They line up for little meals or none at all. They have become accustomed to my colleague’s camera and news footage. He sees them go hungry, die, and have their bodies—or parts of them—gently wrapped in white shrouds with their names, if they are known, written on them.
This local videographer, who I will not name for his own safety, has been listening to the agonized cries of the surviving in hospital courtyards for 19 months of conflict and now during a renewed Israeli attack.
He keeps a polite physical distance, but he thinks about them often. He is confined to the same cramped misery as the others.
