaluations, and regional conflicts have made that job harder, but “there are still a lot of very enlightened individuals and entities and foundations that have supported Rawi and kept it going over these years,” she says.

Meanwhile, the Rawi team is finding ways to diversify. They recently produced the catalog for the Suez Canal Museum, and she has expanded into the art space, curating exhibitions that tell the physical stories of print editions.

Working alongside artists and gallerists has inspired new ways of presenting complex historical material for different audiences. El Dorhamy recently curated The Medical History Gallery at Al Nas Hospital, a visual journey through the history of medicine and healing in Egypt. She recognizes that while some people like sitting with a book or scrolling online, others prefer walking through a space and experiencing the information firsthand.

Looking ahead, she will continue to experiment with formats and audiences, but Rawi remains rooted in print, despite the challenges that commitment brings. “I refuse to compromise,” she says. “The day I let go of Rawi will be when I’ve completely given up on life, and thankfully, there are people who won’t let me.”

The decision to launch Jordan’s first remote recruitment platform for women was personal. Six months after giving birth to her daughter, Sawsan Lubani confronted a stark reality: Either relinquish the career she loved and become a stay-at-home mother, or accept a demotion and a salary cut. “I had no choice,” she says.

After getting married, Lubani moved from Amman to Zarqa, an industrial city northeast of the capital where professional opportunities were scarce. The daily commute to Amman was expensive and unsafe for a woman traveling alone. Away from family and friends to help with childcare, she was unable to find work.

“I faced an identity crisis. I didn’t even know who I was anymore,” she says.

Then a former colleague reached out with a remote work opportunity. The report-writing job paid around $250 a month—far below a livable wage in Jordan—but for Lubani, it represented a valuable opportunity. “I could stay at home with my daughter and avoid a career gap in my resume,” she says.

At 5am, the alarm would sound. Creeping quietly to her desk, she worked quickly, trying to get ahead before her daughter woke. Initially, she was simply grateful to be working again, but over time, she realized she could help other Jordanian women balance family life with flexible work.

When the COVID-19 pandemic normalized working from home, she saw an opportunity. In 2023, after completing incubator programs in Jordan and graduating from the Founder Institute in Silicon Valley, Lubani launched iRole, a recruitment platform that connects women with remote jobs and skills training.

“I wasn’t someone who wanted to become an entrepreneur,” the 38-year-old says. “I just had an idea to get myself out of this place and help other women do it too.”

Across the region, startups like iRole are offering an alternative to traditional recruitment systems, filling in where universities and outdated labor laws have struggled to keep pace.

Three years after its launch, iRole has connected women across Jordan to remote roles in fields including accounting, marketing, administration, and design. One woman works as an accountant for a Dubai-based company, while another is a designer advising a Jordanian student doing a PhD in London.

The platform also helps women navigate cultural barriers. In parts of Jordan, conservative norms prevent women from working outside the home. Others leave the workforce after having children because salaries barely cover travel and childcare costs.

“An entry-level salary in Amman might be around $500 a month,” says Lubani. “Commuting from Zarqa, I needed $200 for travel and $200 for daycare. The salary hardly covers the expenses.”

Remote work, she says, affords the flexibility women need to maintain their careers while managing family responsibilities. “I do what I need to do when I need to do it. I have a schedule for me and for my kids, know when to work, when to go to the gym, when to work overnight.”

But new platforms are still colliding with old realities.

In Egypt, Mohammed Orabi founded the recruitment and training platform Matloub after a frustrating period of job searching. He had changed jobs at least ten times in two years, often traveling more than 10 hours from Upper Egypt to Cairo, only to discover that the role was unsuitable or, worse, a scam.

This experience is not unusual in Upper Egypt, a rural region where job opportunities outside the agricultural sector are scarce. The area is home to some of the poorest communities in the country and unemployment rates are high.

Orabi launched Matloub in 2021 to provide young people with real opportunities and to help companies access talent from an often-overlooked pool. They also provide training and mentorship to equip candidates with in-demand skills.

Many young people in Upper Egypt lack access to career guidance or professional training. “People don’t understand job duties and responsibilities,” Orabi says. “There’s a huge gap between education and what companies actually need.”

Orabi believes this disconnect between jobseekers and employers represents an “urgent challenge” in the labor market.

“Universities are not doing enough to prepare students,” he says.

