Exit Wounds 

Two boys smiling and waving in front of makeshift shelters in a refugee camp, with smoke rising in the background and mountains in the distance.

Independent field reporting project documenting the long aftermath of conflict - capturing the lives, choices, and resilience of displaced communities across the Middle East and Eastern Europe

Kamil Qadri

A man with black hair, sunglasses, and casual clothing stands holding a camera in front of a burning area with smoke and debris, and makeshift structures in the background.

Kamil Qadri is a freelance journalist & founder of Exit Wounds, reporting from post-conflict regions across the Middle East, North Africa, the Balkans, and the Caucuses. His ongoing project, Exit Wounds, documents the long aftermath of war, focusing on youth, return, and displacement in Lebanon, Greece, and Turkey, and beyond.

His work combines field interviews, photography, and policy reporting to bridge the gap between lived experience and international response. In recent months, he has conducted on-the-ground reporting inside Lebanon’s Beqaa Valley, covering the politics of refugee return, the collapse of aid networks, and the daily realities of Syrian families navigating an uncertain future.

Qadri’s reporting centers on clarity, access, and human context, emphasizing the stories that define recovery after conflict rather than its outbreak. His work is guided by a commitment to accuracy and a belief that journalism should record the aftermath with the same urgency as the event itself.

                      DISPATCH 1 UNDER EDITORIAL REVIEW

Qadri reporting in Lebanon’s Beqaa Valley

A refugee camp with tents and temporary shelters, including UNHCR tents, on a dusty ground with some smoke in the background.

FIELD REPORTS

Dispatch One — The Return Dilemma

This is Dispatch One of Exit Wounds - a continuing project documenting the long aftermath of war across the Middle East. Full dispatch under editorial review. Out soon

Jurahiya Camp, West Beqaa Valley, Lebanon · October 2025

Text and photography by Kamil Qadri

In Lebanon’s Beqaa Valley, the war in Syria feels both distant and immediate. A decade after displacement, thousands of Syrians remain caught between permanence and return - raising families in tents while the idea of “home” grows abstract. With Lebanon’s economic collapse deepening and the UN promoting a voluntary return plan, refugees now face a moral and practical question: stay in exile or return to a country reborn under a new flag.

The Syrian Arab Republic no longer exists as it once did. In its place, a new government backed by regional powers is attempting to project stability - reopening schools, restoring utilities, and urging citizens to “come home.”

For those still in Lebanon, this message has found its way into conversation. The people I met spoke of this new Syria not through politics, but through the language of necessity. Their belief, or even mild trust, in this government gives it quiet legitimacy.

For Damascus, every returning family is proof that peace has returned; for those who stay, silence is its own form of resistance.

Inside Jurahiya Camp, between Bar Elias and Al Marj, I spoke with young Syrians, teachers, and families weighing that choice. Some trust the new government and plan to go back once homes are rebuilt. Others say they have nothing left to return to, no roofs, no work, and no certainty that this peace is real.

“Syria is not ready for us to go back to.” - Faraj, 23, from Aleppo

“Many Syrians still have hope. We see a real future.” - Rania, teacher at Jusoor Center

Each conversation revealed a different version of survival, shaped less by politics than by exhaustion. Between lessons, odd jobs, and the daily act of waiting, these refugees are redefining what it means to belong. Their quiet decisions - to stay, to leave, or to believe - will decide whether the new Syrian state becomes reality, or remains a promise made to the displaced.

Dispatch: Athens Moves as One - Inside the November 17 Polytechnic March

Riot police hold a defensive line on Alexandras Avenue as thousands of protesters pass by

Athens — The air was already heavy on Alexandras Avenue by early evening, long before the march reached the U.S. Embassy. What starts every year as a commemoration of the 1973 Polytechnic uprising has become something more layered: a test of political mood, a measure of how Greece sees its alliances, and a glimpse into which way the city’s younger blocs are leaning.

More than an hour before the front banners arrived, riot police units took up positions along the perimeter streets leading to the embassy.

They stood with the practiced stillness of a force that has done this dozens of times, knowing that the march always stops here, and that everything after depends on the mood of the crowd.

By the time the first clusters of protesters reached the avenue, the crowd had thickened into thousands. Older men who lived through past marches walked alongside students who weren’t born when the first antiauthoritarian blocs took shape. Metal barricades rattled under the weight of people leaning over them for a clearer view.

