He hands me his phone to look at a photograph. A young couple. Three smiling children. The man in the picture is his son Zayan.
Ali (55) hasn’t seen his son in almost 13 years, and that wait could become interminable soon.
Both names are pseudonyms, chosen to protect their safety; they are still fearful of reprisals in the Middle East.
Zayan (29) is facing deportation from Lebanon – where he and his family currently live – back to their native Syria after he was given 28 days’ notice to leave. He has less than three weeks left.
Thousands of miles away in Northern Ireland, his father is a world away from the horror that began to unfold in his home city of Homs in 2011.
Inspired by the so-called Arab Spring risings that swept across Middle East, Syrian youths in Daraa scrawled graffiti criticising Bashar al-Assad’s régime on the wall.
They were arrested, held and tortured, prompting a wave of protest that drew a military backlash.
"Everything was normal until the revolution started,” Ali said.
"It was like an earthquake. People got mad, got crazy. I always think that violence affected these people and turned them into monsters, or devils. There was an army checkpoint close to my home. There were clashes and bombing from evening until morning. I moved my family to the town where my wife’s family were, because around my home began to get very dangerous.”
By 2012, opposition groups had formed rebel brigades to seize cities in the north.
Lebanon’s Hezbollah would openly deploy fighters in 2013 to supress the uprising, while Iran dispatched military advisors to prop up the al-Assad government.
As the situation worsened, Ali sent his family to Lebanon, promising he would follow soon, but he would not see his family for another four years.
Militias surrounded the town and laid siege to it, with only sporadic United Nations aid being allowed in.
"I never thought I would live the way we lived. Groups of armed people started to defend their families,” said Ali.
"Every town, guys started to carry guns to defend themselves and their families because they knew that when the régime entered the town, they would rape, steal and kill.
"People would rather die than face the torturing. You saw pictures of people in prison without eyes, without nails."
Ali said the cries of hunger from sick, traumatised children continue to haunt him to this day. "We had little food, no medicine. There were 120,000 people in the town. Every few months the UN was entering with some cars of food, but there wasn’t enough,” he said.
"I did not think I would survive the bombing at night. The shooting, the snipers. The planes. Barrel bombings. For four years, I always felt hungry. I will never forget the weeping of the children and the kids because of the fear and hunger. I still hear them now when I am alone. I can hear their voices and their weeping from the hunger. There are pictures stuck in my mind. A child of six or seven years old licking a photograph of a pizza on a wall. The restaurant was closed, but because of the hunger he was licking this picture. Children were knocking my door and saying they were hungry."
After four years, the siege was eventually lifted after negotiations between the UN, the al-Assad régime and representatives of the town.
Ali boarded a UN convoy bound for Idlib, close to the border with Turkey, which he crossed safely two days later. His thoughts turned immediately to his family, but it would be a further three years of agony until he laid eyes on them again.
Ali struggled to bring his family to Turkey with him, eventually finding some success through the UN and ultimately, the UK Government.
A third country resettlement was agreed; that country was Northern Ireland. Ali remembers the date clearly.
"We arrived here on February 7 2019. I left Turkey that morning and my wife and children came after me about two hours later,” he said.
"I met them at the airport; it was like a dream. When I saw them, I realised then that the most beautiful moments in my life had been lost. I didn’t see my children grow up. My wife was very sick and my other son (Zayan) could not come.”
That moment is now five years ago.
Unaware of a new law preventing Syrians from working Lebanon, Zayan was working in a clothing shop, still trying to raise money to support his young family.
His papers were seized, leaving his future in limbo. The documents were later returned, but along with a 28-day notice to leave Lebanon.
Ali said the news was akin to a death sentence.
"I am sure that if the government send them back, the régime will kill them. Most of my family is in opposition [to Assad],” he said.
"I can’t explain how scared we are. My wife and I are always crying. When anyone from the family sends a message on WhatsApp and it is not received, it is a terrible feeling.
"We are always worried until he replies on the message. His daughter is seven years old now. When he goes out to buy food she hugs him tight and says: ‘Please father, don’t go anywhere, I am afraid’.
"Many times I have prayed to God to take me. I can’t stand any more. I just want to see my son and his family in a safe place.” Zayan has completed an initial resettlement interview with the UN, who are aware he has family in the UK.
Ali is praying he will be called for a second interview before time runs out on his time in Lebanon.
He wants nothing more than to see the family united in Northern Ireland, somewhere he now calls home.
"Here, no one calls my son a refugee. Here, they don’t believe we are strangers or unwanted people at all. Here, my family don’t sleep in parks because they haven’t money. Here, my family didn’t go hungry,” he said.
"Everything I wanted – to see my wife and children happy – is here. The only thing I need now is to see my son before I die, or before my wife dies.'
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