Jemima Khan: 'War has taken away their childhood' By Alice B-b For You Her recent early morning selfie campaign highlighted the plight of the 6.5 million children caught up in the Syrian civil war. But it all began when Unicef ambassador JEMIMA KHAN visited the refugee camps in Jordan. Alice B-B accompanied her on the trip Jemima with Syrian school children at Za'atari refugee camp in Jordan "I've had this idea," pings an email from Jemima Khan, 40, associate editor at the New Statesman, European editor-at-large for Vanity Fair, mother of two teenage boys and, it turns out, something of a social media whiz, too. She had just returned from a Unicef field trip where she saw first-hand Jordan's sprawling refugee camps; tented cities filled with those displaced as a result of Syria's bloody conflict. "What about a "wake-up call" on social media to highlight the refugee crisis and the 6.5 million children affected by the conflict? Something on Instagram that will raise a stack of money for Unicef - what do you think? Jemima spends time with grade one girls at one of the three schools at Za'atari refugee camp Cut to two weeks later and #WakeUpCall is a viral, early-morning-selfie campaign. By day five it had reportedly reached 300 million across the globe. Jemima has plundered her address book, recruiting friends including Stephen Fry, a swathe of supermodels and Jeremy Clarkson (who posted a bare-chested shot in bed with chef Heston Blumenthal). Even Prime Minister David Cameron has done a spoof #WakeUpCall, depicting Farage and Miliband in bed together, which he presented on ITV's The Agenda show. Jemima chats to students Salam and Shifa Shifa at the whiteboard. Jemima started working for Unicef (United Nations Children's Fund) over 13 years ago while living in Pakistan with her then husband Imran Khan and their young sons Sulaiman and Kasim. I was handing out tents to Afghan refugees at the Jalozai camp in Peshawar, northwest Pakistan. It had been nicknamed "Plastic City" because people were living in bin liners during the monsoon season, with no shelter, food, water or sanitation," she explains. I'll never forget the small boy, bent double under the weight of a 25kg tent. I told him to get an adult to help him. But he explained that his mother had just died in the camp and his father had been killed in the fighting. He had no adult relatives and was now the head of the household, responsible for five younger siblings, including a baby. He was just seven years old, only a few years older than my eldest son at that time. This small boy had all the concerns and responsibilities of an adult, and had his childhood taken away from him. Unicef got in touch and asked Jemima to be an ambassador. Since then she has flown the flag for the charity, raising awareness and funds for those in need, including at the Swat refugee camp in Pakistan and Kibera slum in Nairobi. Last year, Jemima hosted the Halloween Ball in London, raising money for Syrian children, the innocent victims of a complicated war. "Everyone dreads a poncy charity fundraiser - but they work," she explains. I wanted to make it as informal and unfancy as possible, so decided to auction blankets and water supplies in the camp, rather than holidays on fancy yachts. With the help of entertainment from Robbie Williams, Lily Allen and Ewan McGregor, over £1 million was raised. Boys playing football at Za'atari camp; Jemima with the grade nine girls I joined her in Jordan. We flew to the capital Amman, and then travelled an hour northwest to Za'atari camp to see how the money raised from last year's Halloween Ball is being spent. The camp sprang up in 2012 when 4,000 refugees a day were pouring over the border from Syria with nothing but their documents, the clothes on their backs and - if their houses hadn't been bombed - their door keys. Most arrived thinking they'd be in Jordan for a couple of weeks. In fact, many have been at Za'atari for nearly three years and the camp is now at capacity, with a population of 80,000 registered refugees. Our first stop is to visit girls at school. "I heard Bill Clinton talk recently," says Jemima. He said that educating women was the answer to the world's population crisis, would ease food shortages and slow the erosion of natural resources, because girls who are educated have fewer children. Plus, if you educate a mother, you educate a new generation. There are currently three schools at Za'atari, educating 16,000 pupils. Girls go to school in the mornings; boys in the afternoon. The thirst for education is clear, with "I Heart School" painted on to the side of airless classrooms packed with 50 pupils per