In 2015, eleven-year-old Israa was selling cigarettes with her father, Tariq, in Izmir’s Basmane Square. Her family was preparing to leave Turkey for Germany, fleeing the war in Syria. There, she happened to meet filmmakers Atab Azzam and Jack MacInnes, who were making a BBC documentary about the journey taken by refugees. The girl caught their attention with her talkativeness, smile and curiosity about the camera, and the filmmakers decided to follow her family and document their journey to Germany.
Together with Israa, her mother Nesrin, her father, and her siblings, they crossed the sea in an inflatable boat to a Greek island, then travelled across Europe by bus, train and on foot, sleeping in tents in the rain and cold until they reached Cologne. The film could have ended there, but the filmmakers kept visiting the family, sharing food and stories with them, and watching as they adapted to a new life. Azzam, who is Syrian, and MacInnes, who speaks German, helped bridge the gap between Israa and the people around her. Against the backdrop of debates over refugees and Brexit, the filmmakers saw a gulf between public rhetoric and the family’s everyday life, and decided to keep filming.
As the years passed, the camera shifted from the family’s moves between countries to Israa growing up: she learned German, started school, and went from child to teenager, while her relationship with her father began to change. Tariq struggled to accept the women in the family becoming more independent, particularly his wife Nesrin, who went from being a less visible presence to standing more on her own. This heightened tensions and threatened the life the family was trying to build. The film links this to Tariq’s past: he was abused by his own father and was arrested five times under Bashar al-Assad. Azzam notes that he grew up with the idea that a man should control women, and with the belief that physical punishment of children was justified. These attitudes clashed with Germany’s different social and legal norms, and with children who were growing up in a new environment and gaining an independence their father was not used to.
Israa is now 22, married, raising two children and living near Cologne. She is improving her German in the hope of getting a job in public services. She says she married someone she loves, whereas in Syria her relatives would most likely have arranged her marriage. Israa did not expect filming to last ten years. She says she felt comfortable with the filmmakers, chose for herself what to share on camera, and even contacted them to capture moments she considered important. They had originally agreed to finish the film when she turned 18, but later events—including the fall of Assad’s regime in December 2024—prompted the filmmakers to continue. Israa wanted to tell her story as she had experienced it, without manipulation and without placing all the blame on her parents.
As filming expanded, the story stopped being only Israa’s and became a portrait of a family whose relationships with one another and with the place they live were changing. The film opens with Israa returning to Aleppo to see her home after the fall of Assad’s regime. The city she left as a child is once again accessible, but returning does not mean restoring her former life. MacInnes believes the film goes beyond a story about refugees to become a broader human story about growing up, change, relationships with parents, and the difficulties that arise when children begin to build independent lives. The viewer does not see Israa at just one moment, but accompanies her as she grows and her dreams, relationships and choices evolve.
Ten years later, Israa is no longer the girl who caught the filmmakers’ attention in a square in Izmir. She is a young mother who returns to Aleppo to visit her home, but continues to build her life in Germany. Her story reaches audiences in the documentary One in a Million, in which she is the central figure. The film opens in cinemas on November 6. It all began with a girl selling cigarettes beside her father and a chance encounter—but her story shows that a refugee’s journey does not end upon reaching a safe place. After that, a whole life begins, with its changes, conflicts and questions about home and belonging.
News Commentary
What did the fall of Assad’s regime in December 2024 mean for the Syrian diaspora—and why do many people, like Israa, continue to build lives abroad even though a return to Aleppo is now possible? — For the Syrian diaspora, the event brought a mixture of hope, relief and anxiety. The regime’s fall opened up discussions about political transition, refugees’ return, property restoration and family reunification, but it did not immediately resolve the economic collapse, destruction, legal uncertainty or fear of renewed instability. The diaspora is diverse: for some, this is a chance to return and take part in rebuilding; for others, it brings trauma, separated families and concerns about safety. The political and legal possibility of returning is not the same as being able to do so in practice. Aleppo lacks housing, jobs and services, property disputes remain unresolved, and people associated with the opposition still face risks. That is why Israa and many others remain abroad, where they have jobs, their children’s education, stability and personal freedom. For them, returning would mean more than moving: it would mean giving up a life they have built and accepting new risks.
What is Aleppo’s significance in modern Syrian history, and what has changed in the city during the war—especially for families whose homes and neighbourhoods were destroyed or left empty? — Aleppo has traditionally been considered Syria’s economic and cultural capital: a major commercial and industrial centre, a historic city with a citadel and old markets, and a place with a diverse population and strong family and business networks. In modern history, the city has become both a symbol of the 2011 protest movement and the site of one of the war’s most destructive battles, fought from 2012 to 2016 and involving sieges, bombardment and mass displacement. After the war, many neighbourhoods were emptied or changed demographically, and reconstruction has been uneven: electricity, water, housing and jobs are in short supply. For families whose homes were destroyed, the main problems are rubble, lost documents, property disputes, a lack of compensation and the inability to return even if they wish to. The 2023 earthquake made the situation even worse.
How are marriages traditionally arranged in Syria, how common is it for relatives to be involved in choosing a spouse, and why does Israa set her own choice against this tradition? — In Syria, marriage often involves the family: mothers, aunts, older relatives and community intermediaries may suggest candidates, check a family’s reputation and put pressure on young people, although customs vary considerably by region, class, religion and degree of urbanisation. Marriage between relatives, including cousins, occurs in some communities, but it is not universal among Syrians. Legally, the bride’s consent is generally required, though social pressure can be intense. Israa contrasts this with her own choice because personal autonomy, emotional closeness and the right to decide for herself who to build a life with matter to her more than following the expectations of relatives or the community.
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Full version: From a Syrian girl selling cigarettes on the streets of Turkey to a film’s leading figure: Who is Israa? ***