The march moved in formations, not as a loose flow but as coordinated blocs. The most striking among them was a disciplined, almost paramilitary student contingent: black shirts, helmets clipped to their belts, thick wooden sticks wrapped with red flags

These blocs act as their own internal security, a hallmark of Greek protest culture. They’re loud, sharp, and disciplined, exactly the opposite of how protests look in much of the world. When they move, they move as one.

A few meters ahead of them, the lead banners stretched across the width of the avenue, held up by students stepping in time.

A tightly organized leftist student bloc marches in formation toward the police line.

What stood out this year wasn’t violence -there was none in the areas I covered- but choreography. The flow of people, the measured retreat of police lines as the march advanced, the unspoken rules between blocs and officers who have learned to read one another’s posture.

Side streets filled with families watching from a distance. Some cheered; others filmed; others simply stood with hands in pockets, taking in the spectacle as if it were a ritual, which, by now, it is.

Further behind the main blocs, the scene took on a different rhythm: marchers singing, small groups joking with one another, police walking in parallel

By the time the last groups passed the embassy perimeter, the city had quieted. Only the blinking sirens and the fading chants lingered over the avenue. For a brief stretch, Athens felt suspended - a city reenacting its past while trying to assert its present.

The November 17 march is always about memory. But after watching it up close, it’s also clear that it’s about measurement, of power, of solidarity, of who still shows up and why. And like most political rituals, the real story is in who stands in the street when the lights hit them.

On November 17, I covered the annual Polytechnic march in Athens, documenting the protest from start to finish and photographing interactions between demonstrators, police units, and student groups. These are selected images and field observations captured throughout the day.

MAT Police walk next to protesters, shields ready to create a barrier in an instant

A young boy with curly hair in dark clothing walks outdoors, holding a younger child's head, near a makeshift shelter made of fabric with a wooden window on it. Other similar shelters and structures are visible in the background in a desert-like environment.

Fieldwork Gallery

Selected images from the Beqaa Valley, documenting life between displacement and return.

BEQAA VALLEY, LEBANON, OCTOBER 20, 2025

Young boy running beside a red pickup truck carrying a camel in a makeshift truck bed along a dirt road, with shelters and utility poles in a semi-rural area under a clear blue sky.
A young boy stands in a dirt area, looking at smoke rising from a fire in a distant settlement with makeshift structures. Mountains in the background, clear blue sky.
Construction site with partially covered structures wrapped in UNHCR tarps, piles of rocks on dirt ground, and a background of trees, power lines, and a brick wall.
A woman and a young boy standing outdoors in a rubble-filled area with makeshift structures and a fire in the background, under a blue sky and overhanging trees.
A view of a neighborhood with makeshift homes made of tarps and roof patches, with smoke rising in the background under a clear blue sky.
A makeshift settlement with tents and structures made from tarps and tires, two parked cars, and a dirt ground with scattered debris, under a clear blue sky with mountains in the background.
Children playing near damaged tents and debris in a refugee camp with makeshift structures, a tree, and a clear blue sky.
A young boy kneeling inside a barn, holding and smiling at a white goat. In the background, there are several cows near a metal feeding trough and a partially open metal gate letting light into the barn.
A makeshift settlement with temporary structures made of metal sheets, wood, and tarps, branded with UNHCR logos, under a clear blue sky.
A street scene with a man walking near a flock of goats and sheep in front of a multi-story residential building with a balcony. The building has a mix of concrete and brick construction, with some laundry hanging on the balcony railing. There is a tree on the right and trash on the ground.
A dirt pathway runs through a makeshift settlement with tents and temporary structures on either side. In the distance, smoke rises towards a clear blue sky, and mountains are visible in the background.
A person standing in front of a makeshift settlement with tents and piled debris, under a clear blue sky with some trees and utility poles in the background.

FIELD NOTES

Reflections, impressions, and raw observations from ongoing reporting across Lebanon, Greece, and beyond.

Between assignments, I keep a record of what doesn’t fit neatly into a dispatch - fragments of conversation, field reflections, and moments from the road. These notes are written in real time: sometimes in airports, sometimes in camps, always in motion.

COMING SOON

Contact

For assignments, story pitches, or collaborations, please get in touch below.

𝕏 — @KamilQadri_

in — Kamil Qadri

🟧 Substack- Kamil Qadri