This is one of the oldest
and most densely populated
refugee camps in the world,
where generations of displaced people
have lived, grown old and died.
It’s called Shatila,
a neighborhood just a couple of miles
south of downtown Beirut,
the capital of Lebanon.
To many it’s a city within a city,
but to others it’s an open-air prison.
Shatila is tiny
- roughly the size of six soccer fields -
and home to more than 20,000 people.
Palestinian refugees have lived here since 1949,
but basic human rights such as clean water,
health care and education are scarcely provided.
With virtually no end in sight after 70 years,
life goes on like an old song set on repeat.
But Shatila, it's also a place
where traditional culture survives against all odds.
Hasan and Wafaa are third-generation
Palestinians refugees born in Lebanon,
and like the rest of the refugees here,
they haven’t been granted citizenship.
Hasan is a traditional dance instructor
and also works up to 16-hour shifts
as a motorcycle delivery man.
There are about half a million Palestinian refugees
like Wafaa and Hasan living in Lebanon.
They make roughly 10% of the country’s population
but their legal status is literally “citizens of another state.”
Regardless of their qualifications,
refugees in Lebanon are forbidden from
practicing 39 professions,
including working as doctors,
lawyers, dentists or engineers.
Most people in this camp
get by doing temporary manual labor
jobs such as construction or working in food service.
They have no benefits or job security.
Hasan and his family spent most of their lives
in this apartment.
His grandparents came to Shatila in 1949
to escape the violence that accompanied the creation of Israel.
Hundreds of thousands of Palestinians
were forced to flee into neighboring countries
like Jordan, Syria, Egypt and Lebanon.
The Israeli state seized their property
and has prevented them from returning home.
Hasan took us to the streets
to show us what life is really like
for young people in the camp.
These are Hasan’s friends.
About 56% of Palestinian refugees are unemployed.
Hasan makes a humble living as a delivery man.
But having a motorcycle, a job and a girlfriend,
here in Shatila is like living the dream.
Lebanon has seen an influx of roughly a million refugees
since the outbreak of the war in Syria.
The camp is no exception
- 50% of the current residents are Syrian-born refugees.
Many, like Samih and Hasoon are of Palestinian descent.
Samih works for a local NGO
producing video stories about life in the camp.
But Hasoon has not been nearly as fortunate as his brother.
Four years ago he rented a motorcycle
and the police stopped him just outside the camp.
He had no license and no registration,
so the police accused him of riding a stolen vehicle.
Hasoon and his family can’t afford to
pay the fine, which doubled this year.
He is one of hundreds of people
who are wanted by the police.
Lebanese authorities don’t enter the camp
unless it’s to capture key criminals.
And that’s a full-fledged operation.
Armed factions are in control of different areas,
and there are also gangs
and cliques with plenty of muscle and fire power.
For the most part,
this refugee community has been left
to fend for itself.
Resources are limited
but they continue to build
to accommodate growing families
and provide basic services
often in makeshift and dangerous ways.
In fact, people in the gun-infested Shatila
have a greater chance of being killed by
an electric shock on the street than by a bullet.
Twice a week Wafaa and Hasan
give free traditional Palestianian dance lessons
to kids in Shatila.
Hasan and Wafaa want to provide a life
for the next generation
- but first they have to work out
how to create lives of their own,
in a place with hardly any opportunities.