Just over a year ago, in March of 2015, the 17-year-old crossed into neighboring Turkey and began the long journey north toward Germany, a common destination for many Syrians fleeing the terrible violence, suffering and destruction devastating their country. After crossing the Mediterranean to Greece on a crowded smuggler's ship, Abdalal followed a typical overland route, through the Balkans and Eastern Europe, enduring long walks, police beatings and stifling, overcrowded trains along the way. Four months later he reached Hamburg with only a few hundred Euros, a broken mobile phone and his old Syrian identification card. His new life had begun.

"I didn't have clothes from Syria. I did have only clothes I bought in Serbia," Abdalal says. "When I come, I buy all new clothes. I wanted to forget everything [about the journey]."

Abdalal is just one of roughly 137,000 refugee minors who applied for asylum status in Germany in 2015, according to the Federal Office for Migration and Refugees. Although many refugees must undergo an arduous journey just to reach Germany, building a new life in a foreign country can be just as difficult. Education is one service the government provides to help newly arrived refugees successfully integrate into German society. Schools in Hamburg – and all across Germany – provide one-year introductory courses, which include intensive German language training, for all refugees under 18 years old, according to Ties Rabe, a senator in Hamburg and a member of the Authority for Education and Training, a government agency. But language barriers, social isolation and traumatic personal experiences pose problems for many refugees.

Abdalal lives in Poppenbüttel, in northern Hamburg, but commutes to St. Pauli, a neighborhood situated along the banks of the Elbe river, for classes. He enjoys studying English, mathematics and computer programming.

But like many other refugees, Abdalal traveled alone, so initially he lacked a strong social network to provide the emotional support he needed to navigate the new culture and unfamiliar society.

His first few months living alone were difficult. For the first time in his life, he was responsible for cooking and cleaning. For the teen, the quick transition to adulthood was almost too much to handle. He even debated returning home, but a phone call from a friend back in Syria changed his mind.

"He told me, 'No, you are in Germany to do your dream.'" Abdalal recalls. "'Don't give up your dream. You must continue.'"

One resource for helping students adjust to German society are teachers, like Xenia Paschke, who runs Abdalal's preparatory class. Paschke began teaching refugee preparatory classes three years ago and says her job, although enjoyable, is difficult.

"We have a lot of really motivated students. They are really interested in doing things well." Paschke says. "[But] they're traumatized; they have a lot of problems."

Students like Abdalal often deal with difficult personal issues, like stressful travel experiences and fretting about family members back home. Abdalal's family, for instance, lives near an airport in Damascus, and he says he worries that crucial facility will be bombed and his family will be hurt or killed.

Teachers, including Paschke, complete training to help interact with traumatized students. There are also social workers that teachers can reach out to for additional help. But because of time constraints and budget limitations, that help is too often not adequate.

"I need more resources." Paschke concludes.

Refugees themselves also work to process difficult life experiences. A 20-year-old Afghan refugee, for instance, who prefers only to be known by his pseudonym, Kamas, now writes poetry and plays to engage with his past experiences. He says he avoids conversations about past painful experiences in school.

Language barriers are another concern for teachers and students alike. Lotfullah Beki fled Afghanistan and arrived in Hamburg about a year ago. The 17-year-old spent five months in a preparatory class before transitioning to a regular class, filled with native Germans.

"[Now] I speak too much German," Beki says. [But] it's better for me. I can learn very fast this way."

But not every refugee student in Hamburg is a teenager.

"We can teach the [refugee] kids something and that feels like we were teachers." says Madleen-Sofie Riedel, a 9-year-old German native. "For example, we tell them to erase something, because it's wrong and we help them with new terms."

Despite the interaction among native and refugee children in school, cultural differences and economic disparities prevent many friendships from developing. One of Riedel's classmates, for instance, always eats white bread, a cheap foodstuff, at lunchtime.

"I think that she is ashamed [of] it." Riedel says. "She is always hiding it in her lunchbox."

There are language barriers, too.

Roy Louli fled Syria with his family last year. The 10-year-old enjoys playing brännboll, a sport similar to baseball, during recess, but says he has struggled to make any German friends.

The refugee students in Dürolf and Korn's classes, though, try to help each other.

Another student, Ahmad Al-Sabahi, performed well enough to enroll in a regular class, filled with native German speakers. With the greater exposure to local children, the 11-year-old, unlike Louli, has made some friends there.

As refugee students work to overcome social isolation in school, private groups, such as Visions for Children e.V, a Hamburg-based organization, are stepping in to provide cultural competency training to teachers to help avoid communication gaps and misunderstandings.

"I'm sorry to say but the teachers do not know anything [about the cultural differences]," says Hila Limar, chairperson at Visions for Children. "In Afghanistan, for example, you do not ask people too many direct questions."

But Limar was careful to note the situation has improved. As more and more refugees arrive in Hamburg, the lack of understanding between natives and foreigners is not as apparent. Still, there are challenges, particularly with young women.

"There are people, really young people, they don't want to study – especially from Syria," Limar says. "We know a lot of girls from Syria, they don't want to learn German language because for them it's like giving up their home. It's like giving up hope that [they're] going back one day."

The one year anniversary of Abdalal's arrival in Hamburg is just weeks away. As the young man points across Outer Alster Lake to a favorite skating spot, he admits he doesn't expect to return to Syria anytime soon. Abdalal, grateful for the education he's received, is now better positioned to achieve his goal of becoming an informatics engineer. But despite the schoolwork, cultural immersion and new language skills, Abdalal says it's impossible to feel truly German – but that's OK. He wants to hold on to his Syrian identity as he builds a new life.

"I'm not afraid I'm going to lose it." Abdalal says. "It's inside me. You cannot change who you are."