I smell of sickness and death

I visited the refugees from Nahr El Bared.
I wished one of them would spit in my face.. or slap me..
But none did.
They talked to me. Told me their stories.
Talked about their long sad life in Nahr El Bared. And how it got even sadder.
The kid told me about his dead mother. A mother talked about her dead son.
They talked about dead relatives and friends. And about the dead souls inside their bodies.
About lost memories and broken hearts.

They talked and talked.
Nobody did spit on me.
Maybe they knew that it hurts more when your conscience spits on your existence.
Or they probably knew I don't have a conscience.
"Just like the others"... Must have thought.

I visited Nahr El Bared in 2007.
My eyes threw a look at the......the place.
I smell sickness in me...sickness and death.
I stink.
My self stinks.. my nationality stinks.. my religion stinks.. my humanity stinks..

I visited Nahr El Bared in 2005. Nine times.
I bought a dress from Nahr El Bared. And a wallet.
I fasted its Ramadan. I had iftar there.
I drank Nahr El Bared's tasty water. And ate its Ka'ek in Eid.
I walked its Souk, and its alleys, and tried to locate the sun from amongst its buildings.
I drove through its main road. I wetted my shoes in the sea water on its shores.
I played soccer with the kids on its playground with a rotten ball that had no color.
It was the first mukhayyam (camp) I entered.
And the last mukhayyam I loved.