Over time, that will mean one third of the dangerous fuel-gathering trips to the countryside, one third the loss of trees, one third the smoke inhaled by Dawelbiat and her young ones, one third the air emissions. And now that she is buying her fuel in the marketplace, she’s spending a third of what she used to and has more money to feed and clothe and educate her children.
Her stove—known as the Berkeley-Darfur Stove—is the brainchild of the Darfur Stoves Project (DSP), a US-based Oxfam partner organization that draws on the work of engineers at the Lawrence-Berkeley National Laboratory in California. DSP worked with women in Darfur to develop a stove suited to their needs that would use less than half the fuel of a traditional three-stone fireplace and significantly less than other stove models that are available locally. The result is a portable 12-sided metal stove - around 12” in every dimension - that is as advanced in its design as it is simple in its construction. And whose frugal output is a match for the scarce resources of the Darfur camps.
On a day in December, while her daughter and a friend play on a mat behind her and a neighbor holds her ten-month-old baby, Dawelbiat sits down on a low stool next to her stove and begins to cook her family’s mid-morning meal. The kitchen is a low mud-brick building, shadowy but brightly lit where the sun slips in through the doorway.
She places a pot of water on the stove, adds a few pieces of wood to the firebox, and sets the fire going with a match. When the water boils, she sprinkles ground millet into the pot and stirs it with a long, carved wooden stick until she’s created a thick porridge—known as asida—which she sets aside in a bowl. The next course is mullah, a soup made of onions fried in oil with dried meat, crushed tomato, okra, and spices. And finally, tea. In the space of an hour, Dawelbiat and her fistful of kindling have produced a meal for six.
At the compound of Oxfam partner SAG (Sustainable Action Group) in nearby El Fasher, the usual sounds of a Darfur town—the roar of vehicles, the clatter of grain mills, and the bleats and brays of animals—is replaced with the banging of metal on metal. Here in a building sided and thatched with sorghum stalks, eight men from the Al Salaam camp work at tables assembling Berkeley-Darfur stoves. They smile at visitors and get back to work, bending and hammering metal into its designated size and shape. To the list of benefits of the stoves can be added one more: employing survivors of the conflict, who—uprooted from their homes and farms—struggle to find any work at all.
So far, SAG and the workers from the camps have produced and distributed around 9,000 stoves. With enough funds, they’ll create 15,000 stoves in 2011. Some will go to the camps, others to rural areas hard up against the deadly combination of deforestation and armed conflict.
Dawelbiat is shy with strangers, but her praise for the stove is effusive all the same. “The stove is good because it’s efficient and saves fuel and cooks faster. It’s better at keeping the kitchen clean, and there is less smoke. You can easily cook with it and easily move it around. Even a small portion of fuel can make your food.”
“More people should have these stoves,” she concludes.
It is a point that no one argues.
]]>Many women in Darfur no longer have homes. They are living in crowded camps for displaced people where the simple stoves on which they cook define their days—days filled with treks for firewood that expose them to attacks and sexual assault, with dangerous hunts for work to earn money for stove fuel, with painful decisions about selling some of the food donors give their families so they can use the cash to buy fuel to cook the rest.
All of these choices are grim. But in Darfur, where more than six years of conflict have set 2.8 million people adrift, this is the reality. And that's why Oxfam America is launching an initiative, together with the Darfur Stoves Project and an in-country organization called Sustainable Action Group, to bring a new kind of wood-burning stove into the camps, a stove designed to reduce dramatically the amount of firewood families need each day.
The initiative is the latest step in Oxfam's ongoing program to help women in Darfur find cheaper and more efficient ways to cook. The goal is not only to keep them safer by cutting the amount of time they spend searching for wood beyond the safety of the camps, but to reduce the demand for the resource which is leading to severe deforestation in some areas.
"A huge issue for Darfur is its fragile environment," says Emily Farr, Oxfam's humanitarian livelihoods specialist who is overseeing the stove project. "Firewood is becoming more and more scarce, and large tracts of land—especially around some of the camps—have lost all their trees."
