'Years after losing his eyesight in battle, former Syrian rebel fighter Ahmad Talha hunches over his mobile phone in a bare classroom, listening to the robotic voice he helped translate.
At a rare association for the blind in the northern province of Aleppo, Talha is helping a dozen others like him to better navigate their smartphones using a screen reader app.
“My wish for all blind people is for them to have the best device, the best tools,” says 24-year-old Talha, whose eyes are permanently closed, a purple scar under his right eye.
Heads lowered in concentration at the centre in the rebel-controlled town of Anjara, men of all ages and a teenager clutch their phones and listen for instructions.
“Alright guys, everybody open up WhatsApp,” says instructor Mohammad Ramadan, dressed in a brown leather jacket, aviator sunglasses concealing his eyes.
As the students scroll around to find the messaging service, the classroom erupts into a low cacophony of artificial voices guiding them across the invisible icons.
The voices are male and female, some sped up to three times the normal pace.
Talha says he found the screen reader application online in English, and translated it to Arabic with help from friends.
The application tells the user what page they are looking at, what they can do with it, and reads out text it encounters.
A student in computer sciences, Talha joined the fight against Bashar al-Assad’s régime in 2012.
But two years later, a gunshot wound to the head saw him lose his eyesight.
“I didn’t give up. I continued living,” says the young man with a short black beard.
Talha married his first wife, then a second, and returned to his studies. And he recently became engaged to a third woman, who is also blind.
“I still see a little light in my right eye,” he says, gazing out the window into the sunlight outside.
“It’s all mostly dark, but with a little romance – like a lit candle in a large room,” says that father-of-three.
At home, Talha helps his one-year-old daughter Aisha walk by holding her little arms, and crouches by his three-year-old son Hassan to talk him through opening up YouTube on his phone.
Three months ago, his first wife gave birth to another daughter.
“We’re not missing anything in life,” says his first wife Samia, her eyes made up beneath her black face veil.
“Nothing stops him,” she says of her husband. “He may have lost his eyesight, but he has vision.”
This year, Talha helped set up the area’s first association for the visually impaired, whose name in Arabic translates to “Seeing Hearts”.
“It’s a home for the blind. We gather, get active, ask for our rights,” he says.
Largely self-funded with a few donations, the centre stands in a one-floor stone building, its façade freshly painted.
Around a dozen people arrive for the day’s lesson on foot, aided by friends, or on a dilapidated grey minibus.
Director Ahmed Khalil says the new centre seeks to help those who have lost their eyesight in the seven-year war, including in air strikes.
“The association aims to draw the blind out of their isolation,” he says, seated inside his office, wearing a brown jacket.
Since October, eight volunteers have offered psychological support, as well as training to use mobile phones and the centre’s single computer, he says.
But they also have more fun activities, says Talha, including chess and football – using a special ball with an inbuilt bell.'
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