I drive into a refugee camp for work every Monday.

The word spreads throughout the camp, carried on the little feet of preschoolers, toddlers, and schoolchildren dressed in their uniforms. They spread it by going to each other’s houses, racing each other back home. Maftuhah, “open,” is enough for a child to stop whatever they are doing and run as fast as they can to our tent.

I sometimes ask myself, “What am I doing here?” when spending too much time with children who have loving parents, lots of toys, clean clothes, and warm food in their bellies.

However, the memories of man-made tragedy and the fear of the war are not so tidily packed into the past here in this camp. Think about the beautiful way that the French Mother Sauces provided for example, each of the five sauces you have.