Syrian refugees farm cannabis in Lebanon

The 29-year-old woman, who declined to be identified for safety reasons, left two months ago with her youngest son, 5, to join family including cousins, second cousins and grandparents.

Hind, a Lebanese landowner, spoke of the longstanding ties between Raqqa and the Bekaa, a broad and fertile valley in the centre of Lebanon.

"The Lebanese villagers sometimes call us Daesh," she says, using a derogatory Arabic acronym for Islamic State.

Although what is said may sometimes sound like a joke, she says that she believes that some Lebanese regard Syrian immigrants from Raqqa with caution because of their home region’s association with Islamic State.

Growing cannabis can be a lucrative business for landowners, even if it is illegal in Lebanon.

"Any job in Lebanon makes you $700 per month, but working with drugs can get you $10,000 a day,” says Sharif, a landowner and grower of cannabis.

The woman earns $16 a day processing the plant, which allows her to send some money back home to her family still in Raqqa.

Living in Lebanon has also given her and other refugee women a measure of freedom they didn’t enjoy in Syria, she says.

"In Raqqa I have to be covered from top to bottom, even my eyes are not allowed to show," she says, wearing a tight veil, jeans and long top. "If I went out with what I'm wearing now, I would get a few whips" from Islamic State supporters, she adds.

As she harvests and processes cannabis, the woman constantly thinks of family still in Syria, she says. She aims to get her husband and other son out of Syria to join her.

“It was really hard to flee Raqqa,” she says, declining to give details on how she smuggled herself out of the country. The journey took about five days, much of it on foot. "I want my husband and son to get here, that’s all I want now."