Called the Berkeley-Darfur stove, this new device could go a long way toward addressing that problem.
Made from sheets of metal, the new stove incorporates ideas provided by women themselves in the camps. Its design looks deceptively simple. A small opening for the firebox prevents too much fuel from being stuffed inside. The stove has tabs that can hold a plate for baking bread. And vents have been designed to limit the amount of air rushing in on gusty days.
Many women still cook on traditional stoves: three stones lodged into the ground with a chunk of firewood or charcoal burning in the center and a pot resting on top. The Berkeley-Darfur stove is 75 percent more efficient than the traditional stove and 50 percent more efficient than the clay models some families use. The metal stoves, which cost $20 each to make, last about five years—a good deal longer than the clay versions which can collapse after just four months.
Oxfam's plan calls for the distribution of 9,120 of the new stoves. Kits with all the parts are being manufactured in India, but the stoves themselves will be assembled in Darfur—with the help of local hands. That's one of the key objectives of the program: to offer displaced people training and a chance to earn a little income. Expectations are that each worker will be able to build about six stoves a day.
In a place that gets so much sun so much of the year why not provide people with solar cookers?
"In each of the camps where we work we have to consider what suits the situation best," says Farr. "Solar stoves can't be the only kind people have because there are many foods that can't be easily cooked using the existing affordable solar technology. If people can't cook their normal foods, they won't use the stove."
Likewise, in regions where there is a reliable supply of gas, it makes sense to equip people with gas stoves because they can be a lot cheaper for a family to operate than a traditional wood stove. In camps near urban areas, families can spend between $55 and $95 a month on wood for their traditional stoves. It's their second biggest expense after food. Refilling a gas cylinder costs $18, and the gas can last between one to two months. Gas stoves are also cleaner than wood—and women appreciate not having their clothes and bodies shrouded in smoke.
Oxfam and the Sudan Action Group also provided gas stoves to some of the families in Al Salaam and Abu Shouk camps outside El Fasher, the capital of North Darfur.
"People loved the gas stoves because the fuel is cheap, it burns clean, and food cooks very quickly," says Farr. "However, there are challenges with the supply chain: gas stoves are only an option where gas is readily available, such as in more urban areas." She notes that one local entrepreneur started a business ferrying empty canisters from a camp into El Fasher where he would have them filled and then return them to the camp –for a fee of 45 cents per canister.
While the majority of people who tried the stoves could afford them, some families found the monthly cost of the gas at $18 a canister too steep.
The cost of fuel—whether it's gas or wood—and its availability are things all stove projects have to take into account. If gas is available, will people have the money to purchase it? If not, then a smart stove project will include a way for people to earn an income, says Farr.
"In a place where we're using a model that burns wood and people are collecting it, we need to integrate peace-building and protection. Even if a stove uses less wood, women still have to go out and collect it—and they need protection," says Farr.
And so does the environment, she adds. Good stove projects, like Oxfam's, include public education about the environment and steps to protect it such as asking community members to plant and nurture tree seedlings.
]]>In the DRC, increasing violence has forced people to flee from their homes, and led to the deaths of almost 1,500 people a day. Though no other conflict causes that kind of death rate, Oxfam's workers hear similar stories of murder, rape, and displacement from men and women from Colombia to Sudan every day. Sixty years after the main Geneva Conventions enshrined civilians' rights to protection, they are violated in every current conflict.
Some states and non-state actors choose to kill civilians, or pursue strategies in which civilians are too likely to die. Some governments choose to protect their citizens: to keep them safe. Some do not protect all of them, or not well enough. There are, however, successful examples of protecting civilians that show what governments and others can do when they choose to.
They have an interest in protecting civilians, because mass atrocities fuel the conflicts that, in an interdependent world, create security threats that cannot be contained. And an increasing number of governments have a "moral interest" too, because their electorates expect them to help prevent, not just condemn, the atrocities they see beamed around the world through modern information technology.
