International Migrants Day is observed on December 18 each year to raise awareness about the challenges and difficulties faced by migrants worldwide, while also recognizing their contributions to society and the importance of solidarity. The War Childhood Museum preserves stories of children from various parts of the world who, together with their families, were forced to migrate within or outside of their country due to armed conflict. Read some of these stories that highlight their experiences, challenges, and resilience in the face of displacement.
Displaced Dragon
I liked Poland, there are a lot of very kind people there. I saw teachers taking children around the city, telling them about folk culture and monuments.
This toy is a symbol of Krakow. There were a ton of souvenir shops in Krakow, and every shop had these dragons. I spent almost all my time with him before I moved to Britain.
When I came back to Kyiv again, we went to a store, and in the store there was a toy machine with a dragon just like this lying inside. And I realized that one of the migrant dragons had moved from Krakow to Kyiv.
Arina, b.2013, Ukraine
Life Outside of Gaza
In 2014, my family and I managed to leave Gaza. We spent four years living in Malaysia, where I learned that life is very different outside of Gaza. I went to school and I always felt safe. I even made some friends.
One of those friends loved to make colorful handmade bracelets. I was impressed with how beautiful they were, so I asked her to teach me how to make them. She gave me these rubber bands, as well as the tools that she used, and she taught me how to braid a bracelet. This is one of the bracelets that I made while there.
We returned to Gaza four years ago. I don’t feel as safe here as I did in Malaysia, and I still treasure memories of my time there.
Hala, b. 2007, Palestine
Return to Srebrenica
Before the war reached Srebrenica, we were a typical Yugoslav family. My parents worked, my brother and I went to school, and we spent our vacations on the Adriatic coast. It was a time of peace, brotherhood, and unity. Everything changed abruptly in April 1992, when my parents decided that, for our safety, we had to leave our home and go to stay with relatives in Tuzla.
I was only nine years old, but I will never forget the fear in my parents’ eyes as paramilitary forces stopped us at every turn, and the sense of relief when we finally reached the free territory. Although it was against our will, we managed to start a new life in Tuzla.
Despite living in someone else’s apartment—amidst shelling and without water or electricity—our source of strength was the fact that we were together. That changed in May 1995, when my father received the order to return to Srebrenica—the “safe zone,” a city under siege—by helicopter. That day, we had lunch together; he hugged me, smoked a cigarette with my brother, and kissed my mother. Then he left. My mother and I waved to him from the balcony as my brother walked him out.
On May 7th, 1995, my father died when the helicopter he was riding in crashed. He never got the chance to help his Srebrenica. He never made it back to his city, to his mother and father, after three years of separation. These photographs are a reminder of the many beautiful moments we spent together.
Lejla, b.1982, Bosnia and Herzegovina
My Blue Pillow
In this journal, I wrote down everything I can remember about Syria. I used to read it before I went to sleep. Now, it just holds my memories.
“In my village, the air is light, and trees dance to its rhythm. The smell of the soil touches the soul and the sunset, telling stories and scattering things. I left my pillow, yes, my blue pillow. I used to rest the tiredness of the never-ending playing on that pillow, before 27/07/2012.
Maybe some people would be surprised that I don’t have any nostalgia for anything in my village except my blue pillow. Some people may assume that I miss my grandfather’s house and my childhood classmates, but, sorry to disappoint you, the thing I miss the most is my blue pillow because it is the only thing that could have made me feel safe in my exile.”
Assil, b. 2005, Syria
If I Were a Police Officer
This shirt is a birthday gift from my grandmother. She gave it to me on my 3rd birthday, the last time we were able to celebrate together.
When I grow up, I want to be a police officer because they are powerful and they take care of the borders. But I don’t want to be just any police officer. I want to be the head of police so that when migrants are crossing the border I can send other police officers away. Then, I can help the migrants. I would never capture them.
Ali, b. 2015, Iran
My “Made-Up“ Passport
I remember that April morning when I saw a soldier parked in a tank outside my window. At home, our parents decided on an emergency evacuation of the children from Dobrinja IV. Our neighbors left in their own car and brought me along, hidden in the backseat. We spent some time as refugees in Croatia, and when tensions continued to rise there we headed to Germany. Despite everyone’s kindness toward me, I was incredibly sad and thought endlessly about whether my parents and older brother were alive. I missed them intensely and wanted to go home, regardless of the fact that there was a war going on there. Unfortunately, I needed a passport to return. Not only did I not have a passport, but I did not have a single form of identification because in their state of panic my parents had forgotten to pack them. Luckily, some kind strangers were able to help: they added zeros to my date of birth to arrive at an identification number and we invented a new address. I returned to besieged Sarajevo by way of the tunnel in 1994.
Emina, b. 1983, Bosnia and Herzegovina