class, each one aware that learning could be their golden ticket out of this limbo-land. We visit a class of ambitious teenage girls who want to be doctors, lawyers, pharmacists and teachers. Jemima chats (via a translator) to the two girls beside her as if they were old friends. Anyone observing the ease with which Jemima makes them feel comfortable and a bit special can't fail to be reminded of her friend and fellow humanitarian Diana, Princess of Wales. Later Jemima remembers, "I visited Imran's cancer hospital in Pakistan with Princess Diana a couple of times and saw her in action. She had this real gift, a natural way with people that put them at ease; sick children would suddenly be smiling and laughing and oblivious to the cameras pointing at them. She was amazingly unprecious when she stayed with us in Lahore. She did her own ironing and slept in Imran's dressing room. She even came with me once when I went shopping for groceries at the supermarket. The checkout girl was dumbfounded. Both girls Jemima talks to - Shifa, 16, and Salam, 15 - fled their homes in the city of Dera'a, southern Syria. Shifa animatedly explains, "Our house was bombed. We were trapped in the fighting between the Free Syrian Army [FSA] and President Assad's men and were stopped at the checkpoint. But finally after three days we managed to cross the border into Jordan. Jemima asks her how she feels about being in the camp. "When we first came I used to cry every day," says Shifa. I didn't like it. I wanted to go back to Syria. The services are poor. There's no hot water. And the hygiene isn't good. But I'm getting used to it. As we leave the school, buoyed by the pupils" energy and enthusiasm, Jemima explains to me that Syria has a high literacy rate: "It's 90 per cent, but inside the camp many children have to give up school to work and support the family or drop out because of early marriage...things they wouldn't be doing if they were still in Syria." 'Everyone we spoke to has one wish... and that's to go home' Underage marriage is one of the many grim, childhood-stealing side effects of this conflict. Many of the refugee families are matriarchal; fathers and older men of the family are either dead, fighting with the FSA, or have stayed in Syria to protect what remains of their home or land. So Za'atari isn't always safe: within the camp both teenagers and children can be under threat of domestic violence, abuse or even rape. For mothers, marrying off their daughters is a way of having one less thing to worry about. Plus, a dowry, the traditional gift of money to the bride's family, helps in a situation where everyone is financially desperate. We drive along Za'atari's 7.4km perimeter and then deep into the camp through a dusty maze of endless white tents, FSA flags flapping beneath a china-blue sky. I ask Jemima how Za'atari compares to other refugee camps she's visited. "Well, the most shocking thing is not the chaos, because there isn't really any chaos," she replies. It's the blank orderliness of it, the neutrality of the place and all the refugees in limbo. There's something so disturbing about this no-man's-land. They're just waiting and they don't know if or when they'll be able to go back. Everyone we spoke to has one wish...and that's to go home. Jemima with the grade nine girls We arrive at a wheel-less caravan and meet 15-year-old divorcée Maryam with her mother and four brothers and sisters who had fled when their house in Dera'a was bombed. Jemima sits cross-legged on a mattress on the floor; the family's sofa by day, bed by night. Maryam tells us how she was violently abused by her father and uncle. Were you standing up for your mother? "Yes," says Maryam. I stood up to my father for the bad treatment of my mother. She lifts her headscarf to reveal two angry scars across her face. She explains how, partly in a bid to escape the clutches of her father, she was married (although it was never registered) in Za'atari camp aged 13. But Maryam's husband was no better and she had two miscarriages as a result of his abuse. She has since divorced and her father has gone back to Syria with his new girlfriend. Maryam explains how she received psycho-social care at the Unicef Adolescent Friendly Space, and goes to a school set up for children who've missed more than two years" education. "I'm happy to be back with my mother and family and I want to be educated," she adds. There are 27 Unicef Child and Adolescent Friendly Spaces at Za'atari, providing a safe place and psychological support for young people aged from five to 18. These are some of the most traumatised children. Many refer themselves, turning up