This is where Asewe stays when she's in Goz Beida, a small town in eastern Chad whose outskirts are now flooded with about 52,000 people forced from their villages by factional fighting. But when it's safe, her home is a tent at Kerfi, one of several sites in the area that the displaced Chadians have temporarily settled.
"That's what my beneficiaries are using," says Asewe about her tent. "It's good to use what my beneficiaries are using."
It's there, at Kerfi, that Asewe likes to be best—in the midst of the people she has come to help. A registered nurse and trained midwife, she is a public health promoter for Oxfam, leading a team of three staffers and a committee of 15. Her job is to work closely with families, showing them how to prevent the spread of waterborne diseases. A musical voice, a warm smile, and an untempered passion are her tools.
Asewe came to this region of Chad in mid-July 2007—at the height of the rainy season—her second posting to the country in a long humanitarian career that has carried her around the world from the tsunami-ravaged coast of Indonesia to Afghanistan, Pakistan, Sierra Leone, Ethiopia and back to Chad. It was raining that first time here, too, back in 2004 when refugees from the Darfur region of Sudan were streaming across the border, many of them having walked for days to reach safety.
She was assigned to Bredjing, a camp that now has a population of close to 30,000 people. But back then, it was just beginning to grow, a chaotic sprawl of families, ragged and tired, desperate for food, water, and shelter.
"It was a very difficult situation. Every morning we would come and we would find at least 100 people, towards the wadi, just squatting around," recalls Asewe. "Some would come with small plastic sheets. Some would have traditional mats, but some would have literally nothing. It would be raining the whole night. The children would have literally nothing on top of their heads."
Many of them didn't survive.
"They put in their own graveyard. Every morning organizations like Doctors Without Borders had outreach people just to count how many graves. Yes. So it was very very painful when they first came."
For nine months, Asewe worked with Oxfam, and alongside other organizations, to bring some order to the camp.
"I left happy, though," she says, "because I had seen the beginning and I saw all the changes—everybody putting in a lot of effort." Besides getting water and sanitation services in place, aid groups had even managed to set up activities for children. And the overcrowding was relieved a bit when some of the refugees moved to a new camp—one that was planned for them in advance, so water systems and latrines were already in place.
For the first few weeks of her posting to Kerfi, about 45 kilometers south of Goz Beida, Asewe couldn't even get there. The heavy seasonal rain had swollen the seasonal river, or wadi, swamping parts of the village, and making it impossible for trucks to cross. The short drive from Goz Beida to Kerfi took six or seven hours through the rain, as drivers struggled to negotiate the mud and gushing streams.
Doctors Without Borders was the only aid organization working in Kerfi at the time, said Asewe and it had managed to get there before the rains began to fall. It had parked two of its trucks on the far side of the wadi rushing by the village.
Eventually, workers built a small raft from old drums. An Oxfam driver would deliver Asew to the wadi's edge, and she would float across, her feet dangling in the water, to catch a ride on the other side in a Doctors Without Borders truck.
"We did that until September," Asewe said. "We were not able to get a driver across until October so that delayed all the possibilities."
But once she was able to set foot in Kerfi, Asewe wasted no time in laying the groundwork for her program.
In crowded situations, where there is little room for people and their animals to live as they are accustomed, the spread of waterborne diseases poses a major threat. In December Kerfi was home home to more than 3,000 displaced people—on top of the 4,200 who were already living there.
"The major issue was there was a lot of wadi water, but no clean water," said Asewe, noting that Doctors Without Borders was treating numerous cases of diarrhea. "It was pathetic. The host community, having been completely surrounded, also lost the area they would use for extra space. Their main complaint was they hardly had any place to get their animals to graze." Nor did they have any place left to use as a bathroom.
"Hence the demand for latrines and water," says Asewe.
In convincing people to adopt new ways of doing things, it's important to make them part of the process—so they own it, too. But first, Asewe has to find out what they know, and in this case, it quickly became clear that people were not making the link between the dirty wadi water they were relying on the diarrhea they were suffering from.
"That gives you a key basis where to start," says Asewe.
She organized a development committee of nine women and eight men from Kerfi who would eventually help her with the big task of public education. After some training, together they settled on three main messages they needed to convey to the community.
The messages may sound simple to western ears, but for the residents and displaced people of Kerfi, they could mean the difference between life and death.
Here is what the health promotion committee and Asewe want the people of Kerfi to do:
Part of Asewe's public education program also includes granting families ownership of community latrines—along with cleaning and maintenance duties. About 20 people share each latrine. When a cluster of three or four have been built for people who are under the care of one chief, Asewe arranges for a handover ceremony, with plans made for who's going to keep the latrines clean and how they'll close them down when they're full. And with each latrine, Oxfam provides a latrine kit—a brush and bucket for cleaning.
Some people get the messages very quickly; others are slower to change.
"The best people to target are the children," says Asewe. They learn quickly and adapt readily. "For adults, they may be able to understand, but changing habits may not be so easy."
But whatever the frustrations may be—wadis overflowing with water, insecurity that keeps her tied to Goz Beida, the slow pace of people's adaptation—Asewe says none of that is enough to snuff out the enthusiasm she has for this work.
"I'm still so happy to be the public health promoter who goes to that little house and finds the child and plays around with them and see how you could improve their little lives," says Asewe. "That makes me more happy. It's quite an opportunity and a blessing."
