In the summer of 2011, the civil war in Somalia had reached a terrible new low. The capital city, Mogadishu, repeatedly exchanged hands between government forces and al-Shabaab rebels, and the southern half of the country fell securely under the control of al-Shabaab. The East Africa drought striking the region further exacerbated the political situation, and over the course of a few short months, an estimated 260,000 individuals lost their lives. In addition, hundreds of thousands of Somali refugees poured into neighboring Kenya. Dadaab, situated in Kenya’s North East Province, quickly became the largest refugee camp in the world. During this time, I was attentively watching the news from nearby Nairobi. Towards the end of my stay, I finally decided to give recreational journalism a shot, and pay a visit to Dadaab.
Most journalists fly to Dadaab on the UNHCR chartered flight from Nairobi, but since I lacked any financial sponsor for my journalistic escapades, I just hopped on a bus instead. The bus left the Somali neighborhood of Eastleigh at around 5 AM, and arrived in Garrissa, the capital of Kenya’s North Eastern Province, by early afternoon. Unfortunately this was already too late in the day to catch a ride to Dadaab. The road between Garissa and Dadaab is notorious for bandits, and so no vehicle risks traveling after sunset. Realizing that I would be stuck in Garissa until the following morning, I made the most of my layover by recruiting some new Somali friends to serve as my de-facto body guards while I explored the town. After meeting Abdi and Abdi at a local restaurant (all Somali men are named Abdi), the three of us spent the next few hours walking around the market, exploring the streets of Garissa, and hiking to the nearby lake. This friendship of convenience seemed to work out well for everyone involved: I succeeded in finding a safe and entertaining way to spend the day, while the Abdis had the "extraordinary" privilege of hanging out with a white man – an experience so thrilling, it seems, that upon saying goodbye, Abdi #2 let me know that “today is a day [he] will never forget”.
When our short-lived friendship finally came to an end, I started making my way back to town to find a hostel. As I passed the city center, I noticed hundreds of bearded men and covered women crowding around a charismatic speaker. Naturally, this gathering piqued my curiosity, and as I drew towards the periphery of the crowd, people started turning their heads in my direction. Pretty soon my white skin was diverting attention away from the main speaker, and before I could even open my mouth to inquire about the event, I was pushed towards the center of the circle. The next thing I know, the speaker himself called me to the podium, and handed me the microphone. The language of the forum switched from Somali to English, and there was a call for me to address the crowd. By this point I was a bit apprehensive, still completely in the dark as to what this gathering was about, but it was far too late to retract my steps. The questioning began immediately:
“What is your name?”
“um…Ezra. From the USA.”
(I figured it’s probably best not to lie in front of hundreds of conspicuously God-fearing men and women).
“Are you a Christian or a Muslim?”
“erm. Christ…ian (?)”
(So much for not lying. Not really my fault, though, that was a leading question!)
“What sort of Christian are you?”
“(nervous laughter). heh. um, you know, not really any specific denomination.”
(Why did I just literally draw a blank on every single form of Christianity except Mormonism?? So much for my degree in religious philosophy…).
“What do you mean you’re not any specific denomination! Have you been baptized?”
“…no.”
(To be fair, this is my first time spewing rapid-fire lies in front of a massive crowd of possible Al-Shabaab militants. All things considered, I’d say I’m handling this interrogation pretty decently.)
“You haven’t even been baptized! So tell me, is it not true that you haven't gone to church to pray since you were a child?"
“I guess you could say that.” (The crowd roars in laughter).
(Okay maybe that was a stupid answer).
“Do you believe in God?”
“Of course!”
(That one was easy).
"So tell me Ezra – you don't have faith in your Christian religion, and you have never even been baptized. And yet, you believe in God. Why not embrace Islam right here right now? What are you waiting for?” (Chants of “alahu akbar” are heard among the people in the crowd).
(I desperately try to somehow smile-off the question, and pass along the microphone to somebody else, but people are impatiently waiting for my answer. Pretty soon I have no choice but to respond):
“Hah, um, you know, I think all religions are sort of good...different ones are good for different people, I guess. It sounds interesting, but…not right now…though maybe …afterwards?”
And with that mumbled response, I successfully managed to avoid publicly converting to Islam and/or joining the Al-Shabaab. The conversation continued for a short while, and eventually I managed to greatly ease the tension by asking some questions of my own: What are the most important laws in Islam? So do you guys believe in one God, or three? What’s the difference between a Sunni and a Shiite? The crowd seemed pretty impressed by my enthusiasm to learn more about the Islamic faith. Although calls for my public conversion consistently persisted throughout the dialogue, eventually they let me off the hook without demanding that I officially embrace the faith (al-Shabaab folk are apparently way chiller than ISIS). A resolution to my sticky religious predicament - i.e. choosing between converting to Islam or fulfilling the Jewish commandment of martyrdom - could thankfully be postponed to another day.
