"What town are you from?" I asked him as the noise of the passing traffic and the bussle of people passes us by. Our conversation takes place outside 'Gaza building' on the edge of Sabra refugee camp for Palestinians near Beirut. "I am from Jaffa [in the north of Israel] my family came from there in 1948." Of course, this shopkeeper has never actually been to Jaffa but he still maintains to this day that this is his home town and that he will, in accordance with his right under international law, return.

"This is my father, he is also from Jaffa." The older man chuckles; "don't speak of Jaffa, ya ami [my uncle/friend]. Jaffa is gone forever." It is an unsuual comment but one that reflects the debate - between young and old - among Palestinian refugees accross the Middle East about what the future holds for them.

The camp itself is densely packed. Narrow streets barely allow the sunlight to filter through. Officially there is no electricity - to provide such facilities both the refugees and the Lebanese government would be acknowledging that the position of the refugees is a permanent rather then 'temporary' one [albeit temporary for almost sixty years.] Instead electric cables hang loosely across every street connecting the ramshackle buildings, in which families squeeze into small rooms and share bathroom facilities.

This is the start of a depressing day. Despite the sun our hosts - the Caritas Lebanon Migrant Centre - have planned a day in which we will see little of it.

We opt to move from the edges of Sabra to a 'Retention [sic] Centre' for Migrant workers who no-longer have the correct papers to be in Lebanon. Although Trocaire does not directly support the work of the Migrant Centre we have worked closely with them throughout the recent war - this is an opportunity to see other work they are carrying out, looking after the needs of Lebanon's most marginalised people.

The Retention Centre is a (barely) rehabilitated underground carpark. As we arrive outside three women are being stepped from the back of a large Prison-style transportation van. Shackled by the hands and feet they struggle to lift their bags from the van while four armed guards look on indifferently.

We move in ahead of the women and walk down a flight of stairs. The light is dim and artificial, the air is thin and artificial.

At the moment around 100 illegal migrant workers sit in the large cells. [The centre holds 500 but it is under a bridge so during the war they were all released because of fears that Israel would target the bridge above] They are mostly divided by nationality - the Libyans together, the Sudanese together and the large numbers of female Sri Lankans are also together. They sit there for months on end waiting for the authorities, or their former employers, to release and/or deport them from Lebanon.

Many will be back in a few months time - drawn by the promise of money which can be sent back to their families. Many of them have been abused - but more of that later.

The depressing stale air soon gets to me - after only an hour in this place my stomach feels ready to wretch and my eyes are unhappy with the dim light. We stumble around the ground, which is still painted with directional arrows from the car park, peering into cells and marvel how people can tolerate staying here - prisoners and guards alike.

Caritas Lebanon has a team of social workers which try to make conditions easier - providing activities, support during Ramadan, contact with families abroad, hot meals two times a week. They are the only NGO in Lebanon allowed to operate inside this Prison. It is a miserable place, full of thankless tasks.

So they move us to another miserable place. Burj al Brajni Refugee Camp - small compared to many (20,000 people in 1 sq km) but equal in lack of services, lack of opportunities and lack of ways to pass time.

Palestinians in Lebanon are not allowed to work outside the Camps - consequently, they are denied a whole range of other human rights. Thus, while many may own shops inside the camps, most rely on the UN to provide basic services. However, Refugees from the 1967 war were not allowed to register and so many thousands of people exist in a grey zone without official registration documents and stateless so unable to travel or move.

We walk the warren of the camp - laughing children jump when they see our cameras - the more bemused older folks smile and wave us on our way or offer us tea and coffee.

We pass through the grey, dense streets, our feet wet from puddles which have been there since these camps were built. Our hearts damp from the tragedy of hundreds of thousands living in poverty with no prospect of change in their conditions - generations stuck in a timewarp between desire and reality.

Our final stop, hours later, is on to a type of Refuge run by Caritas Lebanon for migrants who are escaping from their abusive employers. Most are Sri Lankan women, though some hail from Africa and other parts of the world.

One woman speaks - she is bravely fighting back the tears. So are we.

"I came here only yesterday. I worked with Madam [as she still respectfully refers to her former employer] for three years. She only ever paid me for one and a half year. No money for one and a half year. I speak French, English and Arabic. I can understand what she says. Yet, even still, she used to beat me when she was unhappy. I worked for US$100 p/m - but for most of the time I didn't get paid. I want to send money back to my children but how can I when she didn't pay me?"