To do so, they need to make four key changes.
In early 2003, two rebel groups—the Sudan Liberation Army (SLA) and the Justice and Equality Movement (JEM)—both from Sudan's western region of Darfur, launched major offensives on government bases there. The rebels claimed that Darfur had suffered decades of political marginalization and economic neglect from the Sudanese government in Khartoum. Government forces responded and the fighting escalated. Arab militia, commonly known as Janjaweed and widely believed to be supported by the government, attacked villages, forcing inhabitants from their homes—particularly in those villages and among ethnic groups thought to be sympathetic to the rebels. Now, those rebel groups have splintered into numerous factions and the situation is growing increasingly complex.
Estimates of the total number of people killed vary widely. The Government of Sudan pegs the figure at 10,000, while many activists say the true amount is up to 400,000. Most reports say around 200,000. Violence is one cause of death. Many people have also died from illness and malnutrition—particularly early in the crisis. Since then, the enormous humanitarian response has stabilized conditions in the camps, but renewed insecurity is threatening this progress, and the large-scale displacement of people across Darfur is continuing. Already this year more than 200,000 people have abandoned their homes in the face of ongoing attacks.
Some of Darfur's camps for displaced people are the size of small cities—teeming with tens of thousands of people, many of them having been there so long that they have replaced their makeshift shelters with homes of mudbrick.. But unlike cities in the western world, these dense settlements have no modern conveniences. Pit latrines and water faucets are all communal. Food is cooked over open fires. At night, it's dark. There is no electricity.
Shortages of basic necessities add to the tedium of days spent with little for people to do. For many stranded in camps far from their villages, fields, and pastureland, life has become one long wait—for food rations, for limited amounts of water, for peace. Because of attacks on its convoys, the World Food Program, which helps to feed more than 3 million people in the region, cut rations in half in May and threatened again in early September to suspend some deliveries. In July,2008, about 50,000 people got no food aid at all because of ongoing insecurity. And now, there are fears that malnutrition is rising again.
But leaving the camps is not an option. Many people no longer have homes to return to: The fighting has reduced their villages to ashes. And venturing beyond the perimeter of the camps exposes people to attack. There are continual reports of women being beaten or sexually assaulted when they leave to collect wood for their cooking fires or fodder for their animals.
Almost daily attacks—including vehicles being hijacked, aid workers assaulted, offices robbed—have made it increasingly difficult for humanitarian groups to meet the needs of some of the more than four million people across the region who need help. Darfur is a dangerous, and deadly, place to work.
More than five years after the conflict first erupted, millions of people continue to live in fear without adequate protection—even after the United Nations Security Council passed a resolution more than twelve months ago approving the deployment of the largest peacekeeping force in the world. Known as UNAMID, the force is meant to have 26,000 military officers, police officers, and civilian personnel. But by September, 2008, only a little more than a third of that force is now at work in Darfur—less than 10,000 troops—and they are short of not only things like helicopters, but some of the most basic equipment, too. Troops have been painting their helmets blue—the color the United Nations uses—because there are not enough UN helmets to go around. And forces can't go out on long patrols because they don't have enough ration packs to support those missions.
The international community has failed the people of Darfur by not giving UNAMID the support it promised. Countries around the world are responsible for the delays in deploying the troops and providing for their needs. The ongoing violence—perpetrated by the Sudanese government, rebel groups, and militias—is also hampering deployment. The logistical challenge is enormous in bringing large numbers of troops and equipment from Port Sudan across 1,000 miles of rough terrain—some of it without roads. And the UN's own lengthy procedures slow the works down, too. But Sudan has agreed to the force and it?s up to the international community to work with the government to ensure the troops are deployed.
UNAMID, however, is only part of the solution. A ceasefire and a return to peace talks are also essential.
