A Syrian refugee from the countryside between Homs and Hama plays with his eyes closed. Applying the bow with a series of flourishes, 22-year-old Rami Basisah does what he can to fight his emotions.

His violin, after all, is his best friend. It is both the core of his identity and his ticket to freedom. In his mind, the idyllic mountains around us are the perfect counter-point to the Syrian carnage he and millions of others have experienced.

"I used to dream about this when I was a kid. Every day I used to dream of playing the violin before European audiences as the people clapped and cheered," Basisah says as he puts the instrument away.

He never lets it out of his sight. He knows very well what it helps him overcome.

"And yet ??? I can't really say I'm happy. I'm confused. I'm not sure what is happening to me, or even where I am."

Basisah is grateful things have turned out so well, but his thoughts wander sometimes.

"Above all, I really want to help my brother who's spent the past three years as a refugee in Lebanon. And I want my parents and my three sisters, who remained in Syria, to be safe."

He is also somewhat overwhelmed.

"This is becoming so huge. Everybody wants something from me, and I'm not yet fully prepared. I don't even know if I'm good enough.

"Everything around me has been the opposite of normal for such a long time. I can sometimes no longer tell what's real and what's not."

Basisah was invited to the Swiss Alps as a special guest of the Klosters classical music festival following a string of happy coincidences.

Back in August 2015 darkness was slowly descending over the border between Greece and Macedonia, when tired Syrian and Afghan refugees lounged under the trees, near deserted border guard facilities.

This was the heyday of the so-called Balkan refugee route. All the time, fresh groups of displaced people rolled in from the Greek side of the border. At the nearby refugee reception centre, Basisah took out his violin. Giving it a long enamoured stroke, he went on to tune the strings. The introverted young man then stepped forward with fellow refugees waiting to catch the next train to Serbia.

His friends were encouraging him to abandon himself to the moment and just play. But it still took Basisah, a former student at a Homs music college, a while to work up his courage. The Macedonian policemen watched on in bewilderment.

The young man began playing his instrument, slowly at first, even somewhat timidly. A hush descended over the crowd, their lively chatter turning to awe. The officers' faces broke into a grin as they recognised the melody.

The warm response had a visibly relaxing effect on the young musician. He started playing with redoubled vigour.

The reception centre rang with Beethoven's Ode to Joy, the European anthem. The policemen were soon keeping time with their boots.

When he finished, the audience urged Basisah to play on. He paused for a few seconds, then his violin gave birth to the profoundly mournful, yet proud tones of a Syrian patriotic song.

The performance ended with Vivaldi's Four Seasons. There was plenty of applause. Basisah gave a bashful bow. His trance broken, anxiety was king once again.

"Forgive me," he smiled, still catching his breath. "I've made a number of mistakes. I was so very nervous."

A new world

The superb acoustics at the St Jakob church in Klosters have helped it become one of the music festival's main venues. In front of it, the Swiss organisers mingle with the guests.

Basisah, a boy from a different world altogether, is performing in front of David Whelton - the festival's acoustics director, recently retired long-time head of the London's Philharmonia Orchestra and one of the most influential people in the world of classical music.

As we catch each other's eye, it is as if the ground beneath our feet gives a shudder.

So here we are. Basisah's concert at the Macedonian-Greek border and the feature article I'd written about it has helped turn his life around.

"Man ??? Wow. Hey. Oh my God, this can't be happening." His words sounding about as trembly as he looks. Our embrace lasts a long time.

"I didn't think we'd ever get to see each other again. Everything is coming back to me now, everything." How could he forget the war, the journey, the Macedonian performance, our meeting, the horrible journey to Germany, he says.

Prior to our brief encounter at the border, Basisah had already spent 40 days on his flight from Syria. Before that he had been a refugee in his own homeland for two years. He now tells me he wants to continue with his studies in whichever European music university would have him. Overall, he doesn't feel like talking too much about himself or the war.

