On her first day in office, Hind Kabawat, Syria's minister for social affairs and labour, voiced a pressing concern, asking, 'Why are there no more women?' As the only female member of the transitional government amidst ongoing sectarian violence, her role is not merely symbolic; she is intent on pushing for substantial change in a country navigating the tumultuous transition from decades of dictatorship under the Assad regime.
Since the transition began on December 8, 2024, following years of conflict, Kabawat confronts a government plagued by mistakes. She acknowledges the missteps made and the deep-seated grievances of various communities, claiming, 'Mistakes happen in transition.' Yet one of her sternest critiques targets President Ahmed al-Sharaa's failure to include more women in his cabinet, a shortcoming he has promised to address.
Tasked with overseeing the rights and welfare of Syria's most vulnerable, Kabawat's role extends beyond mere policy-making. From orphans and widows to families devastated by conflict, she holds an array of responsibilities. The urgent need to create jobs and provide housing for millions displaced during 14 years of war weighs heavily on her heart as she commits to alleviating human suffering in a country where 90% of the population lives below the poverty line.
Kabawat's dedication to her role is evidenced by her active engagement with communities. Last month, she visited shelters in Aleppo to support those affected by clashes between government forces and Kurdish-led factions. She empathizes deeply with the plight of women and children, offering skills training for handicrafts that could provide economic opportunities, albeit amidst limited resources.
As she champions the empowerment of women, reflections on the political landscape reveal the need for increased female representation, particularly in local elections where only 4% of seats have been filled by women. Kabawat's message at conferences urges groups of women to strategize politically for better representation.
However, the path forward is fraught with challenges. Both internecine disputes and an influx of humanitarian needs present Kabawat with a daunting agenda. Despite her emotional response to the suffering around her, she reiterates, 'I feel responsible for their pain,' while remaining steadfast in her commitment to help rebuild her country. 'It’s another day and it’s back to work,' she declares, ready to face another set of challenges with resolve and determination.
Since the transition began on December 8, 2024, following years of conflict, Kabawat confronts a government plagued by mistakes. She acknowledges the missteps made and the deep-seated grievances of various communities, claiming, 'Mistakes happen in transition.' Yet one of her sternest critiques targets President Ahmed al-Sharaa's failure to include more women in his cabinet, a shortcoming he has promised to address.
Tasked with overseeing the rights and welfare of Syria's most vulnerable, Kabawat's role extends beyond mere policy-making. From orphans and widows to families devastated by conflict, she holds an array of responsibilities. The urgent need to create jobs and provide housing for millions displaced during 14 years of war weighs heavily on her heart as she commits to alleviating human suffering in a country where 90% of the population lives below the poverty line.
Kabawat's dedication to her role is evidenced by her active engagement with communities. Last month, she visited shelters in Aleppo to support those affected by clashes between government forces and Kurdish-led factions. She empathizes deeply with the plight of women and children, offering skills training for handicrafts that could provide economic opportunities, albeit amidst limited resources.
As she champions the empowerment of women, reflections on the political landscape reveal the need for increased female representation, particularly in local elections where only 4% of seats have been filled by women. Kabawat's message at conferences urges groups of women to strategize politically for better representation.
However, the path forward is fraught with challenges. Both internecine disputes and an influx of humanitarian needs present Kabawat with a daunting agenda. Despite her emotional response to the suffering around her, she reiterates, 'I feel responsible for their pain,' while remaining steadfast in her commitment to help rebuild her country. 'It’s another day and it’s back to work,' she declares, ready to face another set of challenges with resolve and determination.