]]>There can be no way forward for Darfur until all parties to the conflict stop fighting and stop attacks on civilians. Yet, at the moment, the violence continues, causing untold misery for millions of people—with thousands more attacked and fleeing their homes every week the conflict goes on. People across the world must let their politicians know that the suffering of so many Darfur citizens will be tolerated no longer. The international community must put greater sustained pressure on all parties to immediately cease hostilities and return to the negotiating table.
For five years the world has promised the people of Darfur that it will protect them from violence—yet there is still no peacekeeping force capable of giving civilians the protection they need and deserve. The new United Nations-African Union force, known as UNAMID, deployed at the start of 2008 but is still woefully under strength, with only a third of its 26,000 personnel on the ground and a lack of equipment, training, and political backing. The force urgently needs more international support. Getting UNAMID on the ground took 18 months of enormous political effort, but this will be wasted unless the force is made strong enough to actually protect people.
The humanitarian response in Darfur is among the largest in the world and has had an enormous impact on people’s lives. Early in the crisis, large numbers of people died of malnutrition and disease, but over time the mortality rates have been cut and people now have greatly improved access to vital services such as water, food, and healthcare. Yet daily targeted attacks on humanitarian workers are making Darfur an increasingly dangerous and difficult place to work. Oxfam’s staffers are still managing to assist over 400,000 people – but it is becoming ever harder to do so. The international community must ensure that all the many parties to the conflict respect international humanitarian law and allow aid to reach those who desperately need it.
Despite the vast humanitarian effort and the need for a stronger protection force, the only sustainable solution to the conflict is a political one. The peace process has stalled again recently and world leaders must provide sustained, coordinated leadership to reinvigorate efforts to unite the countless factions and bring all parties back to negotiations. Greater effort must be made to ensure such talks are truly representative of the people of Darfur, by increasing the involvement of civil society and marginalized groups, and reflecting the needs and concerns of all Darfur’s many ethnic groups.
While soldiers and militia fight, it is the ordinary people of Darfur who suffer. They want nothing more than an end to the conflict and to be able to get back to their normal lives – but they need our help to make this happen. People all over the world can help ensure their political leaders do not allow attention on Darfur to fade after five years. Darfur must not be allowed to become yet another “forgotten crisis.” To do so would condemn millions of its people to years more suffering.
]]>"Life is water," says Oxfam's Brahim Abdel-Madjid. "Without water there is no life at all—enough water, sufficient water, good quality water."
Here at Koloma, that is what Oxfam is helping to supply to some of the 180,000 Chadians chased from their homes by recent waves of violence between rebel forces and government troops. About 7,400 displaced people have settled at Koloma, one of seven sites in and around Goz Beida in which Oxfam is now providing emergency services for a total of 52,000 people.
And for some, the help aid groups have offered, coupled with the advantages of being near a town like Goz Beida with its new hospital, mosque, and market, hold enough promise for a better life that home no longer beckons them.
"Some will not go back—even with security," says Abdel-Madjid, who is the team leader for Oxfam's public health education programs in the Goz Beida area. "Most of the people living in the temporary sites had never traveled to Goz Beida to see that there's a big market. You can trade. You can start a new life."
Clean water is certainly one of the lures—a benefit that has helped to soften the hardships many have experienced as their family members have been killed, their homes ruined, their villages abandoned.
In the mottled light inside a mat hut at Koloma, a crowd of women—and a baby or two—has gathered. These are the sushies—the female leaders of their communities. Sitting on the ground, folded in their colorful wraps, they talk about their lives since fleeing their villages and coming to this sandy sprawl of makeshift shelters. Abdel-Madjid translates.
Food is in short supply, they say. And they have no land to farm. To earn money to buy extra food, they gather wood in the bush to sell in the local market.
Many of them have lost everything in the conflict. Fatouma Sosal tells of the four huts that once belonged to her family in Tiero. All of them were burned down. She talks about the millet she used to grow in her fields and her lost self-sufficiency.
Kadjidja Mahamat says the days here at Koloma can be long, filled only with the chores of trying to keep her temporary household in order: cooking food in the morning—if there is food—washing her children's clothes, patching her hut.
But at least there is water—clean and ample—and for that the women are happy.
In their villages, says Abdel-Madjid, families used to drink from the same source in which they bathed and also shared with their animals, which left their droppings nearby. People were sometimes sick and their children would have "blajose," or bloody urine. But with clean water supplied from a large Oxfam storage tank erected at the edge of their settlement—and a new understanding of waterborne diseases and the importance of good hygiene—problems like diarrhea have disappeared.
"A lot of these people are coming from huts in the middle of the desert. They get to Goz Beida and suddenly they get clean water, schools, health care," says Sarah McHattie, an Oxfam program manager. "I don't think we'll see a big return."
The question of when—and if—displaced people will return to their villages is a complex one, says Poul Brandrup, Oxfam's country program manager in Chad. There are many factors people weigh in making that decision.
"They need to be convinced that they will be able to re-establish sustainable livelihoods," says Brandrup. "Safety is important. So are primary health services and water. And we are increasingly hearing their strong wish for their children to be able to attend school."
One of the realities is that the temporary settlements in which people can now access those essential services are, in fact, "artificial," says Brandrup. They offer limited possibilities for people to establish and maintain themselves over the long-term. For instance, without Oxfam?s assistance, communities could not sustain the kind of water systems—with deep boreholes and expensive diesel-powered pumps—on which they now rely.
"The displaced understand that it will not be possible for all to stay in the current sites," Brandrup adds. "At the same time, many villages have been destroyed and land taken over by others so return in those cases is no longer an option."
