Adnan Ansari, IRUSA Vice President of Programs, offers a first-hand account from Kenya about conditions on the ground.
On Friday night, I was reflecting on my visit to Mogadishu while sitting in the garden of a guest house in Wajir (Kenya). Since we had arrived from Mogadishu close to sunset, I had not had the chance to look around the area.
As I was typing on my laptop, a cool breeze finally started flowing after a hot day. The manager of the
guest house, Abdifatah, came and sat with me. After formal introductions, I inquired about the living
conditions in Wajir. As the discussion proceeded it became obvious that the conditions here were not
much different than what the media had been reporting about Somalia. The drought had taken a huge
toll on the people in Wajir also. Abdifatah kept talking for more than an hour. Of the many things that
he said, a few stuck out in my mind.
“We have been subject to droughts many times in the last few years—no one ever helps us in preparing for the next one. Why don’t people pay attention? This drought is having the same impact on our
community as on anyone else! You hear a lot of attention is being paid to Somalia now, but why not
help us the same way? My community is also ethnically Somali! Plus, weather knows no country
borders!” he said.
The next morning when we set out to visit the region, it immediately became clear what Abdifatah had
been referring to. The miles and miles of semi-arid desert that we passed through had nothing but dried
vegetation. The bushes and trees were still there, but brown in color; all dried out—nothing was green. A lighter brown color marked the several-feet-tall termite hills that could be seen everywhere. There were only dirt roads; without a four-wheeler, traveling on foot or on animal were the only options.
There was not a single human being in sight once we had left the small town of Wajir, which also did not
have any paved roads.
After half an hour of driving, we saw a crowd of women and children. They had gathered from many
miles away at the Islamic Relief service point for their fortnightly health checkup and food supplement
distribution. I asked my Kenyan colleague if they were all from the Wajir district. He responded, “No,
our estimate is that at least thirty percent of them are unregistered refugees from across the border.
They are living with the local communities; this is taking an additional toll on the population for whom
purchasing food is becoming unaffordable while their livestock is perishing.”
As the checkup started, some children’s conditions reminded me of those I had seen at the IDP camps in Mogadishu—only bones covered with skin and all seemed to be in despair. Not a single smile could be seen on the faces of the children or their mothers.
The nurse placed some paste into the mouth of a wailing child; he instantly stopped crying and keenly
looked for more. Upon inquiry, the public health technician responded, “We call this ‘magic food’ that
tells us if the child has any appetite. If the child does not swallow this food, it means he has lost all
appetite due to starvation and we have to immediately refer him to be admitted in a hospital—none is
close enough though. It seems that this particular child might recover without constant monitoring!”
The explanation was counterintuitive; a child can be starved enough that his body will not accept any
food.
Walking around, one could see the small straw huts spread out among the bushes. These shelters were
no different than the one seen at the IDP camps. They were not as cramped in a small area, and maybe
there were not enough resources for anyone to be interested in forcing them off the land. These people
could continue a miserable life and even die without anyone noticing that they ever even existed.
Without any doubt, it is our responsibility to provide support to the drought stricken population on
the Kenyan side of the border also. We cannot let them perish, just like we do not want the Somalis to
continue suffering.
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