I keep going, talking to the refugees, to the people who run the camps and care for the refugees, and then, after accompanying Ayman, a Syrian volunteer nurse on his rounds, as he changes the dressings on a youth whose foot was blown off by a land mine and an eleven-year-old girl who lost half her jaw in a mortar attack that killed her father, I realise I can’t think straight. All I want to do is cry. I think it is just me, but Sam, the cameraman, is crying too. I imagine the world dividing into the people who want to feed their children, and the ones shooting at them. It is probably just an
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