To date, his agency has worked with 60,000 people and secured 40,000 jobs in banking, pharmaceuticals, customer service and sales, among other sectors. Orabi credits this success to a hands-on approach that supports job-seekers through their first few months in a new role.

“We help them onboard and settle in,” he says. “A lot of people feel alone when they start a new role.”

Matloub also acts as a middleman to protect young people from exploitation and scams. Common deceptions include positions in the Gulf that require an employee to cover travel expenses for a role that doesn’t exist.

In Egypt, misleading salary advertisements and workplace mistreatment are frequently reported. Egypt’s 2025 Labor Law has introduced stronger protections for workers, but doubts remain about the legislation’s capacity to change a culture of workplace exploitation. “Employment laws are not enforced,” Orabi says.

Employers, meanwhile, complain that candidates graduate without the necessary soft skills, pointing to exaggerated CV’s and an over-reliance on AI tools in job applications. “Many don’t know how to send an email or how to deal with a problem,” says Lubani. “They lack communication and critical thinking skills.”

Governments across the region are investing in entrepreneurship and digital skills to diversify their economies and reduce the employment burden on bloated public sectors.

In Jordan, startups are supported through funding initiatives that aim to improve the business environment and spur investment. Egypt’s Communications Ministry similarly provides grants and training for students to bolster digital skillsets and meet the needs of the job market.

But founders like Lubani and Orabi believe that grassroots platforms are better placed to understand the challenges that face sidelined jobseekers. “They are enthusiastic, they really want to work and offer something to society; all they need is someone to put them in the right place,” Orabi says.

Similar gaps between education and employment are compounding unemployment and impeding economic growth elsewhere in the region.

In northwestern Iraq, Murad Ismael, now a Member of Parliament, founded Sinjar Academy to fill a vacuum in the labor market and furnish youth with skills to revitalize the economy after years of conflict.

IT and tech skills are in high demand in Iraq, but here too, outdated university courses fail to prepare students for the workforce, and many struggle to find jobs after they graduate.

Sinjar Academy runs courses in programming, digital media and computer skills to help people find jobs and revitalize a community devastated by war. “Overall, it’s not a very technology-supportive environment in Iraq, but we’re trying to create the skills and opportunities to drive this forward,” Ismael says.

Education is also a way for people to process what they have suffered. The memory of the 2014 genocide, when ISIS killed and abducted thousands of Yazidis from Sinjar and surrounding villages, hangs over the community. Many people are still displaced after years of conflict, while efforts to rebuild have been hampered by a lack of funding from the central government.

Equipping the next generation with relevant skills will help reboot the economy and transition away from overreliance on NGOs, says Ismael. “If people have good skills, they will get work. The issue is not having a degree; it’s about the ability and opportunity to make the most of their lives.”

Across Jordan, Egypt, and Iraq, these entrepreneurs are addressing problems that governments, universities, and employers have struggled to solve. Their approaches differ, but they share a common belief that talent exists everywhere, even where opportunity does not. The challenge is building the bridges that connect the two.

The Arab world’s employment crisis cannot be solved by startups alone. But by connecting overlooked talent with real opportunities, entrepreneurs like Lubani, Orabi, and Ismael are showing that some of the most effective solutions begin far from government ministries and boardrooms.

Kunafa breakfast sandwiches, folded banknotes, clothes swaps, and communal cooking sessions. For the team, the magic of Eid comes from the warmth of childhood memories mingling with family traditions, even those they would rather let go.

It is a time when people reconnect with relatives, visit neighbors, share meals, help those in need, and temporarily set aside disagreements. Rooted in Islamic faith, Eid is a moment of reflection and prayer, when Muslims remember the Prophet Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son Ismail in an act of obedience to God.

It is also, like Christmas, Diwali and many major festivals around the world, a lot of work. Houses grow noisy and people crowd in. There are endless rounds of hugging relatives and children tear from room to room, hyped up on sweets. It is, as Hussein Ibrahim describes, “exhausting and beautiful at the same time.”

Growing up, Eid meant gifts and sweets, the excitement enhanced by mischief-making with cousins as indulgent parents turned a blind eye. For adults, the meaning shifts as they take on the pressures and pleasures of creating the Eid magic in turn.

Planning, hosting, and cooking replace the carefree Eids of childhood but bring a different kind of joy that comes from caring for others. Family rituals take on a deeper significance, connecting loved ones across generations.

