An old Somali man with his wife and two infant children waiting, in
uncertainty, for transportation to their new home, in a place they find eerily
similar to a cage . A young man with a harp-lip and severely disfigured teeth,
carrying a few of his most prized possessions, as he, too, embarks on his new
life in an alien environment. Several miles of huts, homes, composed primarily
of sticks, clay, and beaten cloth. These are the images from the Dadaab Refugee
camp, located in
Northeastern Kenya, which
have remained hauntingly etched in my memory since my visit there from August
12
th - 14
th. Although my visit was short-lived, the
influence it incurred on a few of my long-held perceptions has changed how I
view humanity, my own identity, as well as my beliefs on what the essence of
humanitarian assistance should be composed of.
Travelling with my two friends from city of
Garissa to Dadaab on the first sun-blazed
afternoon, I was struck by the majesty of the prominent acacia trees, the
graceful gazelles, and the intensely bright-blue skies. Once we finally
approached the camp, I gradually felt the serene images I harbored on the trip
there fading, dissolving, as they were rapidly replaced with images of
destitution and disaster. The roadsides near the camp had an increasing number
of stray livestock carcasses, a grim foreshadowing, and the land was cracked,
sandy, bereft of all life. I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. The
mainstream media reports and articles I had read failed to prepare me in the
slightest for what I began to encounter once inside the camp. I could’ve never
visualized 440,000 human beings, no matter how difficult I tried, inside what
seems in both appearance and operation-style, as an animal shelter. In our
first interactions with the population, interviewing a few refugees, we gained
a feel for the attitudes, struggles, and concerns of the people. After stepping
into a camp registration center of about 600 refugees located on a vast expanse
of golden desert sand, we were almost immediately surrounded by 20 refugees,
mostly women and children, and within moments there were over 50 refugees
following our every move; we were instantly the center of attention. Rather
than being nervous, or flattered, by the lack of security and number of people,
I finally felt my first corpuscle of connection to the Somali refugees.
Sheltering all fear, my friends and I sat down, and they promptly began to ask
questions with their decent Somali-language skills, as I scarcely interjected
due to my mediocre Somali speaking skills. I sat listening intently on the
responses, as I can comprehend much better than speak, while flies splashed on
an off of my face, and a young boy, likely too weak to support himself, leaned
on my back whilst listening to the elderly women share their thoughts and
stories. It was both a heart-warming and heart-breaking being there.
They spoke with intensely desperate eyes, worn-out voices, and deprived
bodies. Even in what seemed to be the most damned place on earth, one of the
women who had been there for a few months, announced passionately how she “had
no rights” in the camp. She had still preserved memories of the vast freedoms
afforded to her in her home country, lawless as it was, it was still home, and
it was still relatively free. The guilt of not doing enough to help inevitably
overtook me, as I sat, trying my hardest to maintain an overtly sympathetic
look while listening, it was the least I could do. So, as I began to exit the
registration area, I took my last look at their faces of struggle, defeat and
uncertainty, a final glance at their firm yet withering bodies, a last mental
picture of their sand-scarred toes.
I visited 4 refugee camps within Dadaab: Ifo 1, Ifo 2, Ifo 3, and
Hagardheere. I immediately noticed that individual camp areas differ widely in
terms of health, wealth, and duration of the average refugee’s stay, which is
also to say that the workings of a refugee camp are far more complex than I
ever perceived. As we made our way across the mountainous roads; we were able
to see refugee vendors selling clothes, Coca Cola, mattresses, and even smart
phones, yes, smart phones. To our surprise we learned that it was in fact the
refugees who started the majority of the businesses in operation. The cause for
such diversity in refugee wealth, health and stay duration at its root is
becauseSomalia’s conflict has been ongoing since 1992, leading to an unending
influx of refugees to Dadaab. Consequently, the earlier refugees have had the
time to install their own mini-market system, which imports products
fromNairobiand other neighboring areas. Though only a small percentage of
refugees have begun businesses, they are improving the standard of living for
all members of the camp by having a diverse range of products available, rather
than just receiving hand-outs for the duration of their stay. As one of the
women boldly stated, the refugees “want to be able to help themselves,” and so
it’s up to aid agencies and organizations to realize that cash for work
community building programs, or small-scale micro-financing can go a long way
to help people, specifically in an area like Dadaab in which there is a budding
market already in place.
To my great dismay, however, we were later offered to enter into a deeper
part of the village by some young men, which we initially, naively, accepted
graciously. However we were stopped on our way to the deep part of the village
through the admonition of two young girls, in retrospect two heroes, who said
that if we went far enough in we would be stoned and robbed. Although
troubling, the revelation was hardly surprising. They felt entitled to rob us;
we were the lucky ones who were able to escape the famine and violence, the
ones lucky enough to return as tourists, to take pictures and wave our
non-profit banners.
After nearly being attacked and robbed, naturally, we decided it was coming
time to get on the bus home. Although being in the camp had been uncomfortable
in many ways, I nevertheless felt a sadness having to depart, even more so a
guilt. I knew I would be back on a plane home, to theUnited States, in a matter
of days to see my family and go to college. Leaving the camp with heavy hearts,
my friends and I conducted one final interview, of an elderly Somali man with
his wife and two infant children. He and his wife were both waiting for a
transport to another part of Dadaab, and they were noticeably annoyed by the
tardiness of the bus. So, in a final act of solidarity, we allowed the old man,
his wife, and two children to sit in the pickup truck we were driven in, while
we sat in the open trunk. It’s dangerously easy to distance the humanitarian
from the victim in many cases, as aid workers can afford to drive lavish cars,
own picturesque homes, and spend their nights in 5 star hotels, only to go to a
disaster zone the next day for an 8 hour shift. This is an unfortunate
practice, and to stop it would mean to improve effectiveness of aid agencies,
increase trust, and increase worker empathy for each particular crisis. In my
experience, to be a real humanitarian is to work for victims as if you were
working to save your own life.
The problems facing refugees continue, and real humanitarians are needed to
help save their lives. I urge everyone, regardless of race or gender, to
consider lending their skills and efforts to the massive aid effort which must
ensue in order that
Somalia,
and the world, can someday be at peace and ease.
- S'nooon
