As I type this, famine-ravished Somalis are streaming into Dadaab -- a vast refugee camp in north-east Kenya. Mothers clutching dying babies. Match-stick thin children, stomachs swollen with kwashiorkor. Thousands of starving people walking for days through a parched land. Many have not made it. Many more will not.
The drought is deep and wide in the Horn of Africa. The UN warns that over 10 million could face starvation. More than 1,000 refugees arrive every day at Dadaab which was conceived, twenty years ago, as a temporary solution to the civil war in Somalia. It was designed for a maximum of 90,000. The camp has now swollen to 400,000, equal to the population of Cleveland.
I visited Dadaab over fifteen years ago.
Hearing it mentioned in the news every day this past week has stirred up memories, reminded me of how our perceptions can shift in just few hours. I went to Dadaab only for the day, traveling from Nairobi (where I was living at the time) on a UNHCR (U.N. Refugee Agency) plane.
I was with a group of about a dozen women. The others were mainly wives of foreign diplomats. It was a goodwill mission. We brought basketballs, pens and other gifts. We were to meet with a delegation of Somali women refugees.
I had no idea what to expect. I don’t think any of us did.
We flew for ages over a seemingly uninhabited and inhospitable landscape and, as we circled to land, we could see that the sprawling camp was ringed by a wide, wide border of nothingness – land picked bare.
At the airport we climbed into giant 4x4 vehicles. For our protection, uniformed men were stationed on the vehicles, the barrels of their long guns extending out of windows. We bounced along a rutted road passing make-shift dwellings, thin plastic shelters, ragged fences made from sticks, chickens, bare-foot children in the dust.
We were escorted into a large room made from corrugated metal and ushered on to a raised platform where chairs had been arrayed in a row. Below us was a packed crowd of Somali refugees, all women. They stood, squatted, or sat on the cement floor, knees drawn up to their chins. The hall was dimly lit. I remember no windows.
But the room vibrated, almost sang with color. Bright patterned fabrics jostled against each other – yellows and purples, greens and reds, indigo and rust – a sea of color wrapped around bodies, draped over heads. Ebony faces of startling beauty, the brilliant white of teeth.
Speeches were made, our gifts distributed. Then, from the crowd, woman after woman took their turn to speak to us. Their harsh guttural language was strange to our ears. The staccato force of their unknown words like a slap in our faces. Each would speak rapidly and at some length and then those of us on the platform would turn anxiously towards the interpreter expecting complaints, anger, reprimands. But instead, “This woman says thank you for your kind gifts” Another long diatribe… “This woman says you are welcome in this place.” The sounds and the sentiments seemed totally at odds with each other.
We asked the women about their problems. Their major concern was rape. Several women a week were being raped when they went out to gather firewood. The scrubby bush surrounding the camp had been denuded and the women needed to walk further and further to harvest wood. We suggested that perhaps their menfolk collect the firewood so the women could remain safe. The women laughed and laughed at our useless suggestion. “ Gathering wood is women’s work”. Well, perhaps the men could walk with you as protection. They shook their heads. We clearly didn’t understand. “Gathering wood is women’s work.”
We asked if there was something we could do for them. I was expecting to hear requests for medicine or clothing, something basic, tangible. But no, we were asked if we could assist with marketing !! They told us about the craft groups they had formed and showed us colorful sturdy baskets and delightful hand-carved wooden servers. They had no way to market, no proper outlet for their beautiful, labor-intensive wares.
At the end of our session I heard a Somali woman speaking to an Italian member of our group. I asked how she knew Italian. She told me that she had done her medical training in Rome. She was a qualified doctor who had lived in Europe. Now she was a refugee.
There was little talk on the flight back. I think we were all emotionally exhausted and wrapped up in our own musings. I thought with discomfort about how we had sat, elevated, on a stage and handed out what now seemed such trite gifts. I realized that only a few hours ago I had held a narrow, stereotypical image of “a refugee”. I felt ashamed and humbled. The women we had met had been so polite, gracious and cheerful in our presence despite their dire situation. I thought of the doctor and wondered if she too had been crossing that barren expanse of earth in search of firewood. What was her future? How many others in that camp were accomplished, educated women? How many could be, given the opportunity?
When I got home I arranged for the baskets and wooden servers to be flown down to Nairobi and sold them in craft shows, placed them in boutiques. I sent small envelopes of money back with pilots who were flying food and medicine up to the camp.
I never got back to Dadaab myself but I brought a basket and some wooden servers with me when I moved to Durham.
Today I searched my house for them. I have dusted them off and placed them where I will see them daily. I rub my fingers over the pleasing designs on the servers and wonder if this wood was gathered alongside the firewood. Did women risk rape to get this wood? Did the careful making of these items so engross and please the women that they were able for a time to forget where they were? I lift the basket by its bright handles. The smell of grass is still trapped in the weave. A basket of memories.
Dadaab now houses more than four times the numbers of people it did when I was there. It is the largest refugee camp in the world. The wide swathe of land around the camp which had been picked clean by women gathering wood must, by now, be crammed, jam-packed with new refugees fleeing a famine. Thin depleted bodies on the margin of life. What of their future?