“Even the simplest traditions carry emotional meaning,” says Rafal Al Adilee, describing the comfort of familiar voices, the return of childhood memories, and the smell of homemade sweets. Above all, she cherishes the opportunity to bring family together, suspending the demands of everyday life long enough to reconnect and remember the bonds that matter most.

Faisal Saeed Al Mutar: Eid in Berlin

President and CEO, Ideas Beyond Borders

I spent Eid in Berlin this year and enjoyed a celebratory meal with our Bayt al-Hikma Editor, Ahmed Reda. In some ways, it felt close to the atmosphere of Eid in Iraq, where I grew up. The Berlin neighborhood of Wedding has a large Arab community, with strong Syrian, Iraqi and Turkish influences. Many of the restaurants were decorated with balloons and families were out in the streets celebrating. Living in New York, I often feel furthest from the Middle East at Eid, when the communal atmosphere we enjoyed in Iraq seems very remote. But walking around this Berlin neighborhood, wishing people “Eid Mubarak,” we found something of the spirit that makes Eid special and reminds me how it felt back home.

Issam Fawaz: Eid in Lebanon

Communications Manager, Bayt al-Hikma, Contributor, Middle East Uncovered

For me, Eid has always been tied to food, family, and the feeling of everyone slowing down to be together. My strongest Eid memories are starting the morning with a warm kunafa sandwich for breakfast—yes we eat kunafa as a sandwich for breakfast—then spending the whole day waiting for those delicious warak enab (stuffed vine leaves) that takes hours to prepare. By lunchtime, the entire family would gather at my grandmother’s house around one table.

As a child, Eid meant excitement, new clothes, sweets and toys. As an adult, I don’t get toys anymore, but Eid symbolizes continuity—the comfort of traditions that remain unchanged even as life around us changes. The meals themselves became symbols of care, patience, and family effort. That is what Eid feels like to me: not just celebration, but belonging.

Hussein Ibrahim: Eid in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq

MENA Director, Ideas Beyond Borders

Growing up in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, Eid was never simply a holiday. It was filled with anticipation, noise, family, generosity, and a temporary suspension of everyday worries. Even today, despite the responsibilities and pressures of adulthood, Eid still carries the emotional warmth of childhood memories that refuse to fade.

As children, the excitement of Eid often began the night before. One of my favorite memories is placing my new clothes neatly folded beside my pillow at bedtime. It felt impossible to sleep with all the excitement. We knew that the next morning would bring joy in every form imaginable: new clothes, visits from relatives, candies collected from house to house, and folded banknotes given to us by parents and relatives during visits. To a child, that money felt like a fortune. We would spend it on video games, playgrounds, sweets, or small toys that seemed incredibly important at the time.

Eid, during childhood, meant freedom from worry. My world revolved around collecting candies and playing with cousins, neighbors, and visiting relatives. The atmosphere itself felt kinder. Even our mischievousness was tolerated more than usual. During Eid, adults seemed more forgiving, more patient, and more generous. The holiday carried a sense of mercy that extended even to children’s endless chaos and noise.

As an adult, the meaning of Eid has changed significantly. Today, I find myself on the receiving end of responsibility rather than generosity. Instead of waiting for gifts, I think about preparations, expenses, hospitality, and ensuring that others enjoy the holiday. The financial and emotional responsibilities attached to Eid can sometimes feel exhausting and make the holiday less carefree than it once was. Yet adulthood also reveals something deeper about Eid: it is ultimately about caring for others, preserving family bonds, and creating joy for the next generation in the same way our parents once did for us.

Family traditions are what make Eid especially meaningful in our home. In my hometown, we do not begin Eid with breakfast. Instead, an elaborate lunch is prepared early in the morning. By midday, my parents’ house transforms completely. My ten sisters and seven brothers gather with their children, and the house becomes something resembling a kindergarten—crowded, loud, chaotic, and alive. Every room fills with conversations, laughter, crying children, and endless movement. It is exhausting and beautiful at the same time. The noise is part of our Eid.

Some of my most memorable Eid moments took place during one of the most difficult periods in Iraq’s modern history. During the aftermath of the First Gulf War, Iraq was suffering under international sanctions, while the Kurdistan Region was simultaneously facing an additional embargo imposed by Saddam Hussein’s government. Poverty was widespread, and even basic food items were difficult for many families to afford.

At one point during Eid, my mother’s uncle arrived at our home with his family, along with three other families from Mosul. Nearly fifty people ended up living together in our house for almost three months. Space, food, and comfort were all limited, but families survived through togetherness.

