As each year draws to a close, emotions you have tried to control finally take grip. I feel torn – from the joy at returning to my loved ones and the heartache for those I had to leave behind. I am staring at my canvas camera bags, which sat beside me in the dust of countries around the world. Now they sit on the polished floor of my room, zipped up. I need them closer, to feel their weight on my shoulders again, I need to be away…

Here I have compiled a collection of photographs and memories, comprising the stories of some of the most marginalised children in the world.

Winter: Abdul, a Syrian refugee aged 10, is seated in a makeshift shelter, perched high among the rugged snowy mountain caps of Arsal, Lebanon. He holds his father’s hand as they both huddle by the stove for warmth. He has the haunting stare of a boy who knows he is going to die, an expression that cuts through the paraffin haze of the dark room as temperatures fall below zero. Mohammed, his father, gaunt from grief, explains his son is two years overdue for an operation that could save his life. With no means to finance it, he raises his hands to the sky in hope that his prayers would be answered. I remember waiting to see my doctor as a child. I knew my turn would come; Abdul knew his would not.

Spring: Venezuelan refugees who once ate together as families around their own tables now eat from rubbish bins on their hands and knees to survive the crisis in their country. All the while, their president publicly feasts in lavish establishments. Roughly 3.5 million Venezuelans, among them doctors, lawyers and teachers, have left their country, out of starvation and fear.

Joender, aged six, from Maracaibo in Venezuela, arrived in Ipiales, Colombia, exhausted and hungry. He was offloaded with his family from a galvanised lorry like cattle, after a 33-day journey, mostly on foot, where they were forced to beg for food to survive. His cupped hands are rewarded with a packet of biscuits donated by a local in the town. He clutches the packet like a prize. Having never begged for food myself as a child, I could not begin to understand the internal dialogue in doing so. I knew I could simply open a fridge door; Joender can’t.

Summer: Esperence, aged 10, is a Haitian “restavek” or child slave. He was given away by his biological parents to a more affluent household and forced into a life of domestic servitude. The feeling of being abandoned proves to be too much for him. Standing in the kitchen and washing dishes, he simply shrugs his small shoulders, and one by one the tears roll down his face. Hours each day are spent cleaning, sweeping and washing. “I can never go out and play with my friends as my house family always call me back inside to do more jobs,” he says.

The importance of a solid work ethic was engrained into me at a young age. However, I remember the luxury of choice: I knew I could say no. Esperence knows he cannot.

Autumn: Mamoke, aged 10, has never set foot in a classroom. Abandoned by her parents along with her siblings, she now lives with her grandmother at the mercy of abject poverty. In a dark room in remote north western Tanzania, she explains how not going to school saddens her. But she nonetheless still dreams that somehow she could become a teacher to help others like her with no access to education. I didn't have a choice. I had to go to school. Mamoke didn’t have a choice, but that was because the right of education was unavailable to her. I realise I have taken so much for granted in my life. Children around the world live with no access to healthcare, displaced from their home, going to sleep hungry, growing up in conflict and with no education.