Economic and social development for rural villages may play a key role in some people's willingness to return.
"It is not possible to drill thousands of boreholes to replace the existing water systems," says Brandrup. "But people can learn to develop traditional open wells better and to ensure that water is not contaminated by animals or unsafe practices. This is, in most cases, the way to go when and if the displaced people can return to their villages."
Khadidja Saleh has already made up her mind about that—at least for the moment. She doesn't intend to leave Gassire, a settlement for 16,300 displaced people on the other side of Goz Beida.
Not far from the steady thump of an Oxfam generator pumping water for this temporary community, Saleh welcomes visitors into her home. A collection of three huts for her extended family, Saleh's improvised compound is like many crowded onto this dusty patch of earth, cobbled together from branches, plastic sheets, thatch, and grass matting.
The mother of six children, Saleh, her husband, and their family made it here safely after a three-day walk from their village of Fagatar—a place she does not want to go back to.
"Many, many people have been killed and no one took time to bury them," she says through an interpreter. "There will not be peace there."
Instead, she says, she would like to stay here and possibly farm a little plot where she can grow vegetables such as ochra—if she can get some land. It feels safe here, she added. And the water is close by and clean.
In Fagatar, Saleh spent about two hours each day fetching water for her family, lugging it home on the back of a donkey. Here, water taps are a short distance from her home. She and her children visit them four or five times a day, filling a 20-liter jug each time.
Even though there is not enough food for her family to eat here yet, Saleh is confident that the international aid groups that have streamed into the region to help will do just that—make sure that she, and the tens of thousands of other displaced villagers, will have at least the basics for survival.
"Here, the place is safe, so one day the food can come," she says.
But the challenges, including insecurity and lawlessness, that confront aid groups in this poor and remote region are enormous—and the needs of people seemingly without end.
As Saleh's visitors bounced in their truck away from Gassire, they passed a thin and tired-looking woman slapping the rump of donkey, urging it onward with its heavy load of a child and a battered pair of plastic water jugs. From the bottom of one, a steady drip of water caught the light. It drizzled from a rag plugging a hole—an afternoon's labor draining into the dust.
]]>I like to sleep. But by six o'clock the first rays of the sun are coming through the holes in the wall of my family's shelter, the cocks and donkeys start their shouting, and the camp starts to come to life. The first thing I do when I get up is pray. I ask God to look after my family, and bring peace to Darfur. Then I get on with the household chores... so many chores! I boil the water on the fire to make tea, I wash my brothers' and sisters' clothes, and then I clean the cooking pans. I don't enjoy cleaning and sometimes I'm tempted to do it very quickly, but Oxfam is always telling us to clean the pans thoroughly and I'm scared of getting sick if I don't!
By 8 a.m. I'm on my way to the community center. It's a short walk from my house and it's run by Oxfam. At the center I take lessons in hygiene and English. I like the hygiene class because I can see how to make changes in our house that keep my brothers and sisters healthy. Now whenever I see a woman not taking proper care of her latrine, or not cleaning her jerry can (for carrying water) I get very upset with her. I like the English class, too, but it's very difficult. Maybe next time we can speak in English, but I don't think so!
I am not married yet. Insha'allah—God willing—I will be soon. But there are few men my age in the camp. Most people here are women, old men, and children. Many younger men are away fighting. Or dead. There was a boy in my village who my friends used to tease me that I would marry, but now I don't know where he is. So for now I live with my mother, two little brothers aged 8 and 9, and two sisters aged 11 and 13. My father is no longer with us. I'm the oldest, which means I get to be in charge, but also that I have to do most of the work while my brothers get to play soccer.
At 10 a.m. it's time to go home and make breakfast. We have two meals a day—breakfast at about 11 a.m., and then dinner in the evening. I like to eat goat meat but here in the camp it is too expensive. My mother taught me long ago to make stew from vegetables, but it would be so much nicer with some chicken in it. I also like assida, which is one of our famous Darfur dishes. It's like a thick porridge made from sorghum. Back in my village, every time there was a celebration—a wedding, a birth, a new visitor—we would have roasted meat to eat and a big party in the village.
After breakfast I head to the Oxfam water point. I do this at least once every day. At the moment there are big queues. Today I had to wait for more than one hour and it was very hot. But the other women have to wait, too, so I get to catch up on all the news while I'm waiting. I usually take one of my little sisters with me to help carry the water home as it can be too heavy for one person.
We use water for everything. I can't even imagine what it would be like to be without it. Every time I eat I need water—to boil the food, to wash the vegetables, to get rid of the dirt and germs. Everything I drink is either normal water or boiled water for tea. I use the water to wash the clothes of the whole family. We don't have any animals but some of my friends' families have donkeys and the water also keeps them alive and healthy.
The afternoon is more of the same. Living in the camp I really notice how life feels very repetitive. I go to school, I cook and do chores, and then I do it all over again. In the afternoon I go back to study at the community center for an hour or so, and then I go home to prepare the evening meal. Even the food is usually the same.
I very rarely leave the camp. Why would I? Here there's a water point, a market, a community center. Outside there's danger—soldiers and guns. My mother goes out of the camp maybe twice a week to collect firewood, which we can use at home and sell what's left over. This is the only money we get. I feel guilty: It's so dangerous for my mother to do this. The women often get attacked or shouted at or shot at. They won't let me go with her. They say only older women should go as young girls are more likely to be attacked. Secretly I'm glad: I don't want her to go alone, but I don't want to go with her because I'm scared of the men.