Then came one unforgettable Eid moment. My mother’s uncle suddenly began screaming dramatically and clutching his stomach in apparent agony. Everyone believed he was seriously ill. My mother, grandparents, and aunts began crying, fearing he might be dying from severe abdominal pain. In the middle of the panic, he weakly requested Coca-Cola. My eldest brother rushed to the small shop behind our house and bought a few boxes of Coca-Cola bottles—something considered a luxury at the time.

My uncle immediately began drinking one bottle after another while my brother distributed the rest among the crowded household. Then, suddenly, my uncle burst into laughter and announced proudly, “Bon appétit! Drink the amazing Coca-Cola because of me. I am the reason you are all drinking Coca-Cola now!”

The room instantly shifted from fear to outrage and laughter. My grandparents and father began shouting at him, furious that he had pretended to be dying simply to justify buying Coca-Cola for everyone. Yet years later, that absurd moment remains one of the clearest memories of Eid in our family—not because of hardship, but because humor and togetherness somehow survived despite it.

That, perhaps, is what Eid truly represents: the ability of families to create joy, laughter, and unforgettable memories even during the hardest times.

Rafal Al Adilee: Eid in Turkey

MENA Project Manager, Ideas Beyond Borders

The moment I hear the sound of the mosques reciting the Eid takbeer (call to prayer) at dawn, I still get the exact same feeling I had as a little girl: a shiver of happiness and comfort, realizing that Eid has finally arrived. It is a reminder of family, gratitude, faith, and how blessed we are to have people to share these moments with.

In our family, Eid is made special by the little traditions that repeat every year and somehow never lose their magic. The early morning takbeer from the mosques, the trays of Eid sweets prepared for guests, visiting relatives first thing in the morning, and gathering around breakfast together all create an atmosphere that feels uniquely comforting.

This Eid, my husband and I decided to step away from the noise and pressure of everyday life and spend the holiday somewhere peaceful. We booked a farmhouse in the countryside to enjoy quality time with family, away from the rush of the city. As life becomes busier and more demanding, Eid starts to feel less about grand celebrations and more about slowing down, reconnecting, and appreciating the people closest to us. For me, the true spirit of Eid has always been found in those quiet moments shared with loved ones.

Some of my most cherished Eid memories come from growing up in Iraq. They may seem simple, but they carry a warmth and intimacy that stays with you forever.

One tradition I remember vividly was gathering with the family the night before Eid to make kleicha—traditional Iraqi pastries filled with dates, nuts, and sweet spices. The whole house would come alive with activity: kneading dough, preparing fillings, shaping the pastries together, and filling the kitchen with unforgettable aromas. It wasn’t just about the food itself; it was the feeling of togetherness that made it special.

And of course, no childhood Eid memory would be complete without Eidiya—the small amounts of money gifted from parents and relatives to children. As kids, it felt magical. It meant new clothes, family visits, sweets, and the anticipation of celebrations.

Now, as adults, there is something equally beautiful about being able to give back to parents and younger family members and continue the tradition ourselves. Life changes, responsibilities grow, and relationships evolve with time. It becomes harder to gather everyone together as often as before, and people become consumed by work and daily routines. I cannot honestly say Eid feels exactly the same as it did in childhood—but somehow, the emotion still returns every year.

There is also a funny side to it. In many Middle Eastern families, we are not always overly expressive with affection in daily life, so on Eid morning everyone suddenly becomes emotional and affectionate at once. You end up hugging every sibling and relative, exchanging heartfelt wishes, and pretending you are not embarrassed while doing it. Somehow, that awkwardness is part of the charm.

John Aziz: Eid in London

Contributor, Middle East Uncovered

Eid contains a strange tension for me. At its root, Eid al-Adha is inspired by a story about the biblical patriarch Abraham’s willingness out of blind faith to sacrifice his own son Isaac. It’s a powerful story. It carries emotion. But this mentality of blind faith can be dangerous. There are many extremists in the world who seek to convince us to sacrifice ourselves and our families for their ideological goals. This, more or less, is what the leaders of Hamas asked of the people of Gaza in 2023 until now.

As a child from a Muslim family when I was growing up, I understood none of that complexity. Eid simply meant a feast of delicious Palestinian food, family gathering, noise, warmth.

As an adult, I still feel a kind of reverence for the way ancient religious traditions and festivities carry memories, bind families together, and connect us to people and places. But I also see this festival as a warning. Faith in God is one thing. Faith in religious or political extremists who claim to speak on behalf of God? That’s quite another thing.

