Tel Zaatar
Your walls have become the
people's newspaper.
The bomb in your hand explodes
into a poem.
The tresses of all the women of
the earth yearn to become
your flag.
All the books of poetry dream of
becoming exploding mines
under your soil.
—Moayin Bseisso, Palestinian poet, 1976
Even in the best of times, the refugee camp at Tel Zaatar, meaning Hill of Thyme, was a terrible place to live. An island of sweltering poverty not far from the high-rises of Beirut's Christian merchants, it had no modern plumbing, and water had to be drawn...
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