When I first came here we saw the camp and the aid agencies and felt safe. Unhappy, but safe. Now even the camp is dangerous. At night nobody really goes outside their shelters. When I'm done cooking I stay home and study. I would like to do my English work but I have nobody to practice with. I study until it gets dark after eight o'clock, and then we go to bed and start the day again.
It's difficult for us here. Look at our shelter—it's very basic. This is not home. Soon the rains will come and then some of the shelters will be destroyed. What will happen to those people? I know the aid agencies are doing their best, but there are so many people here and everybody always needs something. I think the only way our lives will really improve is if we go home. But we can't go home because people are still being attacked. I will stay in Kalma until peace comes. I just hope it won't take too long.
]]>The achievements of Oxfam and other aid agencies in Darfur have been truly incredible. Jan Egeland, the former UN Humanitarian Coordinator, described the humanitarian response in Darfur as among the most successful in the world, and he was right. The high levels of mortality and malnutrition that we saw at the start of the crisis have been greatly reduced. Many people now have better access to water, sanitation, and education than they did before the conflict. However, other things have not improved. People in Darfur still live in daily fear of violence. Those living in camps cannot go outside without risking attack. The number of people in need of help keeps rising. There are now four million people in Darfur who rely on aid.
What are the biggest challenges Oxfam faces now in Darfur?
Safety and security is by far the biggest concern for both civilians and our staff. Our ability to reach people in need is decreasing due to hijackings and attacks on aid workers. Early in my time here I drove for hours through North Darfur, from El Fasher to our programs in Kebkabiya, through quite stunning scenery. Now this road is far too dangerous for us to use and we rely almost entirely on UN flights. In terms of security, we are operating at the very limit of what we can tolerate as an organization, and if the situation continues to deteriorate then we may be left with no option but to withdraw from Darfur. The humanitarian impact of this could be catastrophic. It's vital that the world leaders do more to ensure an end to the violence so that aid agencies can continue our life-saving work.
The crisis is now in its fifth year. Is there any sign that Darfur will move on from being a humanitarian emergency and into a development and recovery stage?
Oxfam has been working in Darfur for more than 20 years, carrying out development work with local communities. We all hope that we can resume this as soon as possible. But at the moment Darfur is still an enormous humanitarian crisis and we cannot resume large-scale development work until there is a sustainable political solution to the conflict. People continue to be attacked and displaced by the thousands. We are still seeing people arrive in the camps where we work. The situation in Darfur is incredibly complex and we have to be very careful. For example, many of the villages that people have fled from are now inhabited by other communities, and if we were to provide development assistance to them we would risk legitimizing this.
What has been your proudest achievement in your time here?
The relationship between non-governmental organizations and the Sudanese government has been complicated and at times difficult. Back in early 2004 we just could not get our staff members the necessary visas and permits to get to Darfur and respond to the urgent needs there. It was very frustrating. Our staffers have since done a wonderful job in building a working relationship with the authorities—both in Khartoum and at the field level—and as a result these problems have now been eased considerably. Without this success, we would not have been able to have such an impact on the ground and provide water and assistance to half a million people.
And your biggest frustration?
When I took up the post of country program manager, Darfur was one of the world's largest humanitarian crises. Today the security situation for people there is perhaps even worse, and the prospect of peace seems as far away as ever. It has been incredibly frustrating to see the hard work of our staff thwarted by insecurity in so many places. In Gereida in South Darfur, for example, the team did a magnificent job to set up water supply to 130,000 displaced people. But since then we have had to withdraw from the area because of insecurity. Across Sudan there are still many challenges. Marginalization and poverty are still endemic, and there are increasing threats to the nationwide Comprehensive Peace Agreement.
Finally, what personal memories will you take from working in Africa's largest country?
Outside Sudan, very little is known about the country, its people, and culture. What does get attention is mostly war and human suffering. Despite the enormous problems in the country, the Sudanese people are incredibly friendly and welcoming. I can honestly say that in my years of working around the world, my job in Sudan has probably been the most satisfying and enjoyable. The Sudanese are also extremely resilient people. It is incredible to go to the camps in Darfur or to the harsh deserts of the east and see how people cope in the face of adversity. It makes me feel confident for the future that Oxfam can work closely with local communities to help build a better Sudan.
]]>More than four years of fighting in that remote western region of Sudan has forced 2.5 million people from their homes. Many of them have flocked to overcrowded camps for safety. Others have squeezed into towns bursting with displaced people.
As the co-founder of a highly successful fundraising initiative, Nick helped to raise more than $300,000 for the people of Darfur. But not content to stop there, he approached us here at Oxfam with an idea: If he could visit Darfur he could help create a vital link between a growing group of youth activists here in the United States and Darfur teens forced to spend years in the camps.
Yanked from their homes and villages—and the social and civic framework those places provided—Darfur's youth are now growing up in an environment riddled with fear and boredom. Nick heard about their hunger for places to gather, for simple pleasures like balls with which to play sports, for basic improvements to health standards, for books, for safe ways to get to school—and the list goes on.
Before Nick left, we asked him what the single most important thing was that he wanted to accomplish on this mission. He said he hoped to bring back an experience that would touch the hearts of American teenagers. He wanted to find a way for his friends—and teenagers like them—to identify with the youth of Darfur and feel moved to help them as peers.
His personal goal? "To define us as a generation that takes action and one that cares about such important causes as the one in Darfur."