As Eid unfolds in London, I find myself caught between gratitude for the beauty of these ancient religious inheritances, and concern about those who choose to channel religion into violent ideology, and then demand sacrifices of everybody around them.

Lana al Jaf: Eid in Erbil

Graphic Designer, Ideas Beyond Borders and Middle East Uncovered

When I was a child and during the late nineties, I looked forward to Eid like every other kid. Due to the economic state of Iraq, almost everyone was living paycheck to paycheck, so buying new clothes and shoes was a rare treat. But for Eid, parents had to get their children brand new everything. I remember gathering with my cousins to strategically decide who was buying what so we could trade clothes later and avoid repetition.

On the first day of Eid, we would all gather in our grandparents’ house. After we finished eating, the race would begin to gather as much money as we could from the adults. A rich uncle that lives abroad and doesn’t see us much would give generously to compensate for his absence, while the aunt we see every weekend had little cause to impress us—she already did that by making us food and letting us stay over all the time. After squeezing the adults for every last penny, we’d gather to see who got the most. One time we managed to convince our youngest cousin that larger bills were worth less and swap. He still hasn’t forgiven us for that trick.

As years passed and the security situation made moving around the city more dangerous, it became easier to just call everyone and say “Eid Mubarak!” As a result, those strong bonds and traditions slowly faded in my family. It even became annoying, to the point where we would fake being sleep till noon to avoid the awkward phone call to a distant relative who wishes you the same thing every year—to succeed in school, or to marry well, or to stay healthy and keep your parents safe.

As an adult, living miles away from my relatives, all I can do is call people with well-tailored wishes and send money to nieces and nephews. It’s fair to say that I liked Eid much more as a child.

Ahmad Mansoor Ramizy: Eid in Toronto

Afghanistan Country Director, Ideas Beyond Borders, Reporter, Middle East Uncovered

Eid feels a bit different this year, but in the best way. My aunt and her two grandchildren are visiting from France, and some of us haven’t seen them in more than five years. More than anything, Eid is about coming together and having them here makes this one especially meaningful.

My favorite Eid memory is from the last few years of my life in Afghanistan. Our family had a garden on the outskirts of Kabul, with a beautiful villa surrounded by greenery, fruit trees, and open space. That was where we would gather for the sacrifice and to spend time as a family.

At its busiest, there would be fifty or sixty people feasting, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. Those afternoons in the garden are some of my most cherished family memories. They were among the last times I remember all of us truly together before circumstances put oceans between us.

When I was growing up, Eid also meant the arrival of “Eidi,” or cash gifted to the younger generation from elders. As a kid, that meant everything to me. It was the highlight of the holiday.

Now that I am an adult, Eid is less of a religious obligation and more of a tradition centered around family and coming together. It is less about what you receive or what you wish from god, and more about who is with you and physically present. This year, with family traveling from far away to celebrate together, that feeling is stronger than ever.

Hela Boubaker knows instantly when her bees are upset. The pitch of their buzzing indicates all is not well in the hive. A beekeeper must be attuned to dozens of these subtle noise variations. “I know if they are hungry, or the queen is sick, or if there is a lack of food in the area, and they need to be moved. It’s like a mother with her babies. I see these bees as my kids,” says Boubaker.

Her decision to work with hives followed a harrowing incident at her sister’s wedding in 2018. As guests laughed and chatted at the venue near their home in Manouba, Tunisia, the scent of sweet foods and juices attracted a swarm of bees. “It was summer, when it’s not easy for them to find food. They were probably stressed and hungry,” she says.

Everyone was stung, including Boubaker, who is allergic to bee venom. She spent the next few days in the hospital on oxygen, recovering from the attack.

The experience stirred something in Boubaker. Studying environmental sciences at university, she understood the risks facing bees in the wild, where estimates suggest that one in ten species faces extinction.

In Tunisia, where more than 300,000 hives are tended by around 13,000 apiarists, beekeeping is integral to the farming economy. Boubaker saw how her skills could benefit both bees and the communities that keep them. “I took it as a challenge to save bees,” she says.

Over the next few years, she developed a multi-pronged approach that would combine an emerging interest in beekeeping with her scientific background. Using the proceeds from her hives, she launched a project to support apiarists in rural Tunisia while developing digital devices to advance hive health.

