I sat in the front passenger seat of the yellow 1966 Mercedes, clinging to the leather strap. Samir was driving too fast through the potholed streets of Sabra refuggee camp, like he was still driving PLO bigwigs around. I clung to the strap with both hands, slithering across the worn leather seat as we went round a corner, my stomach punishing me for the amount i'd drunk the night before. I looked out of the window to fight the nausea, trying to concentrate on the passing scenery. I was never sure when the transition from city to camp happened, whether there was some recognised boundary. I suppose the buildings became smaller, less well built, their breeze-block walls unplastered. There was no tarmac on the road and there was a lot more corrugated iron. This wasn't a refugee camp in the sense of tents and blankets isssued to displaced people, it was more a sprawling shanty town built up over the years on the outskirts of the city.

  email this article     print-friendly version
Last modified on August 9, 2011  | © Telegram 2005