]]>I went to Darfur as a youth ambassador for Oxfam America—to learn about the lives of young people trapped in camps and overcrowded towns by the conflict that has riddled the region since early 2003. Some of them had spoken to me with passion about the need for security in a place where allegiances shift regularly and lawlessness rules. Whenever I heard gunshots shatter the air, their words came back to me with a whole new urgency. This was what they had been talking about. I felt their fear.
Growing up in a quiet hill town in western Massachusetts, I was not prepared for the level of violence that clouds the lives of people in Darfur. And after speaking to youths in camps and villages, it was clear to me that the first priority for the region must be a cease-fire. The world's politicians must do more to make those responsible for the conflict stop attacking civilians.
My journey had started in Khartoum, Sudan's sprawling capital, which lies at the intersection of the White and Blue Niles. I had acclimated myself to Sudanese culture with the help of exceptional individuals such as Saleh Majid, Oxfam America's program coordinator in Sudan, and Ahmed Hamad, Oxfam's driver. I had the opportunity to visit Saleh's community, Omdurman, and represent the United States in a game of soccer with the local boys. I did not stand a chance!
Ahmed exposed me to Sudanese culture by taking me to eat at Sudanese restaurants, showing me around the capital, and teaching me the Arabic names for everything. One day, he took me to the banks of the Nile River outside of Khartoum where locals come to picnic and wash their cars in the Nile. Some of Ahmed's friends explained with gusto that, "The situation in Darfur is normal!"
However, once I finally made it to Darfur, I discovered that the needs of youths there were far more serious than I had expected based on those Khartoum conversations. With Saleh, I traveled to areas such as El Fasher, the capital of North Darfur. Nearby, three camps filled with thatch huts and plastic-roofed shelters serve as home for nearly 200,000 displaced people. In the Abu Shouk camp, the youths who I had the opportunity to speak to asked for the tools to be able to rebuild their communities. They wanted things like better education at the secondary school level, vocational training rather than strictly intellectual education, and places for youths to convene so they could socialize and exchange ideas. In Darfur, people my age—the region's next generation of leaders—are terribly frustrated by their lack of representation. All community decisions are made by elders, known as umdas, and many of the youths feel that the ideas of these older leaders are outdated.
At Abu Shouk, I formed a special bond with the young man who helped me as an interpreter—a man just a few years older than me whose family had fled their village and was now living in the camp. His name was Ahmed Yousif. He told me about his own journey to the camp—about the theft of his family's livestock and his horse—and about the education he had received in El Fasher. Ahmed was one of the lucky ones in Darfur: He had graduated from the local university. I was overwhelmed by his strength and stunned—not for the first time—at the capacity of the human spirit to endure hardship.
Traveling with Saleh deeper into Darfur, we visited the town of Kebkabiya—a place made mostly of the traditional, round, thatch huts that I had seen so often in Darfur, as well as some brick and wood structures. The town is surrounded by rolling plains and jagged mountains that turn from green to dusty red, depending on the season. After the crisis in Darfur erupted more than four years ago, about 60,000 people from the surrounding area fled from their villages to seek safety in Kebkabiya. Oxfam is working in the area to provide for the needs of the community.
I talked to boys and girls from a secondary school class in Kebkabiya who, after asking first for increased security and a ceasefire, requested such simple things as shovels to fill in standing pools of water in their school yard that serve as breeding grounds to mosquitoes that can carry malaria. Many of the young men and women complained that they could not afford to go to school, that there were very few books, and that they had to pay fees to purchase the few that are available. Transportation to and from school is difficult due to seasonal streams, called wadis, that often block roads.
However, all of the youths that I spoke to in Darfur shared a common resilience and belief that they were capable of lifting themselves out of the poverty and despair that has now fallen across the region. Provided they have a forum to share ideas and be heard by the umdas, as well as basic tools such as vocational training and continued humanitarian support, the next generation of men and women in Darfur are confident they will be able to build their communities back stronger and better than before the crisis began.
]]>One of the remarkable things about Darfur is the number of people who are still volunteering with health committees after three years of living in Abu Shouk and Al Salaam camps outside of North Darfur's capital of El Fasher.
About 60 percent of the original committee volunteers at Abu Shouk have continued with their work. At nearby Al Salaam camp, the number is 80 percent. Their help is pivotal to the success of Oxfam's public health work in the camps. Every week they spend several hours visiting households in their allocated blocks and inspecting the surrounding areas.
They go shelter to shelter talking with families and sharing information on good hygiene. They check latrines for cleanliness and wear. And they instruct families on how to keep their water clean by making sure the jerry cans in which they store it are scrubbed with powdered soap and chlorine.
"We wanted to serve our people and to raise the awareness of the population so that everyone's at the same level," says Kaltoum Ali Asad, a volunteer at Abu Shouk.
"If we don't volunteer to do something the people would suffer and there'd be outbreaks of diseases and illnesses," adds Namma Saed Haroun at Al Salaam camp. "If we didn't volunteer it would be us who would eventually suffer, so we will continue to volunteer."
Their efforts win high praise from the agency.
"The volunteers work really hard," says Hussaam Eddin Mirghani, Oxfam's team leader at Abu Shouk. "They volunteer because they're afraid of diseases, especially diarrheal diseases, spreading throughout the camp. The volunteers really feel the necessity to support their communities and their people, who are really suffering in this dreadful situation."
Camp life is bleak. Ahmed Eysa, who has lived at Abu Shouk for three years with is family, makes that clear.
"Life here is horrible," he says. "It's full of difficulties, and we don't have any solutions in our hands. There are no choices for the people living here in the camp."