Today, the 29-year-old owns 280 hives and visits them whenever she can. “Bees can detect whether you’re happy or sad. Instead of talking to my husband or father about what’s stressing me out, I go and speak to the bees,” she says.

Between her responsibilities as a beekeeper, her university studies, and an ongoing project to develop a non-invasive device for the extraction of bee venom, Boubaker’s days are full. But her hard work has already paid off.

In 2021, she was approached by the Ministry of Agriculture to lead a team tasked with developing beekeeping in Tunisia. They were intrigued by the news reports about her work in rural communities, helping local women become beekeeping entrepreneurs.

Boubaker teaches these women the art of beekeeping and connects them with buyers for honey and venom. One kilo of honey sells for around $30, while bee venom, valued for cosmetic and medicinal purposes, fetches around $60 a gram.

Hives cost around $150 each, but with careful upkeep, they provide a steady return. A single hive can produce three to four kilos of honey per year and around 200g of venom every three months—enough to support a family.

“These women are really grateful. They feel more worthy now that they are contributing financially and working on their own,” she says.

Boubaker visits a different village every day of the week, spending at least 3 hours on the road. The work is not for profit, and she often supplies their equipment herself. “It’s the way I have been raised. My mother was always deep in debt but insisted on helping others,” she says.

In these rural communities, patriarchal values prevent many women from seeking employment. Life is tough, and opportunities are scarce for mothers like Fatma, whose husband was reluctant to let his wife work.

Boubaker’s commitment and family-minded approach gradually reassured him, and Fatma now generates a stable monthly income. She is among 23 female beekeepers and 15 men benefiting from Boubaker’s support through an Agricultural Development Group (GDA), one of more than 2,700 such collectives across the country.

Boubaker’s GDA assists rural women across multiple income-generating activities, including beekeeping, farming, and business development. Since launching, she has forged ties with local authorities, regional institutions, and government ministries to open up fields that have traditionally been dominated by men.

Beekeeping is one such profession. “When I decided to enter the field, everyone was against it,” Boubaker recalls. Only her parents were supportive. Over time, friends and relatives witnessed the success of her project and saw the impacts unfold.

A government drive to support beekeeping in Tunisian communities, where the tradition often dates back generations, has enhanced her work. Every loan Boubaker secures from the bank is bolstered by a government subsidy, along with capacity-building initiatives, easy access to forage areas, and field visits available through local programs like hers. “Of course, the sector is not easy, but there is continuous encouragement,” she says.

Tunisia is already known for high-quality, natural honey. Now, Boubaker wants to raise the profile of its bee venom, often referred to as “bee gold” due to its potent composition and intensive harvesting methods. Research suggests that bee venom may offer a wide range of possible health benefits, from reducing inflammation to treating chronic illnesses.

“I intend to invest to make myself, Tunisia, and the rural women I work with remarkable players in this domain,” she says.

While most systems for extracting bee venom are manual and battery-operated, Boubaker’s Bee Venom Collector is a smart device that offers remote hive monitoring and accurate data on venom extraction in real time.

The machine stimulates the bee gently to extract venom without causing harm. It also assesses the bees’ mood. A stressed queen lays fewer eggs, while hungry worker bees become aggressive and prone to robbing other hives. Understanding these signals is crucial, says Boubaker. “The machine analyzes 36 bee sounds to detect whether the queen is stressed or happy, so we know when to stop extraction and when to resume it.”

It also contains a GPS tracker in case the hive is stolen.

Hive theft is common in Tunisia, where climate change presents new challenges for beekeepers. Some apiarists have resorted to stealing hives after losing their livelihoods to rising temperatures and fires. Police patrols have reduced crime rates in recent years, but creative solutions are needed to help beekeepers adapt.

This is where Boubaker’s approach comes full circle. She plans to make her device available at an affordable price to improve honey bee health and boost business for beekeepers in Tunisia as they confront a changing climate.

By 4am every morning, she is already on the road. The closest hive location is a 200-kilometer round trip, and she needs to get back in time for university, before working on the patent for her Bee Venom Collector in the evening. Finding time for her own bees is difficult, but these are the moments when she pauses and reflects on her work. In the eight years since bee stings landed her in the hospital, she has changed dozens of lives, including her own.

“I’m proud of my personal development,” she says. “I changed from Hela, the shy girl who only does what other girls are doing, to Hela, who founded a company and now helps other women achieve their potential.”

