It’s dinner time. Sabaah passes a long wooden spoon around a simmering pot perched on a tiny red gas stove. Sabaah and her grandchildren flock to the city water truck twice a week to fill their plastic jugs. For most of the refugees in this urban slum, it’s the only chance to bathe.
They keep all their food in plastic bags hung from the rafters to keep rats away. Clotheslines crisscross the barren courtyard, and bedsheets air out in the afternoon sunshine. Inside the cinderblock room they have no chairs. The children sit on the ground or on a rock as they eat.
A black rat darts around the youngest child’s bare, scabby feet and past the latrine, a hand-dug open pit covered by a fraying plastic sheet.