But Eysa has made one choice—an important one that will make a difference to others in the camp. He chose to volunteer, and he has continued giving his time for three years.
"We have to adapt to our situation and we really need to respond," he says. "There's no way we could give up."
Soon, the rains will come and fall heavily. Living conditions in the camps will deteriorate, and the threat of diseases like cholera, malaria, and diarrhea will rise. Then, the job of the health committee workers will be even more vital.
]]>"Here, in the camp, we are sitting with nothing to do," said a woman named Khadeja, her tedium heightened by memories of what she used to do. "In the village we were very active all the time—working on the farms, trading in the markets, herding animals. Here, there are no job opportunities. No income."
Without money, it's difficult for families to get everything they need.
"Everything here is for sale," said a man. "Back home it cost you nothing. You had it on the farm and if you had a surplus you could take it and exchange it for other things in the market."
At some of the camps, people are able to find jobs, but the pay is poor and the work can be exhausting. Kaltoum Ali Asad , a mother of eight children, occasionaly picks up a bit of work in El Fasher, the capital of North Darfur. It's right next to Abu Shouk camp, which has been her home for the past three years.
"Sometimes I'll walk to El Fasher town and find a job cleaning, sweeping, washing clothes," she says. "I'll get 75 cents for washing a dozen pieces of clothing, which takes all afternoon. There isn't much you can buy for 75 cents. Maybe a bundle of firewood."
In the past, gathering firewood was one of the chores that Asad devoted time to. But she has stopped because it is unsafe to leave the safety of the camp to collect it. Now, she buys her wood from the market and a bundle doesn't last very long—perhaps just enough to cook one meal, but no more.
"Food is another challenge," says Asad. "The children might go for a month without the food we think is valuable for them—fruits, vegetables, meat. Meat is very expensive: $5 for a kilo, and I don't have the money to buy it, and there are no adequate vegetables I can get as a substitute."
For children, who rise at dawn, household chores can consume a good part of the day, especially if one of them is wood gathering. They tell of walking for five hours, in groups of boys and girls up to 10 strong. Collecting grass to hawk in the markets is another task children assume, though a sale can take a long time. Preparing meals and washing are chores that fall to the girls, but both boys and girls fetch water. And if school is open, children attend classes between 8 a.m. and 2 p.m.
When darkness comes, everyone retires.
"We're too scared to go out when it's dark," says one girl. "We go to sleep."
Fourteen-year-old Mahmoud sums it up this way. "I've been here three years with my mother and father, six brothers and three sisters," he says. "We're not happy with the life here. I'd like to be living back in my village—like it used to be."
]]>So, three times a week, and sometimes more, women from the Abu Shouk and Al Salaam camps head out on four-hour treks to scavenge for fuel. If they don't come upon any trees, the women resort to clawing through the hard-packed earth to reach bits of root that they can burn instead.
But hard work is only part of their problem. Looming larger for these women is the constant threat to their safety: By venturing even a short distance outside of the camps they could face harassment, sexual assault, or even death. Since early 2003, conflict has wracked this region, forcing more than 2 million people from their homes. Many of them have sought shelter in camps like Abu Shouk and Al Salaam. But the demands of daily living—the need for wood, for jobs, for food—often require them to leave the safety of those camps.
Now, Oxfam America, together with the Sudanese Agency for Environment and Development Service (SAEDS), has launched a $132,000 program that will help thousands of displaced women stay safer in this volatile place. The agency is providing 4, 200 households with fuel-efficient stoves that, in many cases, will completely remove the need for women to hunt for wood. Two thousand of the stoves are kerosene-fueled; another 2,000 are efficient wood-burning stoves; and 200 of them use gas. The project will benefit about 25,200 people.
Women were excited about getting the stoves, said Sahar Ali, an Oxfam America program officer, who paid a monitoring visit to Abu Shouk in late January.
"Traditionally, the provision of firewood and fuel for cooking has been the responsibility of women," said Ali, in a report she filed after the visit. "There are few other sources of cooking fuel available to them."
But with the introduction of kerosene and gas, they now have other options. And the small round stoves that burn wood efficiently—as opposed to open fires—means women will need to make fewer of the dangerous scavenging trips.
Still, convincing women that gas is a smart way to cook has taken some doing, said Ali. They worried about its hazards.
"This is the first time for them using gas, and most of the houses are made from wood," said Ali. "If it burns, it burns all the camp. They said we prefer kerosene—not the gas."
The hesitancy about gas notwithstanding, the new stoves are bringing another important benefit to the region, too: some relief for the environment.
"North Darfur is mostly desert, and the few trees that provided a nearby source of cooking fuel when the camps were first created more than two years ago are all gone," said Ali in her report.
It's a trend that Ibrahim Suliman, a program coordinator for SAEDS, has watched for the past four decades as it's crept across the region.
"When I was a child, most of Darfur was covered in forest—even North Darfur," said Suliman, a native of Dar el Salaam, a small village about 30 miles south of El Fasher. But in the last 30 years, those trees and grasses have given way to desert. Why?
"Because of overgrazing," said Suliman. "Because there is no planning for animal breeding. And the firewood for cooking. And for houses—people build their houses from wood. And charcoal traders."
But with the introduction of the stoves, some of that degradation can be slowed since less wood will be needed for cooking. Suliman has even convinced his mother to switch to kerosene.
"She's very happy. It's clean," he said.
SAEDS is taking its concern for the environment a step further: It has launched a replanting project in Dar es Salaam and plans to begin a similar effort around the camps.