"I need to do everything I can to help my brother. He fled Homs a year before me and went to Lebanon. As he left, he promised he'd help me reach safety. He worked so hard over there in Lebanon. When he got enough money to fund my trip to Europe, he sent it to me right away. Now he's lost his job.

"It is my duty to help him out somehow. I owe him my life."

Instead of focusing on the moment and the upcoming incredibly important rehearsal, Basisah is swept under a barrage of memories.

For a few minutes at least, the music becomes an ancillary, secondary thing. Whelton notices that, at least for the moment, Basisah's heart is somewhere else.

Basisah left his home in regime-controlled al-Bayadiya village on July 30, 2015. He took a taxi to Tartus on the Mediterranean coast and then took a bus to Beirut. He waited 15 hours to cross the Syria-Lebanon border. He had an arranged a meeting with his older brother Faheed, also a musician.

"At the airport in Beirut I played a song of farewell. It was tough on both of us. I so wished he was on that plane with me."

Basisah flew to Izmir on the Mediterranean coast, where he was supposed to meet the people who would "manage" his entry to Europe. But things didn't work out as planned.

He had to first go to Istanbul to make the necessary arrangements. At the time, as many as 10,000 refugees were sailing to the Greek Aegean Islands daily. The smuggling business was booming

The boy reached Kos in Greece, only in his fifth attempt. He does not want to talk about the dirty details of the smuggling industry.

In March last year, the German authorities finally granted his request for an asylum. Teresia and Winfred Oelbe, an elderly couple from the village of Niederschopfheim, offered him a place to stay. The brunt of the young man's ordeal had finally drawn to a close.

A few weeks later he signed a deal with Decca, the British music publishing house, whose executives have learnt both of his lengthy plight and his technical accomplishment.

Fast-foward to Klosters. Near the end of May, his CD Rami: My Journey, recorded in collaboration with the Prague Symphony Orchestra, played on the legendary British Classic FM radio. Among the many listeners, who had soon voted it album of the week, was a retired businessman who went on to invite Basisah to Switzerland. He decided the young man deserved all the help he could get.

And so here he is in the idyllic Swiss setting. Even the well-wishing people who come over to congratulate him make Basisah uncomfortable. This is not his world.

He listens to the music of others on the main stage but his mind wanders. He suddenly becomes very tired and nods off. Then his body jolts him back again, tears flowing down his face.

"I would like to play on such a stage one day too, so I can help my family," he whispers.

When all his social and concert-related responsibilities at the mountain resort are dispensed with, the visibly exhausted Basisah retires to his room.

Vivaldi remains his favourite composer.

"This man... what madness Oh, the violent mood swings???. This is exactly how I feel".

These last few years of turmoil haven't exactly provided a lot of opportunity for reflection. More than anything he needs someone he can confide in.

"I am very grateful to all these kind people. I know I've been very very fortunate. But more than anything I'm interested in how to best help my brother. Without him I would never have got this far."

"I've felt so alone much of my time here in Germany. I miss my family, my friends, I really miss my old life."

But he is quick to add he is keen to avoid being seen as a victim. Unlike hundreds of thousands of refugees and those who never even got the chance to flee of Syria, he is lucky - and aware of it.

"My friend Mudhar, for instance, he wasn't half as lucky as I was. When he got to Germany, he started having these headaches. They kept getting worse and worse. They finally took him to a doctor. They found a tumour in his brain." Mudhar soon died.

Basisah buries his face in his hands, his body twitching uncontrollably. His head drops between his knees, he looks for all the world like a heavily wounded child.

He tells me he is sleeping poorly. But his anxiety, perhaps depression, are behind closed doors. For now, everyone is focused on how popular Basisah has suddenly become.

A long road still ahead of him - he next plays at the Royal Albert Hall in London on September 19 as part of Classic FM's live series - the budding star picks up his beloved instrument. It helps him recompose.

"Play on, Rami," I whisper as we embrace in another temporary farewell.