Her story is not uncommon, we discover. Thousands like her pass through the refuge each year. Caritas provides them with legal aid to recoup monies owed and to ensure they can return home safely and without recrimination for running away from abusive employers.

During their stay in the refuge the women learn additional skills which can help them get work in the future. One of the women, an expert cake-baker, demonstrates what she has learned by presenting us all with a cake and a smile.

Sometimes it is remarkable that despite immense suffering human beings can resist becoming bitter. For me, I can't understand how. As I leave Lebanon [Friday morning] I recall the words of one friend - whose personal story would give him every reason to be bitter - he said:

"I can not allow myself to think that I am above anyone else, or below anyone else. If I think that I am above another person, or below another person then I remove from myself the dignity of equality."

It is that dignity, and that equality, which many across Lebanon still seek.

[Photo shows the inside of a Palestinian refugee camp near Beirut - by Walt Kilroy]

Lebanon, everyone keeps on telling me, is a complex country. I can easily believe it. The road signs, hangovers from colonial times, are in French and Arabic (marking streets as military sectors with numbers rather then names).

The people speak French as readily as they speak Arabic. Drive through south Beruit or southern Lebanon - Hizb Allah strongholds - and you will see women dressed as if they have come straight from the French riviera talking to mohajjabat (women who wear the hijab or Islamic headscarf.)

Alongside Shi'a and Sunni Muslims you will see Christians and Druze. "Here in the Middle East" a journalist friend told me yesterday "we have had multi-culturism for many many years - it is not a new phenomenon, like in Europe." But, of course, the picture is not so simple as all that.

Lebanon still has many old wounds from the time of the civil war - when the Palestinian Liberation Organisation fought against Phalangist Lebanese Christians. Then toss the Israeli occupation (borne out of a desire to fight the PLO and allied with the Christians) and also Hizb Allah's resistance to it into the mix and you begin to get a sense of how many players, agendas and actors are here trying to upset whatever delicate balance exists in this tiny country.

And some balance did exist - we have all heard how Lebanon had begun to transform itself (despite governmental corruption and old sectarian feelings) - that is why this most recent wound is even more difficult to accept. In untouched downtown Beruit the dusty stone of the buildings [in an area where tourists would once have sat in the French style street cafes] is a testimony to economic recovery.

But Israel's recent war has halted that. An Israeli general said during the war that Israel would send Lebanon back 20 years - and they have. The Israeli military carried out an intensive bombardment of south Lebanon, southern Beruit, the Bekka Valley (to the east) and the north of Lebanon. They also launched a massive ground incursion accross the south. But, by now, this should all be old news.

In the midst of all of this - destroyed roads, bridges, villages, towns and lives - organisations like Trocaire's partner Caritas Lebanon responded to help those who were affected by the war (irrespective of creed). Almost a thousand volunteers accross Lebanon delivered food packages, and water to isolated families and communities.

Stand at a high vantage point in hilly Beruit and it is almost impossible to imagine what it must have been like during the bombardment. However, drive into the heart of south Beruit and it becomes impossible to imagine what it looked like before.

I can not begin to estimate the scale of the destruction wreaked in these areas - or in villages such as Bint Jbael in south Lebanon.

The Israeli bulldozers have left these areas - now the bulldozers of Hizb Allah and the Lebanese government are dragging the slabs of rubble and dumping them - to be delivered to an unknown elsewhere. The dust of destruction clings to the humid air.

At certain street junctions men with walkie-talkies stand barring entrance to anyone who is not known - we are certain they are Hizb Allah. We see other men in Hizb Allah bibs and baseball caps walking from the doors of the few high-rise apartments which are still standing. It is not clear what they are doing but their clipboards and pens give them a sense of authority.

People have returned back to find their homes, their offices - the spaces that filled their lives - have been destroyed. My stomach is sick of such wanton destruction. Metal spines of buildings twist into the air from the rubble.

My words lie in ruins like the buildings around me. This is extensive. This is appalling. This is upsetting. Exactly which adjective is appropriate?

Here in Beruit's Ground Zero , there is none.