"Our philosophy is to restock the forest and all these things will be improved," said Suliman. "If we try to stop cutting trees and every year we try to plant many new trees, within four to five years we will be able to restock a big amount of trees. And we'll be able to at least make the environment more attractive than before and people can find grasses for their animals and be able to cultivate again. It might take a long time, but we have to start."
In Dar el Salaam, thanks to SAEDS, about 4,500 new saplings are now growing.
"In five to 10 years, I'm sure it will be green," said Suliman.
Near El Fasher, trees might also grow again. Oxfam's project with SAEDS calls for the planting of 10,000 seedlings around the camps. Families who have recently received the fuel-efficient stoves will be mobilized to do the planting.
]]>Born and raised in Kutum, one of the last small towns on the edge of the hundreds of miles of vast desert that sweeps north toward Libya and Egypt, Mohammed Ibrahim has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the dozens of different tribes and communities scattered across the region. Today he heads the agency's livelihoods program in northern Darfur, and visitors to Oxfam and the many international staff working on the program regularly turn to him for information on intricate local customs and history. Such local knowledge has helped shape Oxfam's work there over the past 20 years.
Oxfam has traditionally worked in partnership with rural communities throughout Darfur, building local capacity and providing technical know-how to help improve water supplies, sanitation, and agriculture in what has always been one of the poorest and most isolated parts of Sudan. When the current conflict escalated in 2003, up to two million people were uprooted from their villages and crowded into towns or settled into camps for displaced people. The emergency needs of the people of Darfur were clear and Oxfam responded by providing water and sanitation to around 400,000 displaced people.
But many hundreds of thousands more remain in their villages, often in highly volatile rural areas where various groups still vie for control. Many have seen their crops burned, their animals stolen, and their villages looted of assets like irrigation pumps, engines and cooking pots. The violence has prevented villagers from trading in local markets or from going out to harvest their fields. The traditional livelihoods with which they previously sustained themselves have been destroyed.
The local knowledge Oxfam has accumulated over the last two decades is essential in helping such communities. As Mohammed Ibrahim points out: "Oxfam has a long and successful history of working with communities in Darfur. In the current conflict, which continues to devastate the lives and livelihoods of millions of people, these villages have lost everything. Together we can help them along the path to recovery, to strengthen their food security and to rebuild their livelihoods."
Many villagers have had virtually everything they owned taken from them. So the Oxfam livelihoods team is first focusing on helping to replace what has been lost. Working initially in villages to the west of North Darfur in the areas of Kebkabiya, Saraf Omra, and Birka Seira, Oxfam is providing around 30,000 people with a wide range of goods and resources.
Grain and vegetable seeds have been distributed and villages will be carefully restocked with donkeys and other animals. Livestock are an important source of milk and meat and can also be sold to buy grain. Donkeys in particular are integral to the livelihoods of rural Darfur, being used for transport water, firewood, and other essentials.
Before the conflict, many villages had communal mills, which provided an income for the village and also reduced household expenditures, since families did not need to take grain to a private mill. Most such mills have now been destroyed, so Oxfam is working to replace them. Community health committees from each village have planned for the income obtained from these new mills to then be plowed back into rehabilitating schools and health centers that have also been destroyed in the conflict.
Mohammed Ibrahim and the rest of the team consult such community-based committees, women's groups, and other vulnerable sectors of Darfur society at every step to discuss the needs and concerns of each village. "These public forums have enabled Oxfam to tailor our projects to meet villagers' precise needs," he says. Such needs include not only food and farming but also protection and security. With the security situation in Darfur showing no sign of improving, it remains an extremely dangerous place, and communities expressed concern that being re-equipped with relatively valuable tools would only increase their vulnerability to looting and attack. So the livelihoods project is working in tandem with Oxfam's protection team to ensure that communities are not exposed to additional risk. The agency is providing only what is most urgently needed, including blankets, cooking utensils and tools such as donkey plows—relatively low-cost items that should not attract the attention of bandits.
Even the animals' gender can affect a village's security. Only female donkeys are distributed: They can haul firewood, food, and water every bit as well as males, but have significantly less market value and so are less likely to be stolen.
After restocking it is essential to ensure that the animals are kept healthy. Selected local villagers are to be trained as "paravets," assistant veterinarians who will be equipped with toolkits and drugs to ensure that animals are vaccinated against disease.
Mohammed Ibrahim and the team are also spearheading a new initiative to conduct research at key regional markets in North Darfur, mapping out the different production and food security patterns in different areas. Prices of animals, cash crops, and sorghum and millet (the staple grains of the region) are being compared, as well as prices of non-food items such as charcoal and firewood, which, in addition to their practical uses, provide a vital source of income for rural communities. The information gathered will be passed on to other NGOs working in the area to help shape other livelihood and food security programs.
]]>The camp is only about nine miles from their village of Abu Hamra, which once was home to about 500 families. But after Janjaweed militia tore through the community burning dwellings and looting, Omar's family fled, as nearly two million other Darfur residents have done since conflict erupted in the region in 2003.
Omar's family was among the lucky ones. They survived the attack, but lost many of their belongings, including about 110 sheep. They arrived at Shangil Tobai with just a donkey, a bed, and a few clothes. There, they have joined nearly 20,000 other people, many of them from surrounding villages, who have squeezed into Shangil Tobai and a neighboring camp, Shadad, seeking safety from the violence that has shattered their communities.
