On Sunday I accompanied a Dutch journalist and his Danish colleagues back to the camps. Sometime during Saturday morning the Phalangists had left and Sabra and Shatila were now closed off by the Lebanese Army. Journalists were not allowed in, but we found a way in via the back of Akka-hospital. Members of the Lebanese Civil Defense who had begun to collect the bodies, that had not been buried by the bulldozers, offered us to show us around. We entered Shatila, where I had left it on Saturday morning. I saw at once that after we had left there had been an awful lot more killing and destruction. People had been killed in their houses, which were subsequently bulldozed. I saw a woman in a little field. She was lying face down and had been shot in the back as she tried to flee. Her body had swelled up terribly in the heat. All over Sabra and Shatila there was the sickly sweet stench of decomposition. It was terrible to walk between all those dead people, many of whom had been tortured and hacked to death. Whole families slaughtered together. Young men lined in front of a wall and killed. Pieces of body, charred remains. All the animals had been killed as well. I never forget the huge mound of red earth in the southern part of Shatila with arms and legs sticking out. Next to it sat a father crying unconsolably with the pictures of his murdered children in his hands. We walked over freshly dug mass graves. The large group of people we had passed in Sabra Street had vanished. So many people simply disappeared.