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Zaatari’s Wasted Youth
Last week at Zaatari refugee camp, as we sipped tea that was just a few degrees hotter than the air temperature, I asked a 22-year-old refugee named Hamdi why he was so quiet that day. Hamdi’s close friend Yazan, who has been the only pillar of stability in Hamdi’s life since he arrived in the camp, tried to ward us off the subject. “Mike, it’s complicated,” he said. “Forget about it.”.