Oxfam is helping about 400,000 displaced people scattered in camps like Shangil Tobai. The agency is supplying them with clean water and sanitation facilities as well as with essential household goods like soap and water containers. At Shangil Tobai, families have received two cooking pots, a cup, a bowl, a bucket, two jerry cans, a sleeping mat, and blankets.
But while people's basic needs are being met and Omar's youngest children are in school, there is little to fill the lives of camp residents at Shangil Tobai. In their two years at the camp, Omar's family has had no opportunity to earn an income, nor have they been able to plant their fields or harvest a crop. At the end of each month, there is rarely enough food left from the rations provided by international aid groups to feed everyone in the family sufficiently. And it has been nearly two years since any of them have eaten meat—a regular part of their diet back at Abu Hamra.
Danger circles the camp. Leaving its security to collect firewood for cooking is necessary—but risky. In recent weeks, raiders on camels attacked a small group on the edge of the camp, killing three people and stealing their animals. People are increasingly worried that such attacks will take place within the camps themselves.
Omar and his family long to go home, but they find it hard to envision any improvement in their situation in the near future. Talks aimed at a political solution that would bring long-term security to the region have progressed only haltingly.
"We miss our homes. We miss our village, our furniture, our animals, and also our privacy," said Omar. But until a political settlement is reached—and safety for civilians is guaranteed—it is simply too dangerous for Omar and his family to leave Shangil Tobai.
]]>In the camps for displaced people that stretch along Chad's border and across conflict-torn Darfur in western Sudan, the concept is hard to explain. In a world of want—where violence has forced more than two million people from their homes—how do you describe an abundance so great that it needs a cookbook loaded with directions to keep it all straight?
That experience helped define just one of the jarring truths about the global distribution of food that Peter Menzel and Faith D'Aluisio explore in their new book, Hungry Planet: What the World Eats. A grand photo essay 288 pages long, the book took the couple on a journey to 24 countries where they got to know 30 families and the intricacies of each family's weekly food consumption. Family recipes accompany every profile.
Brand names and plastic packaging proliferate on some of the pages, testament to the global reach of processed foods and beverages. But on other pages, seeds and raw grains sit in burlap sacks—some more empty than full. A few of those limp sacks belong to the Aboubakars: D'jimia Ishakh Souleymane, who is a widow, and her five children.
The lessons Menzel and D'Aluisio learned from their visits with the Aboubakars are hard to forget, and they hope that readers who consume the stories and pictures in their book won't forget them either.
"What we really wanted to do was help people who didn't have a clue understand what was going on in the rest of the world," said D'Aluisio. "It's important—especially for Americans."
For starters, consider the water situation at the Breidjing camp in Chad where the Aboubakars have now lived for more than a year and a half. Their home is a small tent on a sandy plain crowded with countless others just like it. Oxfam has been providing water to thousands of people in the camp. The minimum provision in emergency situations such as this is just shy of 4 gallons per person a day.
"Water is one of the biggest problems," said Menzel. "Thirty thousand people use a lot of water. There's a big difference between having a faucet and carrying water and standing in line for water."
When the Oxfam water truck arrives to fill an empty bladder—a storage device that looks like a giant water bed—the relief that ripples through the blocks of tents is palpable, added D'Aulisio.
"The water is so precious," she said. "I do not turn a faucet on without thinking of all those people."
D'Aulisio's relationship with her garden has also changed since visiting the Aboubakars. Now, she wastes nothing from it, preferring to invest whatever time it takes to can the extra fruits and vegetables it produces.
D'jimia works hard for the little bit of extra food she buys for her family. She earns about $1.35 a day toiling in the fields of nearby villagers—when she can get the work. She uses the money to buy fresh tomatoes or dried okra. But the bulk of her family's diet—three meals a day—consists of the aiysh she stirs up in a big black pot over a fire outside her tent.
Aid groups provide the rations for the roughly 30,000 people in the camp. The allotments are far from lavish, and amount to about 2,100 calories per day per person in the form of a cereal, such as sorghum or millet, and small scoops of pulses and a corn-soy blend. The rations also include small amounts of sugar and salt.
"Most of everyone looks like they're on the minimum amount of calories needed," said Menzel. The rationing system takes into account only the numbers of people in a family, not the size of their appetites or where they fall on the growth charts.
"If you've got a lot of teen-age boys, you've got some difficulty," added D'Aluisio, speaking from her own experience mothering hungry boys.
D'Aluisio and Menzel learned about some of the ins and outs of camp management during their three-night sojourn in a tent at the Oxfam compound outside of Breidjing.
"Staying in the compound was great," said D'Aluisio. "We got to hang out with the people who were there."
One of the things that became clear to the couple during their stay at Breidjing is how complex the business is of feeding, sheltering, and providing water and sanitation for tens of thousands of people in a remote, arid place.
"Most people who see it from the outside don't see the difficulty," said D'Aluisio of the logistics in just getting enough food to people. "Sometimes there is a disconnect between the giving and the getting, and that disconnect is infrastructure."
For example, the camp was giving food out every 15 days instead of every 30 days—which would have been half the work—because it didn't have enough on hand. Food reserves were far away, and there was no guarantee when new supplies would arrive.
The difficulty in stocking Breidjing—or any of the camps in Chad and Darfur where hundreds of thousands of displaced Sudanese have lived in limbo since early 2003—is just the tip of a problem that affects millions of people around the world every day.
"Most hunger in the world is politics based," said D'Aluisio. "There is more than enough food on the planet to feed everybody. It's just warped in terms of who's getting the food and who already has the food. There needs to be more equality than there is."
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