For the past two years, Sabin, Natalia, Shahad and Rimass have lived with their grandmother in a refugee camp in Lebanon. They were orphaned two years ago in Syria when a jet dropped a bomb on their parents' car.
"My son was taking his wife to the doctor and I was looking after the girls. I thank God every day that I was," says Fatma.
Most of the girls' questions are about their parents, such as how did they meet.
Fatma says she left Syria just days after the bombing. The girls grabbed some clothes from their home but that is all. There are no photos. There is nothing to remind them of their parents. They now live in a refugee camp in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley where life for an all-female family is difficult.
Fatma, a widow, is frail and can't work but she can't support the children on the World Food Programme's monthly allowance of US$19. The two eldest girls, 10 and 12, work for a local farmer harvesting potatoes and tomatoes.
"It is terrible. This is not how life should be. They work from 4am until 6pm, but what can I do? There are no men to help us," says Fatma.
The office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees estimates one in 10 Syrian refugee children is a victim of child labour. A number of factors have contributed to that statistic, including the growing strain on the World Food Programme to provide aid to almost 13 million people.
Last year, the programme said it was running out of money and cut its monthly refugee allowance from US$31 ($40) to US$19.
"This is one of the reasons why we are seeing children working in the fields or chopping wood. Orphans, in particular, are extremely vulnerable to exploitation," says World Vision New Zealand chief executive Chris Clarke.
The four girls sit quietly next to Fatma in the tent. The room is bare except for a pot-belly stove and a tiny bunch of plastic flowers. Fatma pats her youngest granddaughter on the knee and tells me they are all "very good girls".
I ask her how the girls have coped with such trauma in their young lives. Fatma pauses for a moment.
"What can I say? I don't know," she says. "They cling to me. They can't rely on anyone else. I am all they have now."
Fatma says she had four sons including the girls' late father. I ask her if the other three are in Syria or Lebanon and she begins to cry. She tells me she fears they are all dead. They used to call but she says the calls stopped abruptly. "It is not like them not to call me."
She says she won't know their fate for sure until the fighting stops.
"I just want it to be over. I don't care who's in control. I don't care for politics. I just want peace. I just want the bloodshed to end."
Again, I find myself sitting opposite a Syrian refugee and I can offer no comfort. The tears are rolling down Fatma's face now and she says her only wish is to see her sons standing in front of her one more time, alive.
Her granddaughters sit close to her, each looking at Fatma's pained face. She tries to compose herself.
"I am sorry. I could not have imagined my life would end up like this, but I must be strong."
Later, when the girls are outside Fatma tells me her great fear is that she will die soon.
"And then what will become of my granddaughters? Who will look after them? Who will love them as I do?"
It is yet another moment when I sit in silence. Another question that I simply cannot answer.
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