Children were my favourite photographic subject. But not always the easiest. A photographer has to develop a rapport and trust with children and photograph them at their own level.

I would break the ice by trying to speak Arabic. The children would always be amused when hearing a grown up speak Arabic worse than a toddler.

In the absence of toys, you have to use your imagination if you’re a child growing up in a poor village of Syria. I was exploring a village when I found this darling little girl in a pile of rubble. She had a pick ax taller than she was and was doing her best to break up some blocks and having a great time at it. She stopped long enough to check out the foreigner in her village and slung her mighty pick over her shoulder and gave me a toothless smile.

If you pray hard enough to Allah your prayers just might come true. This young man was struggling with his school English when out of the blue a native English-speaking foreigner waltzed into his village.

I was struggling to communicate with some of the men of the village when someone suggested they bring in Mohammed as he spoke English. Soon a young boy came into the room with his English notebook. Everybody in the village was very impressed when young Mohammed said something to me in English and I understood and replied. There were big smiles of pride on everyone’s face for this boy.

Mohammad tried to impress everyone and read some lines from his book. ‘Where are you from?’, he asked. ‘I come from the United States,’ I replied. He beamed. ‘Oh. Michael Jackson. We love.’ This was at the time of the first Gulf War in 1990 and I never knew how Syrians would react when I said I was an American. I had no need to worry though as regardless of whether they were for or against Saddam Hussein or for or against George H. Bush they always distinguished between the American government and the American people and always treated me as their honoured guest regardless of my nationality.

Mohammad joined me as I toured the village and served as my translator when I tried to take pictures. The truth was I was better off with my limited Arabic and sign language but it made Mohammad’s day to serve as the translator for the foreigner who appeared from nowhere so I stuck to English and let Mohammad shine.

Teenage boys are alike all over the world. They like to hang out together and talk about teenage boy issues. I was exploring a village and stumbled upon this trio hiding out in some ruins and having a smoke. I exchanged some Arabic gibberish with them and they said a word or two to test their English and then I had them pose for a photo and I walked on and left them to their discussions.

Twenty years later, it is the images of the children which are the hardest to look at. What has happened to these beautiful children after three years of war?

Have they fled their homeland? Have they joined government or rebel forces and taken up arms? Or are they amongst the 160,000 who have perished?

For now I just want to imagine those children in their happy little villages as they were when I met them and not come to terms with reality.