Freezing cold: winter in the desert camp.

I am standing in a tin trailer in the drafty wet drippings of winter. Rain slides down off the edges of the roof. The staff meeting is about to begin and people are milling about, coming in and out of the trailer that serves as the trainings room.

My colleague Tareq, a twenty-something year old refugee from southern Syria, is queuing up something on the speakers, and now, the first guitar notes of Rough God Goes Riding by Van Morrison fill the whole cavernous trailer, rooting me to the spot.