Somalians face hunger and fear in Kenya's refugee camps
Victims of war and drought are at the mercy of bandits as they trek miles across the desert to seek UN help. Then corrupt officials demand starving families pay for food
Matteo Fagotto
The Observer, Sunday 24 July 2011
A child suffering from severe malnutrition in the German-run hospital in the Ifo camp. Photograph: Matilde Gattoni for the Observer
======================================================
"It has been a terrible experience. There were eight of us and we had to survive on just a few kilos of flour for five days. Hunger and thirst haunted us during the whole journey."
Holding her year-old grandson in her arms, her face brushed by the dusty morning desert wind, Sarura Ali and her family have just arrived in the north-eastern Kenyan refugee centre of Dadaab, after fleeing from the drought in the Somali village of Waldid. "The heat was unbearable, so we were forced to walk at night. Every step we took was in the dark, fearfully."
Several hundred people have gathered at the registration point at Daghaley, one of three refugee camps around Dadaab. The family-run businesses of these small farmers and cattle herders from Somalia have been wiped out by the worst drought in the Horn of Africa for 60 years. They patiently wait to be registered by agents of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). Most came here after weeks on foot in the desert, unable to afford any transport. They walked for days at the mercy of bandits in the porous border area between Somalia andKenya.
This year alone, more than 100,000 Somalis have fled from the lack of rain in their country to shelter in what has become the biggest refugee camp complex in the world. They are escaping a war zone. The Islamic militants of al-Shabab, who control much of the country outside the capital, Mogadishu, and are fighting an insurgency against the transitional federal government, have vowed to keep most international aid workers away, despite the situation.
The UN warns that 800,000 children could die from starvation, and last week declared a famine in some parts of the country. For thousands of desperate Somalis, the only solution has been a long march in the hope of reaching refugee camps in Kenya and Ethiopia.
Set up at the start of the 1990s for victims of the Somali civil war and designed for a refugee population of 90,000 people, Dadaab, some 60 miles over the border in Kenya, now hosts more than 380,000 refugees. According to Doctors Without Borders, the number could reach 450,000 by the end of the year. As more arrive every day, the camps are becoming appallingly overcrowded. Delivery of food has become erratic.
Tensions and frustrations have begun to spill over. YesterdayLast week angry young men stoned the UNHCR compound in Daghaley, enraged by the endless waiting and their place at the back of the queue. Many come every day, only to be told to return next morning. Given the enormous demands on resources, people are screened according to their vulnerability. Families with more than eight members and with old people are prioritised, said social worker Aden Sirat Olow, who works in the UNHCR centre in Daghaley. "They are first fed, then given food items, blankets and a tent. Single men and young people have to wait more because their cases are not as serious. We are registering more than 1,000 people a day in this camp alone."
However, many newcomers complain of not receiving rations for weeks, while others say food distribution and registration are hampered by corruption. "Some local staff working for NGOs and UN agencies ask for 3,000 shillings [around £20] to give you a food card. If you don't pay, you stay hungry," says Gedow Nunow from Baidoa, who says he had to wait two months before being able to register and get any assistance. Around him, heads nod in agreement.
In the nearby Ifo camp, the hospital managed by GIZ, a German NGO, has 80 beds but is now treating more than 100 people. "Seventy per cent of our patients are newcomers," says Dr Daniel Muchiri. "They come in poor conditions because of the exhausting trip. We have many cases of tuberculosis, diarrhoea and respiratory problems."
On a bed in one of the three wards, Hiraq Bayo, 23, is cradling her year-old son, Ibrahim, who is continuously vomiting. They have just made a five-day trip from the village of Baraway, in the Gedo region of Somalia. "We used to have a farm, but all the animals are now dead because of the drought," she says, trying to keep her child upright to stop him suffocating. "We had to abandon everything and come here to save our lives."
This desert plain, dotted by thousands of refugee tents and makeshift huts made out of plastic bags or blankets, encircles what was once a small Kenyan village. The area now hosts three generations of Somalis who have been fleeing war, drought and famine. The availability of weapons via the Kenyan-Somali border and the lack of jobs and opportunities for refugees are making an already explosive situation worse. Rape and violence are increasing. People are desperate with hunger and gripped by fear. "We go out all together, trying to move as quickly as possible. We run away as soon as we spot someone approaching," says one of six women collecting wood at the border between the Ifo and Daghaley camps. Some Somalis have set up armed gangs on the road between Dadaab and the border town of Liboi, attacking newcomers and robbing them.
