There, I learned from the devastating effects of the Nakba what would drive you to hate the second half of childhood. A single, expired wool sweater isn't enough to make friends with winter. You'll seek warmth in a novel and escape into an imaginary world written in ink on paper. As for songs, you'll only hear them on the neighbors' radio. As for dreams, you won't find room in a mud house, hastily built like a chicken coop, crammed full of seven dreamers, none of whom call each other by name since names became numbers. Speech is dry signals you exchange in times of extreme necessity, like when you faint from malnutrition and are treated with fish oil... the civilized world's gift to those driven from their homes. You drink it reluctantly, just as you hate pain for hiding its voice in a feign of contentment.