Images I take with me from Dadaab

I emerged from an exhausted blurry haze yesterday. I spent the past few days contemplating viral infections, malaria, amoeba, parasites, all those things that make you feel like a turtle, slow and tired all the time. As it turns out I was suffering a short lived but rather acute bout of burn out syndrome.

I did not realise how affected I was by the rhythm here as well as the charged emotional environment (good and bad). The heavy smoking and dehydration did help (it was Ramadan, I did not want to drink water in front of my Muslim buddies sweating away at work all day every day out in the camps). But I am fine now, woke up yesterday morning feeling like magic. Good morning, perfect morning sunlight, velvet sand and a scattering of clouds over the UN compound. We had a first taste of summer rain as well. A few moments of hot liquid to dampen the glare of the dust. Lovely.

I am leaving Dadaab in a few days. I still have a three day child protection assessment to complete with colleagues and partners as well as tying up loose ends at the reception center and saying my goodbyes to all those special people that have made my experience here so unique. The number of arrivals seemed to have waned, the emergency phase seems also to have tempered into something more manageable.

Organisations

It is great walking around the camps to see UNHCR colleagues and partner agencies conversing, discussing difficult cases, referring the disabled to the Handicap International (who are a wonderful and professional NGO by the way), assisted devices and physiotherapists appearing to watch over those in need, Save the Children doing home visits for those children in informal home arrangements, CARE following difficult cases of gender based violence, increasing their emergency workforce and all of this without me saying or doing too much.

There was a time I felt the need to bang heads together yet now, within the tiny prism of protection work I have tried to accomplish, a drop in the ocean of course, it seems things are working somewhat.

Images

What I will take back from this place are images.

The look on the face of the young couple, both no more than four foot tall, a boy of eighteen and his fourteen year old wife already two months pregnant, coy and bashful as she told me how far along she was.

The female refugee leader that was drawing paisley designs — doodling — in the sand as she listened to other leaders discuss the difficulties faced by women in the extension area: the dangers of firewood collection, water points, hyenas and childbirth.

The brown brittle toenails of just about every refugee wearing flip flops (except for the doodler, who had beige coloured five toe socks and bright pink sandals).

The endless streams of bodily fluid, running noses, spluttery coughs, guttural gargles and heavy spit, young children peeing just by my feet, mothers covering the grim produce of loose bladders with hot sand. Strange how immune we become to all the things that make us squirm elsewhere.

Female mutilation

I have not spoken about female genital mutilation (FGM) in any of my blog postst, yet it is a reality among the Somali people. Not to put too accurate a percentage onto it but a good proportion of Somali girls under the age of ten have been through partial or total genital mutilation. The female refugee leaders I met and found so strong and feisty, almost all without exception have been subject to the barbaric practice.

Then I think back at the one male leader who got up in a public meeting and spoke about the need to promote equality and dignity among men and women, and how destructive the practice of FGM was. He was eloquent and sincere and received support from us while other leaders cackled quietly as he spoke to an audience bigger than that present around him. It is good to see that despite all the odds there are those that think deeply about culture and institution and realise that there is nothing good about some widely accepted practices.

More images

The strange compost on bald scalps of young children, a mud coloured paste used to cover wounds with a distinct smell or texture that attracts flies found buzzing around or resting on the little heads.

Then there is the impact of war and conflict on the bodies of victims. A young girl waiting next to her father at registration, her skin hidden by the head scarf and tie and dye “dhira” (long overflowing material worn as a dress). When I asked them whether the cause of their flight was principally the drought and subsequent famine or the insecurity of Al Shabaab, the father picks his daughter up, turns her around and lifts her dress to show me the smoke scars all across her back. There was a bomb that exploded by their home a few months back and they decided to leave.

A teenage boy from Lower Juba who had been beaten by Al Shabaab and in detention until he escaped two days prior. His face badly beaten by the back of a gun, the rips around his mouth and mangled jaw held together by a few loose stitches. He and surely many other young boys fall prey to the need to recruitment as young soldiers. And they are easy targets with no money, dead cattle and a family to fend for, lured by the food provided to them by the militia if they fight for the cause.

What more do the Somali people need to ensure? And when will the tables turn for them? Some say too easily what a difficult refugee group they are. Sly and cunning, seeking their own benefit, trying to draw out every last bit of assistance made available to them. But are they not allowed to be this way after years of endurance and resilience to an awful fate – citizens of a failed state further impacted by the apparent failure of the international community’s ability to respond in time.

The System

As usual many conflicting thoughts. I cannot imagine turning my back to these people and this work. But I know for now it is good that I do. I need to refuel, and to think a little more about what else we can do to be better at what we do before I come back here or somewhere else where there is a need.

There comes a time when you walk around the camps or among the group of new arrivals and you find yourself looking over peoples heads, making sure that the “system” is working and everyone is getting the attention they need. Except that you are not giving them attention anymore, you are not looking into their eyes, not listening to the sounds that come out of their mouths, only key words: “Drought…Insecurity…Al Shabaab…Food…Shelter…Minor…” And every now and again your eyes meet with the powerful gaze of a refugee who is looking at you walking around managing this very “system” wondering, what are these foreigners so hyper active about and why are they pacing up and down the camp?

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