Baidoa

We’re nearing the one-year anniversary of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. I don’t mention other crises much in the blog given that I’m thrust in the middle of the crisis in Somalia. I think I’ve only mentioned the war insofar as it has impacted the situation in the Horn of Africa.

In Somalia, the humanitarian crisis is compounded by conflict. On one hand, it’s understandable. There are fewer resources and it raises the temperature as groups arm themselves to make sure that their respective communities do not go without.

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I just completed a visit to what is considered the “epicenter” of the severe drought in Somalia. Basically it’s a town of about ## that has been inundated with hundreds of thousands of people from other areas where drought and/or conflict has driven them from their homes.

Baidoa town

They reside in ramshackle housing, based in theory on age-old traditional Somali housing – dome-shaped tents made by planting a circle of thin branches in the ground pointing upwards about 8-15 high (corresponding to the diameter of the structure). The tops of the branches are then pulled towards each other in the middle creating the frame for the dome shape. Brush is then gathered and woven between the branches to strengthen the frame. The final step is to find material to use for the outer shell which overlays the frame. Traditionally this was done through thatching. But these days, things tend to get a bit messy. In ideal conditions, international community and step in and provide plastic sheeting to provide protection from the elements and also enhance privacy. Unfortunately, the numbers of these structures far outnumber the available resources. As such, people pull together whatever they can find to cover the frame. I’ve seen about anything being used: old clothing, cans (tops/bottoms removed with cylinder flattened out), plastic bags, etc., anything that will cover any holes. As sad looking as they are, they are quite functional and their rounded shape makes them resilient to heavy winds. They tend not to do well as protection against rain but that, unfortunately, hasn’t been an issue.

walls of a clinic; injury art on the left

My visit was routine in the sense that I did what I normally do during these trips. I meet with staff/leadership, meet with government officials, visit our activities and inform myself about the situation on the ground and what kind of support is needed from my end.

The key takeaways were pretty obvious. We’re in our third year of drought. Water sources are rapidly drying up. People are still flocking to bigger towns in order to access humanitarian support. Resources are overstretched. Focus is now riding on the hope that by reducing allocations, we can potentially bridge the gap until the next rains fall – normally not until April. It’s terribly stressful given that the rainy seasons have been so weak that there’s a strong chance that what we are doing is unsustainable. If rains don’t come this season, we’re likely to see a step change in the humanitarian impact of this drought. It’s a very scary situation.

housing of those who have been displaced by drought and/or conflict

I was taken to one area where I’ve been three times in the last six months. It’s been interesting to see the progress. When I arrived six months ago, it was an intense period of new arrivals of people desperately seeking aid. They were arriving by the dozens each day. The looks on the faces of the people were startling. Gaunt and weary, some had traveled on foot or on donkey cart for dozens up to a couple hundred kilometers. Most were drought displaced though many fled their homes due to conflict. Some left to avoid their sons being taken as child soldiers. Nutrition screening was taking place under the hot sun given that there was no shelter. There were no latrines so people were defecating in the brush outside the camp, exposing women and girls to protection risks. Water was being trucked in regularly to fill a couple of large bladders connected to water taps. We were all doing our best to stave off the ever-looming famine conditions.

queues for water rations

By my visit in December, the numbers of ramshackle tents stretched as far as the eye could see. Those that had been there longer had settled in and, according to my discussions with some of the residents, were receiving enough aid to at least have one meal per day. We had built a shelter for nutrition screening of new arrivals and the requested latrines had been constructed (though were far from adequate by they time they were completed). Though meant to be temporary, history shows that these encampments eventually become permanent as climate change and high birth rates prevent people from returning to the livelihoods (pastoralism and agriculture) that had sustained their ancestors for hundreds of years. There just isn’t enough water.

Upon arrival this time, things were even more developed. A safe space for women had been constructed. There were women and girls inside learning math. As I approached the building, I could hear laughing and chanting. When I reached the doorway, they began clapping. They were obviously informed that I was coming and that could have contributed to the ambiance. They likely don’t get that many external visitors like this.

As I observed the class, several thoughts entered my head. The first was, of course, the joy that seemed to palpitate from the space. The contrast with what I experienced in December was rather dramatic. Despondent children milled about the dilapidated housing with nothing to do. The mood was bleak, though not as bleak as when I was there in September when the bulk of them had just arrived, but bleak nonetheless. Hopelessness is a horrible thing. And it’s contagious. You’ve lost everything and now it’s a matter of survival. Whatever aspirations you had were dashed as you’re simply focused on surviving.

It’s hard to describe how good it felt to see them giggling, chanting, etc. At the same time, thoughts entered my head that thousands of others still don’t have their basic needs met. These investments, as simple as they are, are contrasted with other camps where there is little or no response by the international community. Everyone is moving as quickly as possible but gaps remain. Coordination is improving. But we’re all in fear that the humanitarian support will drop off as donor governments get distracted by other crises.

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After the visit, we headed back towards town and stopped at a different camp that we support. This one had received less support. When asked why the discrepancy, I was told that part of the reason is that this camp is a bit more unruly. There’s a lot of dissension due in part to the lack of homogeneity in the clan mix. And more crime apparently. As such, I was told that it’s more complicated to distribute aid. I did see some latrines that we’d built and a couple of bladders where people were filling up their jerrycans. I asked the camp leader and he said that they were receiving some cash support and food from WFP, though not enough. But at least their getting some assistance.

During the brief stop, I spotted this woman that I had seen the previous visit. It might be a coincidence that she was at the water point, or maybe she just hangs out there. But she had a distinct face that helped me to recognize her out of thousands of people.

This time I spoke to her. I told her that I remembered her from December. She smiled and told me that she remembered me as well. I guess we were both distinct in our own ways. Not only am I obviously a foreigner, I show up with a very visible armed escort. I’m not the only one roaming about with loads of security, but it’s probably not an everyday occurrence.

I asked her about the support she’s been receiving. As expected, she said that she’s barely getting by. My colleague was translating for me (she was speaking Maay, pronounced “my”, a dialect in southern regions of Somalia) and I noticed that he used the first-person singular in the translation. It jumped out at me since it would be uncommon in this context for someone to discuss these matters in individual terms. One would generally make reference to the community or at least their family. I turned to my colleague and asked if she really did use the first-person. He confirmed that she did but then turned to her for clarification. She responded that she was indeed alone. She didn’t offer any explanation as to why, only that she had joined some of her community, catching a lift on a donkey cart, as they fled their remote village in search of humanitarian support.

The camp leader told me that she gets some support from the community. They apparently help her with some food and other things here and there. It was quite sad, to be honest. This is a horrible situation for anyone to experience, but to go through this in the later years of your life alone, I can’t imagine.

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my chariot awaits...

After a couple nights, I was headed back to Mogadishu. Happy to see the work that we’re doing at the heart of the drought response. Troubled by the devastating crisis that continues. Anxious as to whether or not we might get some rain in the coming months. Time will tell.

Jill Biden visiting Nairobi, on the tarmac as we arrived. Slightly different chariot...(flanked by very cool Osprey planes not in the photo)