Comments:
The drought is deep and wide in the Horn of Africa. The UN warns that over 10 million could face starvation. More than 1,000 refugees arrive every day at Dadaab which was conceived, twenty years ago, as a temporary solution to the civil war in Somalia. It was designed for a maximum of 90,000. The camp has now swollen to 400,000, equal to the population of Cleveland.
I visited Dadaab over fifteen years ago.
Hearing it mentioned in the news every day this past week has stirred up memories, reminded me of how our perceptions can shift in just few hours. I went to Dadaab only for the day, traveling from Nairobi (where I was living at the time) on a UNHCR (U.N. Refugee Agency) plane.
I was with a group of about a dozen women. The others were mainly wives of foreign diplomats. It was a goodwill mission. We brought basketballs, pens and other gifts. We were to meet with a delegation of Somali women refugees.
I had no idea what to expect. I don’t think any of us did.
We flew for ages over a seemingly uninhabited and inhospitable landscape and, as we circled to land, we could see that the sprawling camp was ringed by a wide, wide border of nothingness – land picked bare.
At the airport we climbed into giant 4x4 vehicles. For our protection, uniformed men were stationed on the vehicles, the barrels of their long guns extending out of windows. We bounced along a rutted road passing make-shift dwellings, thin plastic shelters, ragged fences made from sticks, chickens, bare-foot children in the dust.
We were escorted into a large room made from corrugated metal and ushered on to a raised platform where chairs had been arrayed in a row. Below us was a packed crowd of Somali refugees, all women. They stood, squatted, or sat on the cement floor, knees drawn up to their chins. The hall was dimly lit. I remember no windows.
But the room vibrated, almost sang with color. Bright patterned fabrics jostled against each other – yellows and purples, greens and reds, indigo and rust – a sea of color wrapped around bodies, draped over heads. Ebony faces of startling beauty, the brilliant white of teeth.
Speeches were made, our gifts distributed. Then, from the crowd, woman after woman took their turn to speak to us. Their harsh guttural language was strange to our ears. The staccato force of their unknown words like a slap in our faces. Each would speak rapidly and at some length and then those of us on the platform would turn anxiously towards the interpreter expecting complaints, anger, reprimands. But instead, “This woman says thank you for your kind gifts” Another long diatribe… “This woman says you are welcome in this place.” The sounds and the sentiments seemed totally at odds with each other.
We asked the women about their problems. Their major concern was rape. Several women a week were being raped when they went out to gather firewood. The scrubby bush surrounding the camp had been denuded and the women needed to walk further and further to harvest wood. We suggested that perhaps their menfolk collect the firewood so the women could remain safe. The women laughed and laughed at our useless suggestion. “ Gathering wood is women’s work”. Well, perhaps the men could walk with you as protection. They shook their heads. We clearly didn’t understand. “Gathering wood is women’s work.”
We asked if there was something we could do for them. I was expecting to hear requests for medicine or clothing, something basic, tangible. But no, we were asked if we could assist with marketing !! They told us about the craft groups they had formed and showed us colorful sturdy baskets and delightful hand-carved wooden servers. They had no way to market, no proper outlet for their beautiful, labor-intensive wares.
At the end of our session I heard a Somali woman speaking to an Italian member of our group. I asked how she knew Italian. She told me that she had done her medical training in Rome. She was a qualified doctor who had lived in Europe. Now she was a refugee.
There was little talk on the flight back. I think we were all emotionally exhausted and wrapped up in our own musings. I thought with discomfort about how we had sat, elevated, on a stage and handed out what now seemed such trite gifts. I realized that only a few hours ago I had held a narrow, stereotypical image of “a refugee”. I felt ashamed and humbled. The women we had met had been so polite, gracious and cheerful in our presence despite their dire situation. I thought of the doctor and wondered if she too had been crossing that barren expanse of earth in search of firewood. What was her future? How many others in that camp were accomplished, educated women? How many could be, given the opportunity?
When I got home I arranged for the baskets and wooden servers to be flown down to Nairobi and sold them in craft shows, placed them in boutiques. I sent small envelopes of money back with pilots who were flying food and medicine up to the camp.
I never got back to Dadaab myself but I brought a basket and some wooden servers with me when I moved to Durham.
Today I searched my house for them. I have dusted them off and placed them where I will see them daily. I rub my fingers over the pleasing designs on the servers and wonder if this wood was gathered alongside the firewood. Did women risk rape to get this wood? Did the careful making of these items so engross and please the women that they were able for a time to forget where they were? I lift the basket by its bright handles. The smell of grass is still trapped in the weave. A basket of memories.
Dadaab now houses more than four times the numbers of people it did when I was there. It is the largest refugee camp in the world. The wide swathe of land around the camp which had been picked clean by women gathering wood must, by now, be crammed, jam-packed with new refugees fleeing a famine. Thin depleted bodies on the margin of life. What of their future?
Comments:
Such a lovely piece of writing Bridget and so heartbreaking what they are going through. I know they are being detained and contained in Somalia and it is the" lucky" ones who reach the overcrowded Dadaab. Jennifer
You touched my heart. You have a gift with your words. Thank you for sharing...makes us stop in our tracks. Barbara
Wonderful article, very moving - I shall cherish my basket with greater understanding of its history. Deb
1 comment:
Thank you for this poetic, sorrowful glimpse into the reality behind the headlines.
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