Large iron pots simmered over roaring fires, their contents bubbling in a mixture of grain, water, and a small portion of milk. The thick scent of the cooking porridge wafted through the cold air, carried on the tendrils of smoke that drifted above the camp. The smell was a lifeline for the starving refugees—simple and plain, yet to their empty stomachs, it was the scent of survival.
From all corners of the camp, men, women, and children emerged from their tents and ragged shelters, drawn by the promise of food. Their eyes were hollow with hunger, their cheeks gaunt. Slowly, they gathered into a large, disorganized crowd, circling the place where the fires burned and the pots boiled. Murmurs filled the air, mingling with the sound of crackling wood, as the refugees edged closer, desperate to get a portion of the meal.