hungry, neglected and without clothes. Under the shade of tarpaulins, Jemima sits among some young girls, one colouring in a drawing of the FSA flag. "I love coming to the play areas," explains Jemima. It's the moment where you see children being children again. One of the UN Rights of the Child is "the right to play,"" she adds. It's fundamental to childhood. There's a joylessness for most refugee children, so to give them a safe space where they can laugh and dance and be silly is really important. Zain (left), seven, and Maha, 11, at the Unicef Child Friendly Centre The centre fizzes with creativity; some girls are sewing, others are making short films on computers, and a group of 15 girls are singing a traditional Syrian song. One girl with a key hanging round her neck has a sad, blank look in her eyes. What happened to her? Jemima asks, quietly. The response is shocking. Her mother was murdered in front of her. Her father was tortured and is now disabled. She's having eating issues. Later, Jemima reflects. Imagine that child's trauma. And there are many others who have experienced similar catastrophes in Syria. What we are seeing is a traumatised generation. Za'atari camp in Jordan is hometo around 80,000 Syrian refugees. Jemima watches as Ibrahim and his younger brother Hamzeh play with social worker Osama The next day we visit Al Husn, an hour north of Amman and just 15km from the Syrian border. Al Husn had been a refugee camp for Palestinians since 1968, following the 1967 Arab-Israeli war. Over the years the tents were replaced with concrete structures and it's now a proper town. "The fact that Al Husn was originally a refugee camp, and we know that those refugees never returned, sums up the underlying hopelessness for these new refugees who don't know if they will ever be able to go home," says Jemima. Maryam, 15, in her "kitchen" at Za'atari refugee camp Ibrahim and his family fled Aleppo, in Syria, 20 months ago. Just a week after they left, their house was obliterated in the bombings. Ibrahim missed two years of education because all the schools in Al Husn were full. But thanks to CFPP (Child and Family Protective Place) and Unicef he now attends a school in neighbouring Irbid. Seventeen-year-old Adil and his family are another of the 240 Syrian refugee families living in Al Husn. "The situation became so bad," explains Adil, "I saw many people killed." The family was smuggled out of Dera'a after their house was burnt down and spent two days travelling before crossing the border into Jordan. "I thought it would be for one or two months and then we would go back," says Adil. But the family has been in Jordan for 18 months. Adil is at school studying for his Tawjihi exams (A-level equivalent) and wants to become a civil engineer. When Jemima asks what his dream would be, the answer is passionate. I wish Assad would be flattened and Syria would be free again. This proud boy with his heavy brow and world-weighted shoulders starts to cry when he adds, "Nobody supported us and we didn't expect this to happen...and we didn't expect the whole world to let us down." His mother starts to cry, too. "I want to go back to Syria, go to university, get a job and rebuild my mother's house," he says, adding, "Thank you for hearing me." "I can't help making comparisons with my own children," Jemima says later. They are 17 and 15; I found myself drawn to children of a similar age and wanting to know what they're going through. And, of course, identifying the stark differences: how Adil is so desperate to work and go to university and become an engineer. And there I am, forcing my kids to do their homework, when they can seem so complacent about the many privileges they take for granted. Jemima walks amongthe concrete dwellingsat Al Husn camp Al Husn camp, Irbid, Jordan The Child and Family Protective Place atAl Husn offers activities for traumatised boys and girls Back in London and Jemima has returned from Jordan focused on the refugee crisis. News of her recent break-up with boyfriend Russell Brand has been overshadowed by the success of the #WakeUpCall campaign. I'm single and enjoying spending time with family and friends and focusing on work. She continues, "The next challenge is to make the Unicef Halloween Ball a success. I thought about asking people to pay not to have to attend another charity fundraiser. But in the end, you have to do what works. Unicef UK's Halloween Ball last week raised money to help protect Syria's children from danger. You can contribute, too. Post your #WakeUpCall selfie and donate to Unicef at unicef.org.uk/syria. Until 31 January, the government will match your donation