![blue scorn blue scorn](https://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/8PIAAOSwHDlg1Mz4/s-l400.jpg)
My Bengali was not good enough to understand his reply. I found the boy and said that I was sorry. I couldn’t give him the orange, but I could try to explain and say goodbye. The group was beginning to trek into the camp as I looked around for the boy in the blue polo. And then I reproached myself for not having left the fruit behind, or at least carried it out of sight in the larger pocket of the backpack. There are too many people.” He indicated to the mass of locals who had been drawn toward us in the shade of the sundari trees. “It is no good here, it would cause problems. I sought out our Bengali guide and asked him if it were okay to share the orange. But after all, I reasoned, it was just an orange. One of them was that I would not offer personal gifts in the camps rather that I would stick to the organized distribution of food. When I had contracted to come on this humanitarian mission, I had agreed to follow several protocols. I said, “Just a minute,” and turned away, hoping that he understood my meaning. Besides, I had a boy of eleven back home. It meant something – perhaps it had cost him something. I could see from his eyes that it was not a light thing, this asking. I reached around to touch the fruit, and I wanted to give it to him. After a moment, he pointed to my backpack, to the orange fruit in its mesh pocket, and exclaimed in accented English, “I want your orange.” He caught my eye and we exchanged greetings. He was probably around ten or eleven years old and had a sharpness about his face. There was a boy among them in a blue striped polo and tattered shorts. Our sunglasses and hiking boots offered a marked contrast to their bare feet and simple dress. It was not unusual for the small crowd of Bangladeshis to gather around the tall, pale Americans. Two hours of bumpy Bengali road later, we emerged from the vehicles and stretched our legs, preparing to hike into the camps. Humanitarians from the United States, we had flown to the other side of the globe to offer food and support to the survivors of the Rohingya genocide. I got to my feet and followed my group to the vans awaiting us outside the hotel. But the orange was firm, and I had an empty mesh pocket on the side of my backpack so I thought I might as well take it as not. It protruded a little at the naval and had a slight tinge of green. The last piece of fruit wasn’t a perfect sphere.