“What It’s Like To Be” takes readers inside the lives of people working in remarkable and often demanding professions across the Middle East. Each installment offers an intimate look at the realities shaping their daily world. Look for WILTB in your inbox every Sunday.

Kanyaw Abubakr is cautious by nature, so her sudden shift from teacher to carpenter came as a surprise. In the Kurdistan Region of Iraq (KRI), carpentry is considered a male profession, but the 29-year-old wanted to “challenge myself and my community at the same time.”

Only a small number of women work in carpentry across Iraq. Traditional ideas around female roles leave little space for less conventional careers in a country where women make up just 14 percent of the labor force. However, recent years have seen a handful of women break barriers in fields traditionally dominated by men as patriarchal norms come under pressure to accommodate a changing workforce.

For Abubakr, the move is more than a career change. After seven years in academia, it’s also a lifestyle choice. At the end of the working day, her mind feels frazzled while her body buzzes with restless energy. Working with wood brings her peace of mind. “I have good hands for making. It feels satisfying to use my body,” she says.

Abubakr has always enjoyed crafts, but this time, a hobby squeezed around work hours isn’t enough. “I don’t want to wait for the future to realize this ambition. I have to start now,” she says.

The former language teacher is not, as she puts it, a natural entrepreneur, though she does have experience as co-founder of a fixer agency that assists journalists in Iraq. Her strengths lie in persistence and a dogged approach to learning. “There are people out there who can make better things, but I’m quick, and I’m interested. I believe everyone can learn if they are dedicated to the work,” she says.

She is relying on this spirit of perseverance to push ahead with her new business, Narewenn, even as the Kurdish region is drawn deeper into the US-Israeli war on Iran. Despite efforts to maintain a neutral stance, the KRI has been targeted by retaliatory strikes due to the presence of US bases and Iranian-backed militias on its territory.

The war has caused major disruptions, exacerbating financial uncertainty, destabilizing oil markets, and curbing economic activity due to prolonged power outages.

Abubakr is usually at the workshop from early morning to late afternoon, but with just a few hours of electricity each day, she has been forced to cut back. The sudden onset of the crisis reinforces the risks that come with investing in a start-up, but it hasn’t dampened her determination. “It’s hard, but we keep working,” she says.

Without start-up capital, Abubakr uses a friend’s workshop while she saves to purchase her own machines. She envisions a large makerspace with sections for woodwork, jewelry, ironwork, and other hand-crafted items. “It feels possible. Such spaces are emerging here,” she says, pointing to flagship projects like the Culture Factory, which have helped establish Sulaymaniyah as the creative capital of Iraqi Kurdistan.

For now, she is focusing on carpentry, filling a gap in the market for high-quality woodwork.

In the past, almost every community in the KRI had a woodworker who took care of houses in the neighborhood, but many have now closed. Abubakr is confident she can make a living from carpentry, but says that to thrive, she will need to innovate. This means creating unique pieces and harnessing social media to market her work. “It’s not as simple as securing a fund to get going. I have to build the business step-by-step,” she says.

Ongoing economic struggles have undermined the potential of small businesses to succeed in the KRI, though recent steps to streamline the regulatory environment have made it simpler to launch startups. Most of Abubakr’s friends work in offices, but a growing number are launching their own businesses, she says. Some see it as a way to supplement income in a country where soaring youth unemployment, an underdeveloped private sector, and a bloated public sector limit opportunities for young Kurds. Others, like Abubakr, are pursuing long-term goals.

“For me, the thinking process is drawn-out, but when I act, it’s decisive,” she says.

On weekends, she visits the local wood market to educate herself about different materials and indulge in the “guilty pleasure” of running her hands over the smooth surfaces. It fuels her creative energies, but Abubakr wonders whether these materials are sustainably sourced. She suspects not. “Most of the wood is imported, so who knows how it was cut,” she says.

As the impacts of regional conflict upend daily life in her hometown, Abubakr finds solace in the workshop, honing her craft. Her current project, an L-shaped table, was inspired by a mid-century Danish design with two identical units that slide together to form different shapes. The joins must be perfect to ensure a seamless fit, so she has turned to her mentor for guidance. “In a matter of months, he has taught me skills that would take much longer to acquire,” says Abubakr, who hopes one day to oversee a team of carpenters.

It’s a bold ambition in a region where female woodworkers are rare, but Abubakr is already changing attitudes. “People assume that because I’m a woman, I won’t be able to use a saw,” she says. “They are always surprised to see the quality of my work.”