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For some people, it’s probably hard to believe that this month marks seven years since the start of the Syrian war, which has largely been aimed at President Bashar Assad’s brutal regime. Almost as if in a morbid celebration of that anniversary, on March 15 of this year, the Syrian government killed more than 100 people via airstrikes in its latest offensive. Seven years on, it’s estimated that the war has claimed more than half a million lives.

For others, however, Syria’s murderous milestone isn’t a surprise at all. In her debut book , the journalist Rania Abouzeid investigates this relentless tragedy. Her book—the result of five years of in-depth reporting, extensive interviews, and exposure to extreme risk—focuses on ordinary Syrians and isn’t a journalistic memoir. That focus puts the “human” back into the phrase “humanitarian disaster,” and should help force the world to learn this war’s lessons.

Abouzeid reflected on these experiences at a recent event at ������Ƶ, where she’s a National Fellow. Having visited Syria multiple times since the Arab spring began in 2010 and since the war broke out the following year, she noted that, at least at first, “There was this sense of change [in the region]. There was this sense that these men who seem to be cemented to their seats in power might actually be shaken out of them.” She continued: “It’s hard for us to remember that now, but that was the mood back in those days. That fervor, that wave, reached Syria.”

Looking back at the situation now, in 2018, Abouzeid said that the question of how many people have died can hide the real story, that “every one of those numbers is a person. Every person is part of a family, every family is part of a community, every community is part of a bigger, regional group. So think about all of those ripple effects from just one death. Now imagine half a million of those ripples inside Syria. That’s where we are now.” And the numbers, she added, are “numbing.”

I’d argue that there was a similar feeling of numbness last week, regarding the news of the deaths of in another Syrian airstrike. On the one hand, it was, of course, tragic. On the other, it also seemed like more of the same. I wondered: In light of all this numbness, what would actually prod the world to prevent similar tragedies from occurring in the future?  

For Abouzeid, the answer lies, at least in part, in the power of perspective. For her book, she did her best to get as many perspectives as possible. That was a difficult task, however, because she’d been blacklisted by the regime and forced to focus on the rebel side of the conflict. Braving several trips across the Syrian border, she recounted that crossing was easy in the beginning, but that “trying to get across the Syrian border now means risking death for anybody.”

Still, instead of opting for a matter-of-fact retelling of the Syrian conflict, Abouzeid chose to center her book on the narrative arcs of its characters. “If you focus on telling the stories of people, individuals within the context of events, they help explain [those] events,” she said. But while employing character-driven narratives is a smart way to bring a complicated issue to a larger audience, actually getting those stories was no easy feat. Abouzeid explained that, for the sake of your own life, you have to have a truly solid understanding of the at times shifting but always intricate dynamics surrounding the conflict. “Once you were in there,” she said, “it was such a fragmented rebel battlefield…. It was difficult to keep track [of everything], but you had to in order to stay safe. You had to understand the territory you were entering. And that means you had to understand it at every level—at the military, political, social, and religious levels.”

One person Abouzeid highlighted during the discussion was the young girl Ruha, who was only nine years old when Abouzeid first met her. Abouzeid explained that Ruha’s story was important because her precocious awareness of what was happening around her forced her to see the world through a dramatically different—and uniquely difficult—lens. Via Ruha’s eyes, Abouzeid sought to demonstrate the resilience and strength of the human spirit. “Human beings are amazing. You really don’t know what you’re capable of until you’re placed in circumstances that will produce certain parts of your personality,” she said.

But what of the book’s subtitle? So much of the coverage is about life and loss. Moderator Robert McKenzie asked: “Where’s the hope?” Abouzeid’s response was simple, straightforward. “The hope is in the people,” she said. “The hope is in the resilience of normal people. You might think that’s a small thing, but don’t forget, when I was talking about those ripple effects of what one person can do, it can work the other way, too.”

There’s no doubt that Abouzeid’s book is a powerful example of storytelling—of shining a light on a complex disaster through the eyes of individuals. Given the war’s length and its staggering death toll over the past seven years, one hopes that her characters’ stories will meaningfully influence how policymakers handle humanitarian crises. “I think that Syria will be a case study for exactly these things,” Abouzeid said, “to examine international impotence.”