The Syrians living in the city of Bar Elias in northwestern Lebanon are having a hard time breathing. For days now, a sandstorm has covered their tents with a heavy layer of fine dust. Nonetheless, a group of men sit together on a terrace in front of a little brick house. Their hands covering their mouths, they stare at a small television screen. Arab language news outlets are reporting that ever more Syrians are landing in Europe. Images of the arrival of thousands of refugees in Munich flash across the screen.

Fifty-year-old Mohammed is excited. He wants to leave too. He has been living here for three years. The encampment offers water and electricity, but no prospects. So, off to Europe? That would have been an option, but he has decided to go to Australia instead. Now he is waiting for an answer from the embassy. Next to him, sits Riad, who would just as soon head off to Europe tomorrow. If need be, illegally. While fleeing Syria, a sniper shot his wife in the neck. Now she is paralyzed from the neck down: "We can't stay here. We don't have any money for medicine. My wife and children deserve a better life. As soon as I have some money I am going to hire a trafficker."

Exodus ahead?

Besides the heat in summer there is little food and water

Syrians living in Lebanese refugee camps are in a precarious situation. Since the start of the civil war five years ago, more than 1.5 million of them have fled to the small neighboring state. But that number only refers to those who have officially registered with the United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR). Inofficial numbers are said to be much higher. Half of the Syrians live in some 1,700 makeshift tent camps spread across Lebanon. Among them, smaller and larger encampments, but also abandoned building sites and garages. Few of them have sufficient water and electricity. Residents often have to trek several kilometers to the next village to get food and other necessities.

So far, the Lebanese government has resisted erecting centrally organized refugee camps. They are simply too scared that history will repeat itself: "The Lebanese government fears that Syrian refugees may never go back home, much like the Palestinians that fled to Lebanon 67 years ago. And, since most of the Syrians are Sunnis, it could upset the delicate balance of Christians, Sunnis and Shiites living in the country," says Maha Yahya, an expert on Lebanon from the Carnegie Middle East Center, a policy research institute.

Too little to live on

Lebanon is clearly overwhelmed with the continuing refugee crisis. Currently, one in every four people in the country of four million, is a refugee. That has had a negative impact on the country's already weak economy and infrastructure. Food prices are rising, water and electricity are strictly rationed, and the security situation is fragile.

Winter is especially hard for Syrian refugees in Lebanon

Since the Syrians receive hardly any assistance from the Lebanese government, they are dependent upon aid from international donors. However, UN aid packages are shrinking. Due to a lack of funds, the UN World Food Program (WFP) has reduced food aid to refugees inside and outside of Syria. That means that now, a refugee living in Lebanon receives $13 (€11.50) a month to feed themself. The WFP says it is 80 percent underfunded for 2015.

Too poor to be a refugee

Since very few can find work, some 70 percent of Syrian refugees in Lebanon live below the poverty line. Hopes of their situation improving get slimmer from year to year. In analyzing the UNHCR numbers, it is still too early to tell if and how many of these longterm refugees may have already attempted to free themselves from their desperate situation by heading for Europe.

Each year, Syrian Refugees also have to pay $200 (€175) for their Lebanese residency papers. Those who cannot afford to pay, like Mariam, remain illegally. Unlike Riad and Mohammed, the 54-year-old woman lives in a camp that doesn't even receive support from Lebanese aid organizations. Ten days ago her girlfriend Khilfeh was hit by a car. They think that her legs and pelvis are broken. Mariam has been at her bedside since the accident. Khilfeh hasn't seen a doctor yet. The women cannot afford one.

Mariam fled Syria four years ago with her three daughters. They are Syrian based nomads, and come from the Aleppo area. "We hide in the camp more than actually living here," she says, as she gives Khilfeh a Panadol tablet – the Arab equivalent of an aspirin, the only pain reliever that they can afford. Khilfeh gives her a thankful glance, and Mariam says bitterly: "We won't go anywhere: not to Europe, not to Syria. And if we have to, we'll die here."