Like any other male, I dream of maintaining an army of child soldiers for both my protection and entertainment. It wouldn’t need to be a Liberian-style child army, it could be something much more casual. I’m not trying to conduct a genocide, just pass through the streets of Bethlehem unmolested.

Everyday I walk through the tiny Azah refugee camp on my way to downtown Bethlehem. Unless someone told you, you’d probably never know it was a refugee camp. It just looks like your average Middle Eastern slum. The two hundred meter long main street might very well be a back alley; however, a variety of storefronts and constant crowds of people tell you it’s more than just an alley.

At the end of the street there’s also a dumpster painted baby blue with white tape spelling out "UN." I suppose this means the dumpster was a gift from the UN. Despite the dumpster trampled boxes, plastic bags, food wrappers and other assorted debris tumble through the street when the wind picks up. But it’s the same in the rest of Bethlehem and the West Bank. There isn’t a trash collection service, just the occasional dumpster or vacant lot with piles of trash. Periodically people poor diesel fuel over the dumpsters and trash piles, strike a match and make room for more trash.

The Paradise Hotel, probably the nicest hotel in Bethlehem, is directly across the street from the UN dumpster. Although most tourists opt to stay in Jerusalem and make day trips to Bethlehem, the few tour groups willing to spend the night check into the Paradise Hotel overlooking the Azah refugee camp.

Normally people in the refugee camp are friendly. Children play along the main road and when they see a foreigner they yell "Hello! Welcome! What’s your name?" Some shake the stranger’s hand and introduce themselves; others look away, embarrassed when he responds. After the introduction, they usually disappear onto one of the side roads or back into the houses. Every now and then someone will throw a bottle or a stone at a foreigner, but I’ve only seen it happen once.

On Eid, the last day of Ramadan, the kids took over the refugee camp. Apparently all of them got air-soft guns (bee-bee guns that shoot plastic bullets) for Eid. As I approached the refugee camp that day I could see pitched battles being fought all along the streets. Kids hid behind cars reloading, while their friends hung out of second story windows taking calculated shots.

At the entrance to the camp a teenager grabbed my arm. He begged me to avoid the camp and take the long road into Bethlehem. I told him I could manage and he pulled an air-soft pistol out of his pants and fired it into the wall. He pointed at the kids fighting up the street, then at his gun, then at me, and said "You."

Having been shot with air soft guns, I knew I didn’t have anything to fear but a few welts so I thanked the boy and forged ahead into the camp. Amazingly, only a couple children targeted me. The others were too involved in their own battles to start war on second front.

Out of curiosity I picked up a discarded bee-bee, examined it for a moment and dropped it into my pocket. At the end of the street I found myself in between two warring boys. Sensing that they were both about to turn on me, I reached in my pocket and tossed the bee-bee to one of the boys. He smiled, reloaded his weapon, shot his friend, and I was forgotten.

This got me thinking. Was this my opportunity to acquire a child army? I could supply them with ammunition, an empty cause, and a sense of importance. In turn they could escort me through their refugee camp. Perhaps I could even use them to launch a massive attack on my roommate, Dave, on his daily walk through the camp to work. I imagined Dave running from my army of child soldiers, perhaps falling to his knees at the end of the alley like William Defoe in Platoon, and screaming my name as the children unrelentingly fired plastic bee-bees at him. Whatever the cost or ethical questions, nothing could outweigh the joy of having my own army of ruthless, refugee boys.

Apparently the refugee kids weren’t the only ones to get air soft guns for Eid. The streets of Bethlehem were littered with the plastic bee-bees. I collected a pocket full of them in preparation for my next walk through the camp.

On my way back to the camp I ran into Dave. He and a co-worker, Pete, had just survived a trip through the camp. They’d come under heavy fire. This time the boys had acquired heavy artillery: firecrackers. One exploded on Pete’s shoulder and his ear would ring for the next several hours.

Their account made me believe my child army wasn’t just something of a passing fancy; it was a necessity. I needed protection.

At the entrance to the camp I spotted a group of small boys and called them over to me. "I want security," I told the leader in Arabic.

He nodded.

I pulled out a handful of bee-bees. "I’ll give you these if you and your friends will be my guards."
"Give me."

"Will you give me security?"

He smiled and rammed his cocked pistol into my head. "Give me."

I smiled back and said, "I want a guard and security."

He laughed and pushed the gun into my head a little harder.

I laughed and gave him the bee-bees. He took the gun away from my head, and as I walked away he and his friends unloaded into me with the bee-bees I had just supplied.

A lesson learned. If you ever need to recruit an army of child soldiers make sure they’ll be dependent upon you past your initial offering. Liberian President Charles Taylor used to give his child soldiers cocaine. Perhaps I’ll start small and offer them chocolate and caffeine before bedtime.