Serbest Salih attended college in Aleppo and studied photography before leaving Syria with his family in 2014 as Islamic State militants marched on his hometown of Kobani. He is now one of an estimated 100,000 refugees residing in Mardin, Turkey's ancient city in the southeast, only a few kilometers from the Syrian border.

Salih's life altered drastically in 2017 when, while roaming around the city with a friend, he came upon a large refugee population living in a collection of abandoned government buildings in the working-class Kurdish neighborhood of Istayson.

“It was a place where Turkish Kurds and Syrian Kurds lived next door but didn't speak to each other,” he recalls, adding, “They were strangers who spoke the same language.” It was at that point that I realized I could utilize analogue photography to bring the many groups together.”

He started organizing photography classes using donated inexpensive analogue cameras in collaboration with Sirkhane, a community organization, and with early financing from Welthungerhilfe, a German relief organization. “Digital is easier and faster,” he explains, “but the analog process teaches children to look more carefully and to be patient, because they must take a picture without seeing the result right away.”

There is something soothing and restorative about the entire experience for them.”

Salih currently owns and operates the Sirkhane Darkroom in Mardin, and has been traveling to other towns and villages with the Sirkhane Caravan, a mobile version of the same, since 2019. Children as young as seven years old attend his classes to master the traditional techniques of film photography and darkroom processing. He explains, "Sometimes they burst out laughing and say, 'These are cameras from my parents' time."

“However, when they begin to use them, something magical occurs. They begin to portray the world in which they experience through their own eyes.”

As a new book, I Saw the Air Fly, demonstrates, the findings are often unexpected. Rather of focusing on the tragedies of their relocation, the photographs focus on the innocent and joyful: family photos, hazy images of their pals at play, youngsters leaping, hiding, posing with their friends, or caring for their animals.

More elaborately formal compositions abound, such as a cluster of hilltop houses and the uneven geometry of electrical lines crisscrossing the sky.

A flock of birds dispersed over a dark, cloudy sky; a child's shadow falling across a ragged yard; a row of outstretched hands holding spinning plates on thin poles only adds to their resonance. Every aspect of human existence is represented here, as seen through the eyes of youngsters living in a temporary refugee camp in Turkey.

Wendy Ewald taught practical photography to children from a disadvantaged rural community in her book Portraits and Dreams: Photographs and Stories by Children of the Appalachians, also published by Mack, and the results were sometimes surprising. I saw the air fly, like that project, is a testimony not just to the unbridled creativity of children, regardless of their circumstances, but also to Salih's belief in the transformational potential of analogue photography. “I always feel proud when I see a photograph that surprises me,” he adds, “because I have always had a big faith in what photography can do.”

He informs me that as the kids go through the courses, they are assigned particular topics to shoot. These may vary from the mundane (gardens, homes) to the more socially conscious (child labor, child marriage, and, tentatively, gender problems).

“When we first start, the girls often don't believe they can be as good as the boys,” he adds. “Unfortunately, that is what the adult world has taught them, but they will soon be photographing their own lives and experiences. They have the courage to do it because of the camera.”

Videos and photos on the Sirkhane website testify to the feeling of awe the youngsters feel in the darkroom when the images they took eventually emerge. How do the local adults, on the other hand, feel about the project?

“At first, many of them just sent their kids to us to get them out of the house. Then, when parents see the outcomes, they are frequently astounded by their children's accomplishments.”

Since the epidemic started, Salih's intentions to "expand the caravan workshops so we can go to the most affected places" have been put on hold, and he has forced to teach over the internet. “It's been challenging,” he adds, “because most of the kids don't have smartphones or access to the internet.” We have received some assistance, but it is not sustainable at this time.

We depend on fundraisers and contributions of money and used materials more than ever before, not only for cameras, but also for items like darkroom chemicals, which cannot be sent from outside Turkey. It's very difficult.”

I watched the air fly's publishing is a one-of-a-kind accomplishment. It's also a modest book in many ways: all of the pictures were chosen by the youngsters, and their understated appeal attests to the medium's fundamentally democratic character and capacity to surprise.

“People assume that if you give a refugee child a camera, the results will be sad,” Salih explains, “but the majority of these photos are all about joy.” It's only a few minutes of quiet joy.”

Thanks to Sean O'Hagan at The Guardian whose reporting provided the original basis for this story.