Today when I visited Aida camp, I got my first pang of guilt since having arrived in Palestine. Inside the camp, children are dirty and playing with each other with rocks and rubble and they brandish little baby chickens at me that they pick up off the street. Seeing that they make do with what they have makes me happy. It is when I leave the camp, and get into my service (shared taxi) that I get a strange feeling. Actually come to think of it I can't quite pinpoint if it was guilt or something less tangible. Inside the car, a four- or five-year-old child sits with his mother, clean and well-dressed. It was the disparity between this child brought up under relatively better conditions than the children I had witnessed in the camp, that hit me. I don't know why. 

Children are all subject to varying levels of luckiness or unluckiness when it comes to being born. This gives me a headache.