Over the years of conflict, there has been a personal enmity that has formed between the occupation soldiers and the camp, an enmity driven by desires for revenge against the place that forms the memory of generations, and incites people to cling to the fringes of hope, no matter how high the columns of smoke rise, or how long the night is, or how deep the worries become, or how long the suspicions about the difficulty of achieving dreams grow, due to the accumulation of pain and conspiracies, and the operations of seizing the land, and confiscating the seals from the guardian of the refugees’ dreams, who warm themselves on the embers of longing, driven by the certainty of the inevitability of returning to the groves of figs and olives, and the orchards of sad oranges.

Scenes of forced displacement from the northern camps and the burning of homes stir up painful memories for those who lived through the first years of the Nakba, which were deeply etched into their souls as they endured the pain of loss, poverty, hunger and cold, in tents that did not protect against the heat of summer or the cold of winter.

We thought it was the last tents, and the end of sorrows, after the children of the displaced made their way to life, with the weapon of education in the UNRWA schools, which were like Noah's Ark for the refugees, before the flood came, and returned the issue to the pit of collapse, where there was killing, displacement, and waiting in line for food, with the arrival of Trump for four lean years, in which he threatened us with laying hands on the land after expelling the people.

Camps are not just places of shelter, but open offices, markets full of poetry, night owls, and life songs, and moments in which the poor and the well-off share joy, in morning meetings and Ramadan evenings. It is a relationship that goes beyond being social duties, to daily rituals, the temperature of which the people of the neighborhoods know, especially on dark nights.