That night, I have my first nightmare of The Camps. I dream that I walk through it, alone, I cannot find the others, and I do not dare to call for them. The floodlights have been turned off, and everything is pitch black, but somehow, I can still see. No, I can feel. I can feel the people around me, their bodies moving in the dark. The smell, that terrible smell, is everywhere. Somewhere a little girl is crying. I try to find her. I know, like you can know only in a dream, that it is the same girl I gave the blankets too. I stumble in the mud, doing my best not to fall, because I know that if I fall, this nightmare will end, somehow, and I want to find the girl first, I have to. I am coming closer, her crying is louder now, I can feel her tiny body somewhere near. Then I find her, I cannot see her, but I know it is her. She takes my hand, and we stand there, smiling, holding hands. Her hand is warm, and mine becomes warm too, as she holds it, for the first time since I came to the island.
Suddenly, the floodlights come on. I can see her face now, her expression is terrified. Then her hand is yanked away from mine, bombs falling from the dark sky.
I wake up with the smell of burning flesh still in my nose.
Madani is making breakfast. Eggs and bacon, with a piece of dark bread. She hums while cooking. I can hear her, up to the bathroom, where I sit, on the floor, trying to compose myself from the dream. Still it feels more real to me than any of my immediate surroundings. I can hear a mockingbird sing outside the window.
“Thank you,” I say, as I sit down to eat my breakfast. I’m composed now, but still it seems that Madani notices something is wrong, that special talent only mothers have.
“You went to The Camps last night.” It is not a question. She looks at me understandingly.
I nod.
“The first time is always the hardest.”
The second time, this night, wasn’t much easier, though I do not say it aloud.
“There was a little girl only wearing a summer dress,” I say. I have to say it. That is the only way to process anything, by speaking it, out loud, turning it into words, comprehension.
Madani sighs.
“I have seen children like that too. Stabs you in the heart, doesn’t it?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“They don’t look so much like animals as I thought. They looked human.” I have to say this too. I know I shouldn’t. I can feel the words fall like stones into the water that is my mind, making ripples, but I cannot help it, I need them, those words.
“That’s because they are human.”
I stare at her. She has just said something outrageous. Dangerous. She speaks like a sympathizer, naïve, but still, in my heart I cannot find it to disagree with her anymore.
“Then why are they called animals?”
“Because if they are animals, they can be treated inhumanly. If you treat a human like this, your conscience would burn you. But if they are animals, you can do as you like. They pretend they are animals to relieve their hearts. By repeating to themselves they are terrible creatures, wild, evil, they can tell themselves they even deserve to be living this way. And that is the most terrible crime of all, worse than any treatment they might be giving. Because conscience, I say, is the purest thing we have. The conscience of a man is like a mockingbird, and we are killing it.”
I finish eating and leave; my mind in waves.