28 July 1983 Reach the refugee camp dazed and weary. The refugee camp is a school, everything is silent. We sign in at the entrance our names and address. I wonder whether our house s till exists. Through the dark and gloomy exteriors of the building, I see a long queue of people holding tin plates. They all look inmates of a concentration camp and I want to run away. They look at us with dazed and sunken eyes, dressed in shabby clothes. Our new home is a classroom on the first floor, overlooking a square, which is a hive of activity. Rice is being cooked in a large cauldron over a wood fire, while refugees are holding out plates and being served boiled rice and sambara from buckets.



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