You'd see figures movin' in the dark near the borders. Palestinian fellas, mostly. They called 'em "infiltrators." What they were infiltratin' was usually just the ground they were born on. Tryin' to get back home, even for a look. Maybe hopin' to find somethin' left behind. Maybe just drawn by that powerful pull of the place you belong. Between 1949 and 1956, a fella learned later, at least 2700 of them were killed by Israeli forces. Two thousand seven hundred. Just tryin' to cross that invisible line on the way back. It makes you ache, seein' all that desperate walkin' ending in the dirt. Down in the refugee camps ... ah, the camps. Places like Jabalia, Rafah, Deir al-Balah. Grew from a few tents to rows and rows of them little cinder-block huts. Hot as ovens in the summer sun, damp and cold when the rain came. A fella could drift right through the walls. See a Mama inside, tryin' to keep a little space clean. Smell the thin soup cookin' on a little kerosene burner – lentil soup, mostly. See the kids playin' outside in the dust with bottle caps or maybe a broken piece of pottery. No fine toys here. Saw an old man, name of Hassan, maybe, in a camp near Jericho. Just sat outside his hut all day, lookin' towards the hills in the distance. Kept a rusty key tied to a string around his neck. Didn't need to ask what it was for. A fella just knew. It wasn't much of a life, livin' on rations and lookin' at the place you couldn't reach. What does a heart do with that kind of ache, Ver más