An environmental crisis is looming, caused by the huge over-population of a desert area dotted by trees and dry bushes. Dadaab will have to receive thousands more people in coming weeks in what the UN has described as the world's worst humanitarian crisis. The executive director of the World Food Program, Josette Sheeran, visiting the refugee camp, said the area hit by famine will soon expand. UN agencies and relief organisations are doing their best, but resources are depleting quickly and relations between refugees and locals are deteriorating. Some newcomers have settled outside the camps, prompting an angry reaction by communities who feel their land has been taken by Somalis.
Others claim local Kenyans are demanding protection fees. "I had to pay 500 shillings to some locals who threatened to kick me out. At first I refused, but then they flattened my house," says 45-year-old Mariam Hassan Aden, who now lives in Daghaley. "I could have used that money to buy food for my kids. Now they don't have anything to eat and I don't know what to do."
Stories from the famine:
THE FARM MANAGER
Isaac Mohammed, 50, comes from Buale, in the Lower Juba region of southern Somalia, where he used to manage a small farm.
"I had more than 100 cattle. Now they are all dead. I have not been able to harvest anything in the past four years," he said. When his three-year-old son Mohammed Issa Mohammed fell sick because of severe malnutrition, he decided to collect all the money he had and rent a donkey cart, and leave with his two wives and nine children.
"It took us 18 days to reach the Ifo camp. All this time I kept my son on my lap, praying for him not to die," he said. "It was the most difficult experience of my life." His son is now recovering at a hospital inside the camp, constantly attended by his father. His wife has just given birth in the camp to another child and is still recovering.
THE CATTLE HERDER
Abdi Omar, 80, reached the Ifo camp five days ago, after a two-week journey from his home village of Afmadow, in the Lower Juba region.
After walking all the way to the border town of Doble, he managed to find a vehicle for his family of eight for the last part of the trip. A former cattle herder, he used to own 10 cows and more than 100 goats.
The drought has killed almost all of them, forcing him to sell his last remaining animals to raise money for the arduous journey. "This is the worst drought that I have ever seen in my life," he said.
"Thirst and hunger were our companions throughout the whole journey, but fortunately we all managed to arrive here," he said, adding that he had received his first food rations two days ago, but was yet to be given a tent for his family.
Omar is now being hosted by one of his sons who settled in Ifo a few years ago, and hopes that his family will adapt to the new environment as soon as possible.
THE WIDOWER
Ibrahim Isaac, 35, a farmer from Bardhere, in the western Gedo region, has been looking after his four-year-old daughter Adey on his own since his wife died earlier this year. His farm, along the Juba river, became unproductive and he decided last month to move to Kenya.
"The decision was a painful one. I didn't have any money to pay for transport, so we had to walk all the way," he said. "When we reached here, three days ago, our feet were full of bruises and cuts."
His main concern is the health of his daughter. She felt sick immediately after reaching the Daghaley camp in Dadaab and was treated by relatives who live here, and is now recovering. "I had to stay with her, so I couldn't register and have not been given any food so far," he said.
After settling here he said that he planned to look for a job. "I have been a farmer since I was 15, but I have now decided to do something else," he said.
THE MOTHER
Adey Salat, 23, is from the village of Dinsor in southern Somalia. She arrived at Ifo five months ago with her five children, after her family farm was hit by the drought.
With no money to pay for transport, she had to walk for 25 days. "It was really tough," she said. "We were even stopped by bandits, who beat us up badly before letting us go when they realised that we didn't have anything for them." Her hopes for a better life in Ifo were quickly disappointed; the food rations that she receives every two weeks are not enough to feed her children. "Some [rations] last just four days," she said, because she had to trade part of them to buy tea leaves and milk for the children. With no relatives able to help her, she has to beg from other refugees when she runs out of food. Fetching water from a nearby tank is also a struggle. "Sometimes you queue for hours for nothing, because water runs out quickly."
Her husband, who initially decided to remain in Somalia, is now "somewhere in the bush", trying to join his family.
THE FARMERS
Sarura Aden, 40, a mother of six, comes from the village of Salagle, near the Somali city of Kismayo in Lower Juba. With her husband, she used to manage a small farm with a few goats and camels.
"Before the drought we used to farm a lot. Now, I am forced to wear this symbol of hunger," she said, pointing to the blue wristband that registered refugees wear for identification. She made the 25-day journey to Dadaab on foot, along with five other families.
"Along the way we saw so many graveyards, dead bodies and people killed by wild animals," she said. "We managed to arrive, but it was a really difficult journey."
Her family is now living in a makeshift shelter made of wood branches and pieces of cloth on the outskirts of the Ifo camp.