So as it turns out, I had accidentally stumbled upon the Somali version of a medieval religious disputation; an organized debate between Garissa’s ninety-eight percent Muslim majority, and two-percent Christian minority, as to which religion is “correct”. In what was undoubtedly the result of a well-crafted divine joke, I, the Orthodox Jew, had been assigned the role of defending the Christian faith to a religiously enthusiastic crowd of Somali Muslims. By engaging with them in a discussion about Islam, the Quran, and Mohammad, I kept the crowd happy, which seemed to work out best for everyone involved; everyone, that is, except the lone truly Christian representative alongside me (who I had in effect replaced in the debate), and who was essentially laughed off stage as he witnessed his “coreligionist” undergo a religious transformation from an ignorant Christian to a Muslim enthusiast, in front of all to see.
...so after this interesting interruption to my day, I walked around the city a bit to make sure no one followed me back to my hostel, locked myself in the room, waited there for about ten hours until my adrenaline levels returned to normal, and then hopped on the earliest bus the next morning towards Dadaab. In accordance with my self-prescribed safety protocol, I again recruited a man named Abdi to serve as my body-guard for the trip (all Somali men are named Abdi), and we passed the time by chewing lots of khat; a traditional amphetamine-like stimulant quite popular in the Somali region. The scenery on the way to Dadaab is filled with endless desert, and sprinkled alongside the road are dozens of animal carcasses; a reminder of the harsh famine taking its toll on those struggling to survive in the region. We also passed a number of pastoralists, who emerged from the emptiness of the desert to exchange goods with passing cars. From my brief window into the local economy, it appeared that the barter system is the preferred method of choice. I watched as Abdi traded some store-brand juice in a box for two liters of fresh, organic, straight-from-the-hump, camel milk. Amazed by his negotiation skills, I asked him how he pulled off such a steal. He told me that the lady was curious to taste the juice, since she had never before seen store-produced juice in a box. I had never before seen a lady who had never before seen store-produced juice in a box, and so I found her to be quite curious; but when I thought about it some more, I realized I had never before seen camel-produced milk in a bottle, so maybe she found me to be quite curious. So, you know, a first time for everyone.
When we finally arrived in Dadaab, I registered with the Department of Refugee Affairs. My white-privilege gave me immediate access to the head of the camp, Haron Komen, and my charming personality got me a free place to sleep on his couch for the next few nights. Mr. Komen showed me around the camp, and began telling me about his work. Back in March, 2011, when the recent crisis first began to escalate, countless refugees died upon arrival to Dadaab while simply waiting to register at the camp. When the international media finally got hold of the story a few months later, the situation slowly began to improve. For example, while previously bureaucratic regulations prevented workers from offering food to new arrivals until after registration, such regulations have since been lifted. Furthermore, rather than wait for refugees to walk into Dadaab, the camp has now set up a station to collect people from Liboi, a town passed Dadaab that lies at the internationally-recognized boarder with Somalia. (In practice, many refugees continue to walk directly into Dadaab, since they still feel threatened at Liboi). In the coming months, Mr. Komen said he hopes to continue the improvements, and open a medical center for refugees directly in Liboi.
Mr. Komen set me up with a translator, Abdi Mohammad Adan (all Somali men are named Abdi), and together we spent the next few hours speaking to the new arrivals. Most had come from southern Somalia, a region completely under the control of Al-Shabaab. I met Kahah, from Theef, who told me that her husband had been shot by Al-Shabaab militants. This tragedy, along with the food crisis, pushed her to finally make the trip towards Kenya. I then met Ralio, from the Barawa region, who came to Dadaab with her husband and two daughters, together with eight other families. She told me that the humanitarian aid in Barawa is administered by Al-Shabaab, who prevents food deliveries from reaching the villagers unless they demonstrate political allegiance to the militants. Towards the end of her fourteen-day journey by foot from Jilib to Liboi, Ralio’s husband was shot by bandits, and later died upon arrival at the Dadaab hospital.
Afterwards I met Hassan, from Kismayo, who came to Dadaab with his mother, wife, and eight children. Hassan began by scolding me for speaking to the women (since they do not know how to express themselves correctly), and then proceeded to give me his personal account. Four years ago, the Al-Shabaab began taking money from him by force. Over the past few months, however, the situation deteriorated to the point at which his family could no longer afford food – and so they left. Ahmad, a pastoralist from Afmadow, also joined the conversation, and told me that he journeyed towards Dadaab once the last of his animals had died. He smuggled himself out by bribing cattle workers, who were on-route to Kenya to sell animals across the border.
