I recently visited Lebanon to reconnect with family and old friends. While spending time in the northern part of the country, I decided to check on a friend who lives there, we have known each other for a while and both shared a passion for soccer. After not seeing him for about a year I was excited to see him again; I was shocked by what happened to him while I was gone. He injured himself very badly, leaving him partially disabled. When I asked what happened, he hesitated. After a moment, he told me he had been chopping wood and injured himself in the process. Something about his tone didn’t sit right with me, but I didn’t press further.

While sitting with relatives a week later, the conversation shifted to the dangerous activities happening along the border separating Lebanon from Syria. They spoke of children and teenagers, some my age, risking their lives to smuggle bread and gasoline to make ends meet. These same children, driven by desperation, also venture into minefields to collect scrap metal from landmines, hoping to earn a little more. Suddenly, my friend’s story made sense. He hadn’t been chopping wood, scavenging for parts to sell, a dangerous gamble taken out of sheer necessity.

For families here, life is a daily battle against poverty. Jobs and education opportunities are scarce, and survival often depends on taking extraordinary risks. For some, those risks include stepping into minefields. It’s heartbreaking to imagine, but underprivileged children—some as young as 13—venture into these deadly zones. Armed with basic tools, they seek to retrieve metal from landmines, hoping to earn a few dollars by selling it as scrap. This dangerous income fills a critical gap for many families but comes at an unthinkable cost. Thinking back to my friend’s hesitation, I can’t help but feel a mix of sadness and anger. Sadness that life has forced so many to take such dangerous paths, and anger that these dangers remain decades after the conflict ended. My friend’s injury isn’t just a personal tragedy; it’s a reflection of a larger crisis—one that demands urgent attention.

After hearing these stories and witnessing their effects firsthand, I’ve realized the importance of sharing them. These children—their bravery, desperation, and suffering—should not go unnoticed. As a global community, we must call for education and teach these people that there are many ways to break the poverty cycle without putting their lives on the line. No child should have to risk their life to provide for their family. We can and must do better by supporting initiatives to support the public school systems in Lebanon. The border between Lebanon and Syria is a place of both beauty and heartbreak. It reminds us of war’s enduring scars and the resilience of those who live with its consequences. By shining a light on these stories, we can inspire change and work toward a world where no child’s life is cut short by the remnants of conflict.

After leaving the northern border, I returned to Beirut just in time for New Year’s celebrations. The city was alive, its streets buzzing with lights, music, and the hopeful laughter of families and friends. Even in the face of challenges, the people of Lebanon hold on to hope. With the recent election of a new president, there’s a renewed sense of possibility for growth and stability. Lebanon is a land of resilience. This invincible spirit gives me faith in my country’s future.

Together, we can create a future where children no longer have to risk their lives for survival. Donate today to support the public schooling system and give these children the education and opportunities they deserve.