We walked for about 10 hours
at in a stretch with a short
break for a rest halfway through. I cannot remember how many hills we climbed up and down and how many streams we crossed before we reached a small house on the top of a stiff hill. It was in the fag end of the winter, and at nine the sun was shining brightly. All of us were beginning to sweat profusely. The guerrillas were used to such kind of hard work, and they did not show any
signs of fatigue or tiredness. On the other hand, I was
tired to the death dead tired and feeling extremely hungry. When we reached the house, it was already 2 pm. The family of the house was supposed to
keep get our meals ready. But as bad luck would have it, the messenger whom the guerrillas had sent in advance
did had not
reach there arrived at all. However, the householder was kind-hearted, and immediately set
in work to prepare food for us. I will never forget the hospitality the family provided
to us. This
was is the first time I
knew begin to realise what hunger is. Now
, I fully understand why "hunger" is called the greatest illness, and why the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish (
who died a few days ago) wrote: "Beware of my hunger!"