Four buses full of refugees arrived just an hour ago. Most have already been processed, but a dozen people are still waiting in front of the office of the Red Crescent, the Red Cross's Middle East sister organization, in the upscale neighborhood of Abu Rumaneh in the Syrian capital of Damascus -- waiting to be taken to their temporary homes. An olive green tarp shields them from the baking sun, but the shade too is unbearably hot on this Tuesday afternoon. Children, oddly still despite the long wait, stick close to their exhausted mothers sitting limply on plastic stools.

The next wave could arrive at any moment. The helpers, who have been working 14 hour shifts for days, relax during the brief respite. When a pale mother carrying a colicky infant enters, one of the assistants jumps to his feet and escorts them into a small side room where doctors are waiting to help those needing treatment.

Sama Azou is one of those seeking medicine -- for his four-year-old son. "We came from Beirut four days ago," she says. Now, she is sharing a four-room apartment with 23 other refugees. "I am a pharmacist," she says plaintively. "My family is well educated." It's as if she wants to bridge the gap between her Beirut life and her new existence as a war refugee. In fact, the Israeli attack that triggered her flight didn't even leave her time to pack extra clothes.

"We had a beautiful, large house," the 32-year-old says. "Now nothing is left. I still can't believe that I had to leave everything behind."

She says she would rather have remained in Lebanon with her husband who is resolved to stay in the country until the bitter end. But with a young son to care for, she had no choice. "The airplanes are bombing day and night. Adults can take it, but for a child it is terribly difficult. He says nothing but then cries the whole night and constantly asks where his father is. I tell him: "Pray to Allah, pray for peace."

Since the violence in Lebanon began, it is estimated that over 150,000 refugees have flooded across the border into Syria. "Syria is being generous -- this large number of refugees is naturally a huge burden for the country," says Dietrun Günther, Senior Protection Officer with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees' Syrian office.

Relieving the Pressure on the EU

At the moment officials are allowing anyone with a Lebanese passport to cross the border. Syria's solidarity could also relieve the pressure on the European Union: After 30,000 refugees arrived in Cyprus, the Mediterranean island announced that it had reached the limit of its capacities and called on other EU states to help. In the mean time Syria, has made no attempt to slow down the flow.

The Red Crescent receives the Lebanese at the border with water, food and medical care. "Up until now we have been able to house everyone, nobody is going hungry and every illness and injury is being taken care of," says Hala al-Hafez, speaking at the organization's headquarters.

In the branch office at Abu Rumaneh aid workers have been registering refugees 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Khaled Eaksoussi, vice president of the Damascus Red Crescent, points outside the window of his office. "The space under the tent is never empty," he says. He estimates that around 200 volunteers are working there, and many have taken vacations from their normal jobs so they can be here. "At some point I have to say to most of them: 'You've already been working here for 24 hours, go home now.'" The Syrian population is primarly carrying the burden of the refugees -- the entire food requirements are being covered by donations, while private companies are giving TVs to the refugee camps and providing buses for transportation. "You cannot imagine how much people are donating," Eaksoussi says, "everyone from firemen to cleaning ladies."

Most of the refugees are being put up in gymnasiums, monasteries, mosques, holiday camps and schools, while others are taken in by host families. Many Syrians are offering Lebanese families space in their apartments, some are even renting out their houses to those in need.

Until recently Zuheir Mohanna was the director of the "Sport City Jalaa" sports center, now he runs a refugee camp. Families are spread out on foam mattresses along the upper edge of the stands that surround the playing field. "We give them what they need," says Mohanna. With a laugh, he waves away any suggestion that Syria might at some stage no longer be able to care for the refugees: "If necessary, we could take in the whole of Lebanon."

Hanan Ismail, a Damscus local, adds a box full of bread, milk and cheese to the supplies in the improvised storage room. "The Lebanese are our brothers," she says curtly. "It is unbelievable that the whole world is closing its eyes to their suffering." This is why she donates as much as she can. "We could just as easily be the ones under attack."

"I can hardly bear it"

This display of solidarity is mirrored by the rhetoric of President Bashar Assad, down to the very choice of words: The regime has repeatedly stated that it wants to alleviate the "suffering of its Lebanese brothers." Similarly, the president assured Hezbollah of his support for "the national Lebanese resistance." Assad knows how to exploit his ties to the extremists during the heated atmosphere, says Damascus political scientist Marwan Qabalan. "Hezbollah's leader Hassan Nasrallah has emerged from the crisis as a hero," he explains. "And Assad has clearly showed his support for Hezbollah, unlike any other Arab leader." He has thereby managed to bathe in Nasrallah's reflected glory, as the defender of Lebanon.

Lebanese citizen Rafi Bilawijien doesn't want to hear any more about fighting. The 22-year-old sits in a sports hall and waits with every passing minute for the crisis to end. "Until a couple of days ago I worked at Beirut airport," he explains with a bitter laugh. "I can hardly bear to be away and not be able to do anything," he says. "I hope that peace will come quickly, so that we can rebuild our country."

A few kilometers further east, in the courtyard of the Schar'ya Koran school a group of excitable children are chasing a ball around. Some 160 refugees live here, families of up to 10 people each share a classroom. For a cursory amount of privacy the people have separated their mattresses with sheets. The evacuation hasn't allowed them to bring many possessions along from their normal lives: what remains lies in bags on the floor.