![Caterers, Countless Lives: Detroit Chef's Food Feeds Lebanon's War‑Torn Families","description":"In the suburbs of Dearborn Heights, a 47‑year‑old Lebanese chef turns her catering profits into lifelines for over a million displaced from Lebanon, illustrating how U.S. diaspora communities bridge crises from afar.","summary":"When war in southern Lebanon breaks out, hundreds of thousands flee to neighboring Israel and the United States. Amid rising costs, Mirvet Makki—Detroit‑based caterer—sets aside a portion of her earnings each week to sponsor families back home. Her culinary endeavor, which serves soured couscous stews and savory kibbeh, becomes a quiet lifeline for a nation in economic crisis. The problem mirrors a larger diaspora trend: U.S. Lebanese communities fund relief, rally politically, and keep cultural bonds alive, even as they watch conflict unfold from afar.","image":"https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1588097834006-0edc6c69d944?auto=format&fit=crop&w=640&q=80","text":"<p>In the Detroit suburb of Dearborn Heights, 47‑year‑old Mirvet Makki punches kitchen knives and pushes trays of fragrant Lebanese dishes, the same dishes that stir memories of her childhood village in Bint Jbeil. When the devastating war between Israel and Hezbollah dragged thousands of civilians into tent cities, a wave of refugees hit Lebanon’s southern coast—and the Lebanese diaspora in America felt a pull they could not ignore.</p><p>Every week, Makki allocates a slice of her catering profits to families in Lebanon devastated by aerial bombardments and land mines. She says the money is not a charitable donation in the truest sense. Rather, it is a trans‑national family budget trickle that keeps aunts and cousins fed while they await a return that may never happen. The funds travel across borders to a people whose homes have been reduced to rubble.</p><p>Lebanon’s displacement crisis has reached a scale previously thought unlikely: more than one million of the 6‑million‑strong population—roughly one in six—have fled their homes. The economic damage is brutal and the currency has weakened to the point that the U.S. dollar circulates in many rural markets. Food cost, fuel availability, and basic utilities have all collapsed, leaving communities hungry and desperate.</p><p>“I was thinking, ‘What can I do for other people?’” Makki says. “So I used my business.” She maintains a strict budget, limiting personal overhead to spare enough money for her sisters, nephews, and a small handful of friends who live in the most affected regions.</p><p>Many Lebanese Americans—some of them in the U.S. since the late 1800s—have become the de facto financial lifeline for Lebanon. According to the last census, roughly 625,000 Lebanese‑American residents live in the United States now, though many estimates claim the number could be as high as 1.4 million. Secretary‑General António Guterres shook hands with families in South Lebanon while speaking in Nairobi, underscoring how diaspora remittances are crucial to the country's survival.</p><p>Christians, Sunni and Shiite Muslims, and smaller Druze communities in Lebanon face distinct hardships, but their U.S. cousins unite over common concerns. When the U.S. voted to provide war aid to Israel, a wave of Lebanese Americans gathered around the “uncommitted movement” to protest, and the community also rallied to condemn a Michigan synagogue shooting. These political coalitions share a single aim: to be the voice and the hand for those who cannot lift themselves.</p><p>“When they see suffering in Lebanon, people’s immediate reaction … is for the community to come together, raise funds, raise money, and try to help everybody as much as they can,” says Akram Khater, director of Lebanese Diaspora Studies at North Carolina State University. “Most rely on one another – they are not looking to Washington for the furniture to rebuild.”</p><p>In February, Makki visited her homeland. She saw how the price of living had skyrocketed: a car rental that once cost $200 would now be a luxury. She felt the loss firsthand in a small roadside food stall that had dwindled to a single dish. That trip cemented her determination to channel her income back to Lebanon.</p><p>Some Americans are moving beyond bank transfers; they meet with families on video calls and, when possible, travel to Lebanon themselves to deliver goods or give a hands‑on hand. Nadia Bryant, a 37‑year‑old mother of Troy, Michigan, sends money to her sisters in temporary housing after their village of Ayta ash‑Shab was invaded. “They donated in direct form to orphans,” she says. “They do not even ask to put the money toward their own betterment.”</p><p>While the U.S. still cannot process immigrant visas for Lebanese nationals due to congressional stand‑by, many families despair. Attoui, a Detroit‑based fundraiser, has urged her relatives to immigrate. They are unwilling. “I have all my aunts and my cousins over there,” Attoui says. “So if you could bring [people] here, that would be a relief.”</p><p>Despite the personal losses and cultural distance, the Lebanese diaspora in the U.S. remains fiercely alive. They keep the poise of their homeland, raise money, and stand together in protest. As the war stretches on, the warmth of a pot of stew and the generosity of a family’s earnings become a quiet, daily rebellion against impossible hunger.</p>](/m/d1/2a/d12a9a3593712ff0281d85ddca1a552c8f027c57cb44d7ac67e0241a3bd37d9d/o.webp)