Victims of war and drought are at the mercy of bandits as they trek miles across the desert to seek UN help. Then corrupt officials demand starving families pay for food
Matteo Fagotto
The Observer, Sunday 24 July 2011
A child suffering from severe malnutrition in the German-run hospital in the Ifo camp. Photograph: Matilde Gattoni for the Observer
======================================================
"It has been a terrible experience. There were eight of us and we had to survive on just a few kilos of flour for five days. Hunger and thirst haunted us during the whole journey."
Holding her year-old grandson in her arms, her face brushed by the dusty morning desert wind, Sarura Ali and her family have just arrived in the north-eastern Kenyan refugee centre of Dadaab, after fleeing from the drought in the Somali village of Waldid. "The heat was unbearable, so we were forced to walk at night. Every step we took was in the dark, fearfully."
Several hundred people have gathered at the registration point at Daghaley, one of three refugee camps around Dadaab. The family-run businesses of these small farmers and cattle herders from Somalia have been wiped out by the worst drought in the Horn of Africa for 60 years. They patiently wait to be registered by agents of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). Most came here after weeks on foot in the desert, unable to afford any transport. They walked for days at the mercy of bandits in the porous border area between Somalia andKenya.
This year alone, more than 100,000 Somalis have fled from the lack of rain in their country to shelter in what has become the biggest refugee camp complex in the world. They are escaping a war zone. The Islamic militants of al-Shabab, who control much of the country outside the capital, Mogadishu, and are fighting an insurgency against the transitional federal government, have vowed to keep most international aid workers away, despite the situation.
The UN warns that 800,000 children could die from starvation, and last week declared a famine in some parts of the country. For thousands of desperate Somalis, the only solution has been a long march in the hope of reaching refugee camps in Kenya and Ethiopia.
Set up at the start of the 1990s for victims of the Somali civil war and designed for a refugee population of 90,000 people, Dadaab, some 60 miles over the border in Kenya, now hosts more than 380,000 refugees. According to Doctors Without Borders, the number could reach 450,000 by the end of the year. As more arrive every day, the camps are becoming appallingly overcrowded. Delivery of food has become erratic.
Tensions and frustrations have begun to spill over. YesterdayLast week angry young men stoned the UNHCR compound in Daghaley, enraged by the endless waiting and their place at the back of the queue. Many come every day, only to be told to return next morning. Given the enormous demands on resources, people are screened according to their vulnerability. Families with more than eight members and with old people are prioritised, said social worker Aden Sirat Olow, who works in the UNHCR centre in Daghaley. "They are first fed, then given food items, blankets and a tent. Single men and young people have to wait more because their cases are not as serious. We are registering more than 1,000 people a day in this camp alone."
However, many newcomers complain of not receiving rations for weeks, while others say food distribution and registration are hampered by corruption. "Some local staff working for NGOs and UN agencies ask for 3,000 shillings [around £20] to give you a food card. If you don't pay, you stay hungry," says Gedow Nunow from Baidoa, who says he had to wait two months before being able to register and get any assistance. Around him, heads nod in agreement.
In the nearby Ifo camp, the hospital managed by GIZ, a German NGO, has 80 beds but is now treating more than 100 people. "Seventy per cent of our patients are newcomers," says Dr Daniel Muchiri. "They come in poor conditions because of the exhausting trip. We have many cases of tuberculosis, diarrhoea and respiratory problems."
On a bed in one of the three wards, Hiraq Bayo, 23, is cradling her year-old son, Ibrahim, who is continuously vomiting. They have just made a five-day trip from the village of Baraway, in the Gedo region of Somalia. "We used to have a farm, but all the animals are now dead because of the drought," she says, trying to keep her child upright to stop him suffocating. "We had to abandon everything and come here to save our lives."
This desert plain, dotted by thousands of refugee tents and makeshift huts made out of plastic bags or blankets, encircles what was once a small Kenyan village. The area now hosts three generations of Somalis who have been fleeing war, drought and famine. The availability of weapons via the Kenyan-Somali border and the lack of jobs and opportunities for refugees are making an already explosive situation worse. Rape and violence are increasing. People are desperate with hunger and gripped by fear. "We go out all together, trying to move as quickly as possible. We run away as soon as we spot someone approaching," says one of six women collecting wood at the border between the Ifo and Daghaley camps. Some Somalis have set up armed gangs on the road between Dadaab and the border town of Liboi, attacking newcomers and robbing them.
