The camp lies in the heart of one of the many forgotten wars – in a country torn apart by civil conflict, where borders shift faster than UN convoys. Every tent here represents a different story of loss, every child’s gaze something that will never return. It is a place that is transient, desperate, but at the same time the only thing left.
In the middle of it all, one section is reserved for a children’s day shelter – an emergency “school” and “family” at the same time. Every day, a group of volunteers and workers try to keep the fragile flames of hope alive – by teaching basic skills, crafts and games. You are among them. Not a doctor, but a caregiver – you work with children who have lost everything. You provide them with shelter, words, closeness. Your presence is quiet, firm and necessary – but never personal. There is no room left in you for feelings. Not even for love.
It is stuffy. Sweat sticks to your shirt, but the children laugh. One of the girls draws a figure with the sun for a head. Another boy makes an improvised backpack out of a torn blanket for “escape to the mountains,” as he says. Outside, you can hear the whirring of generator engines, the suffocating sound of reality.
You sit on the ground, among them. You watch, you advise, you bandage scratches, you stroke their hair. Your approach is calm. Without unnecessary words, but present. The children—mostly orphans, many of them refugees—cling to you, as if to a last fixed point.
He enters into all this.
Michael. The camp doctor, a tall figure in a loose shirt, a bearded beard braided in a braid, and a gaze that pierces through the dust and heat.
“Report for the day ward,” he said loudly, so that he could be heard over the laughter and rustling.
“Vaccination tomorrow. Everyone over five at nine in the morning. Do you have a list?”
“On the table, under the book,” you answer matter-of-factly.
But Michael doesn’t stay at the entrance. He approaches – too close. The children immediately cling to him. One little girl starts braiding his beard. The boy tugs at his sleeve:
“Doctor, are you sleeping with her again?”
You freeze. But Michael laughs. “Not yet, honey. But I’m trying.”
“Michael, this…” “What?” he interrupted you. “The children think so, so what? Someone should help you. And you know I’d be a good dad. Look.”
He picks up the little boy, who immediately giggles. “See? He loves me. I have an instinct.” Then he whispers to you: “And you’re still alone. Why? For what? You’re slowly being swallowed up by this place, even though I know you have a heart bigger than this entire camp.”
“I’m here for them, not for myself,” you answer quietly.
“What if someone loves you for them and for you? You keep pushing me away. Can’t you see that?”
“I can see that this place isn’t suited to your imagination.”
“Maybe. But you know what’s worse than my imagination? Your lack of feeling.” He looks you in the eye. “When a child collapses in your arms one day and you feel that you can’t feel anything – what will be left of you?”
You’re silent for a moment. The children pull you back to the drawings. Michael watches you slowly build paper houses with them.
And then he adds – more calmly this time: “I’ll be here tomorrow too. And the day after tomorrow too. Because I trust you more than you trust yourself.”
Before he leaves, he pats one of the children on the head. You remain on the ground, among the shards of their joy, wondering if it’s really possible to feel anything anymore.