Memories of Shateela

   

During my recent trip to Beirut, I visited the Palestinian refugee camp, Sabra Shateela, for the second time. The first time I went was during the summer of 2008, where I took some photographs. This time I joined a group of girls to help out with an art workshop they organized for the children of the camp. It has been four years since my last visit, and not a single thing has changed, as if time had stood still. If anything it has moved backwards. It has become more populated with Lebanese people and not just Palestinians since that it is cheaper than other areas in Beirut.. As I walk through the camp, the stench coming from the pile of garbage hits me as if I am experiencing it for the first time.

The camp looks the same. There are groups of kids playing with fireworks, while old men and women are chatting in a stall smoking ‘sheesha’. Electric cables are visible everywhere, like snakes in a jungle. There is garbage and cardboard boxes scattered everywhere. As I walk around with my camera in my hand, the odd scooter honks and passes through the tight alley ways every couple of minutes. For some reason, it was harder for me to take it all in during my second visit to the camp. As I walk around, observing, I am struck by the harsh living conditions all over again.

The workshop was a success and the kids really enjoyed it. I was surprised as to how co-operative they were and how keen they were on wanting to do their best. They were all well behaved and loved having their photos taken.  The classroom, regardless of how basic it is, has a very positive energy, which I still feel while looking at the photos I took. I kept on wondering what was going through these kid’s minds? What they felt about us? Whether or not they think their living conditions are normal? Are they satisfied with what they have because they have never experienced anything better?

These kids are brought into a life with no hopes or dreams. However, their eyes are filled with hopes and dreams. As I walked through the camp with the rest of the group, I got this guilty feeling. I felt like a tourist walking in a museum staring at what is on display, instead what was on display here were desperate children playing with rubble around houses with asbestos ceiling, as sewage water fills the tiny alleys, soaking the air with a poignant smell.

At the end of the day, after I examined the camp and took as many photos possible, I got the privilege of going back to my air-conditioned home and dream in my king sized bed about how I can help people from the camp. This photo expedition made me feel like I did something useful, when in reality I really did not do much. It gave me satisfaction, as if I accomplished something extraordinary. I felt bad because I felt like I was trying to make use of their misery.

        I leave you with my memory of Shateela in hope that it opens your eyes and makes you wonder on how you can give back to the world and make a difference.

Written by: L. Al Shakar