An environmental crisis is looming, caused by the huge over-population of a desert area dotted by trees and dry bushes. Dadaab will have to receive thousands more people in coming weeks in what the UN has described as the world's worst humanitarian crisis. The executive director of the World Food Program, Josette Sheeran, visiting the refugee camp, said the area hit by famine will soon expand. UN agencies and relief organisations are doing their best, but resources are depleting quickly and relations between refugees and locals are deteriorating. Some newcomers have settled outside the camps, prompting an angry reaction by communities who feel their land has been taken by Somalis.
Others claim local Kenyans are demanding protection fees. "I had to pay 500 shillings to some locals who threatened to kick me out. At first I refused, but then they flattened my house," says 45-year-old Mariam Hassan Aden, who now lives in Daghaley. "I could have used that money to buy food for my kids. Now they don't have anything to eat and I don't know what to do."
Stories from the famine:
THE FARM MANAGER
Isaac Mohammed, 50, comes from Buale, in the Lower Juba region of southern Somalia, where he used to manage a small farm.
"I had more than 100 cattle. Now they are all dead. I have not been able to harvest anything in the past four years," he said. When his three-year-old son Mohammed Issa Mohammed fell sick because of severe malnutrition, he decided to collect all the money he had and rent a donkey cart, and leave with his two wives and nine children.
"It took us 18 days to reach the Ifo camp. All this time I kept my son on my lap, praying for him not to die," he said. "It was the most difficult experience of my life." His son is now recovering at a hospital inside the camp, constantly attended by his father. His wife has just given birth in the camp to another child and is still recovering.
THE CATTLE HERDER
Abdi Omar, 80, reached the Ifo camp five days ago, after a two-week journey from his home village of Afmadow, in the Lower Juba region.
After walking all the way to the border town of Doble, he managed to find a vehicle for his family of eight for the last part of the trip. A former cattle herder, he used to own 10 cows and more than 100 goats.
The drought has killed almost all of them, forcing him to sell his last remaining animals to raise money for the arduous journey. "This is the worst drought that I have ever seen in my life," he said.
"Thirst and hunger were our companions throughout the whole journey, but fortunately we all managed to arrive here," he said, adding that he had received his first food rations two days ago, but was yet to be given a tent for his family.
Omar is now being hosted by one of his sons who settled in Ifo a few years ago, and hopes that his family will adapt to the new environment as soon as possible.
THE WIDOWER
Ibrahim Isaac, 35, a farmer from Bardhere, in the western Gedo region, has been looking after his four-year-old daughter Adey on his own since his wife died earlier this year. His farm, along the Juba river, became unproductive and he decided last month to move to Kenya.
"The decision was a painful one. I didn't have any money to pay for transport, so we had to walk all the way," he said. "When we reached here, three days ago, our feet were full of bruises and cuts."
His main concern is the health of his daughter. She felt sick immediately after reaching the Daghaley camp in Dadaab and was treated by relatives who live here, and is now recovering. "I had to stay with her, so I couldn't register and have not been given any food so far," he said.
After settling here he said that he planned to look for a job. "I have been a farmer since I was 15, but I have now decided to do something else," he said.
THE MOTHER
Adey Salat, 23, is from the village of Dinsor in southern Somalia. She arrived at Ifo five months ago with her five children, after her family farm was hit by the drought.
With no money to pay for transport, she had to walk for 25 days. "It was really tough," she said. "We were even stopped by bandits, who beat us up badly before letting us go when they realised that we didn't have anything for them." Her hopes for a better life in Ifo were quickly disappointed; the food rations that she receives every two weeks are not enough to feed her children. "Some [rations] last just four days," she said, because she had to trade part of them to buy tea leaves and milk for the children. With no relatives able to help her, she has to beg from other refugees when she runs out of food. Fetching water from a nearby tank is also a struggle. "Sometimes you queue for hours for nothing, because water runs out quickly."
Her husband, who initially decided to remain in Somalia, is now "somewhere in the bush", trying to join his family.
THE FARMERS
Sarura Aden, 40, a mother of six, comes from the village of Salagle, near the Somali city of Kismayo in Lower Juba. With her husband, she used to manage a small farm with a few goats and camels.
"Before the drought we used to farm a lot. Now, I am forced to wear this symbol of hunger," she said, pointing to the blue wristband that registered refugees wear for identification. She made the 25-day journey to Dadaab on foot, along with five other families.
"Along the way we saw so many graveyards, dead bodies and people killed by wild animals," she said. "We managed to arrive, but it was a really difficult journey."
Her family is now living in a makeshift shelter made of wood branches and pieces of cloth on the outskirts of the Ifo camp.
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guardian.co.uk/world/2011/jul/24/somalia-refugees-kenya-drought
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