Everyone I interviewed expressed resentment towards Al-Shabaab, and many had been directly affected by the violence of war. Nonetheless, the breaking point at which most people finally decided to uproot their families and journey towards the complete unknown was when death by starvation became an all-too-realistic possibility. The particular individuals that I spoke to, from among the hundreds of thousands of refugees now flooding Kenya, seemed to have waited out the dire situation until they could no longer afford to feed their children more than three meals per week. Three meals per week – that was the tipping point at which they mustered up the courage to completely abandon their previous lives, and accept literally anything else the world might have to offer them.
After saying goodbye to the new arrivals, I continued with Abdi Mohammad towards the rest of the camp. The atmosphere in these quarters was quite different from the new arrivals. We visited the Hornimo Primary School in the IFO camp, a free school run entirely by volunteer refugee teachers. Abdi also introduced me to his friends and extended family, with whom he has been living with in Dadaab for the past twelve years. After playing some football with the kids, I said goodbye, and went back to spend the night at Mr. Komen’s residence outside the camp. We spent the evening at the local bar with some Kenyan police officers, who vented about the difficulties involved in extracting bribes from refugees. The “payoff” for police work, it seems, is far greater in a city like Nairobi, than it is near a refugee camp. I sympathized with their plight, and as a gesture of good will, decided to cover the bill for all the crooked cops at the table.
I’ll end with some takeaways. Although I am hesitant to draw any sweeping conclusions from such a short visit to Dadaab, I nevertheless would like to briefly compare my observations about life in the refugee camp vs. life in the Nairobi slums. On a purely materialistic level, the conditions are perhaps less satisfying in Dadaab: nearly all the residents of the refugee camp live without electricity or running water, and lack a basic freedom of movement that people in the slums can enjoy. The refugees live in straw huts, as apposed to metal shacks, and the food aid distributed in the camp is intentionally tasteless, to incentivize people to leave. In addition, many preventable diseases, such as polio, seem to be more common in the camp than in the slums. In neither location do enough women have the means to purchase sanitary pads, and in both locations many women are forced to make due with unsanitary rags. Nevertheless, my lasting impression is that life in the refugee camp is easier, and ultimately happier, than life in the Nairobi slums. The reason, I think, is due to relative welfare. Residents of Dadaab compare their personal situation to that of the new arrivals - relative to whom they are much better off. People growing up in the slums, however, compare their situation to that of others in Nairobi. They are therefore more directly aware of the various barriers and injustices that prevent them from integrating into the standard workforce. In other words, residents of Kibera likely bear witness to far greater inequality than do refugees in Dadaab.
Your perception of the past plays a major role in your outlook on the present; one who views life as improving over time is more likely to stay hopeful in the present, and to remain optimistic about the future. Indeed, there are many amazing people in the slums who, despite their struggles, successfully manage to view life through this lens. Dama (name changed), a girl who is by no means relatively well-off financially (even by the standards of the Kibera slum), relayed her family history to me as follows: at first they lived upcountry, where they did not own any land, and where food was extremely difficult to come by. When her family ultimately decided to pick up and move to Kibera, they still did not manage enough food to eat every day. Slowly, but surely, however, they worked to improve upon their situation, and over the ensuing few years, Dama, her mother, and sister, saved enough money to buy a bed, a rug, and a gas cooker. Although last year they were unfortunately set back by a robbery that emptied their savings, nevertheless, they are continuing to work hard, and hope to soon fully replace the money that was lost.
Remaining hopeful about the future is something that everyone in the world must struggle with; each person in his/her own life, each person in his/her own way. But the unfortunate reality in places like Kibera is that real opportunities for upward mobility are nearly impossible to come by. When faced with this harsh truth, the ability to remain genuinely optimistic about a seemingly hopeless future requires unique personal strength; a rare gift that only exceptional individuals, like Dama, actually manage to achieve. In contrast to the disappointing realities of slum life, however, I conjecture that the Somali refugee narrative can perhaps more naturally be pitched as a story of progress: a journey from a past of war and starvation towards a present in which basic needs are met. The practical difference might be as follows: while a young girl in Dadaab may not think twice about using a rag in place of a sanity pad, since she knows nothing else, when a girl in Kibera is faced with the same predicament, it causes her deep anxiety - which in turn propels her to make poor decisions that further exacerbate her precarious situation. So while genuine upward mobility may be practically impossible from either Kibera or Dadaab, the experience of constantly bearing witness to terrible inequality, while seeing no real channels through which to improve upon one's own situation, may help explain why violent criminal activity – though too common, no doubt, in the camp – has become the defining mark on slum life.