The crisis in Darfur can't be resolved in isolation from other conflicts and tension roiling the region. There is violence in Chad and the Central African Republic. The peace in South Sudan is fragile. UNAMID is not the only peacekeeping force in the region. It needs to coordinate closely with others as any change in security in this part of the world could trigger large movements of people across borders. The peacekeepers must plan together to address the safety of everyone.
]]>Melinda worked on Oxfam's Darfur response from the beginning of 2004 until the middle of 2005, and returned again at the start of 2007.
"A woman came up to me in tears and described how her village had been attacked by militia and she had watched her child burn alive. That was four years ago, shortly after I arrived in Darfur, but I still remember it vividly today.
Then, the conflict was at its height with violent burning and looting of villages and mass displacement of hundreds of thousands of people. The first time I went to Kalma camp in South Darfur it was just a piece of wasteland, with the earliest arrivals taking shelter under plastic bags and twigs. We went to assess the conditions there and we thought the area could shelter 27,000 people at most. Little did we imagine that Kalma would eventually provide refuge for over 100,000 people, or that over two million would in time live in such camps across Darfur. Nor did people expect the camps would still be here now. They were only expected to be short-term.
Oxfam's initial response focused on providing water and sanitation. In a major humanitarian crisis, toilets are not always the first things that spring to people's minds! But they are incredibly important. In the early days, women in the camps kept stopping me and telling me what they really needed were toilets. The women had nowhere private to go so they had to wait until dark—which exposed them to the risk of violence. We were also very worried that diseases such as cholera would spread quickly in the new, crowded camps without proper sanitation. The conditions in Kalma camp at that time were horrific.
One of my proudest moments in Darfur was in early 2004 when we constructed the first trench latrine in Kalma. It was like a festival, with young children watching bemused and amazed as their mothers joined in and helped dig the pits. Although the latrine was just a simple pit with some plastic slabs, we all knew it was such a big step towards making people safe.
When I left Darfur in mid-2005 people were optimistic that the conflict might end soon. It was a shock to come back 18 months later and find no progress. The conflict has changed, but not improved. There are fewer attacks on civilians now, but there is little left to attack. Many villages have already been burned : They can't be destroyed twice. It is still far too dangerous for people to go home. Meanwhile, security for aid workers is much worse than it was before and it is getting harder and harder for us to operate.
Oxfam's work in Darfur has changed enormously over the five years. At first, we were just trying to keep people alive another day by delivering aid as quickly as possible to people who had lost absolutely everything. But now, as the situation has changed and the conflict goes on, our work has had to change, too. If someone has had no access to their farmland for the last five years, how can they support their family? People do not expect to leave the camps anytime soon, so we are working more to provide them with livelihood opportunities to earn an income.
If there is an end to the conflict soon there will be enormous challenges to overcome. People are still clinging to their last hopes for peacekeepers who can protect them. But they have been hoping for this for the past five years and patience is running out.
Resolving the Darfur conflict will need to incorporate Darfuri traditions, but also look to the future. Traditional mechanisms such as compensation for the people who have had families killed and homes burned and looted, are crucial to any sustainable peace deal, yet are often overlooked and misunderstood by international mediators. But so much has changed now and we can't just go back to how things were in Darfur before the conflict.
There are new challenges. Compared to 20 years ago, there are now far more people and animals competing for dwindling land and resources, and there is far less rainfall. Traditional nomadic lifestyles are under threat from the changing environment and urbanization, as many people now only feel safe near big towns. Darfur needs responsible and representative government to create new policies to deal with these changes. All this needs to be addressed if a solution is to be found."
Hussaam started work with Oxfam in early 2004 and has been part of our Darfur response ever since, working in camps and villages throughout Darfur.
"I began working with Oxfam just as humanitarian organizations started scaling up the response to the enormous needs in the camps here. I had just graduated from university and my first job was drawing pictures for Oxfam to use in campaigns to educate people in camps about staying healthy. The pictures were used in camps all over Darfur, and since then I've worked for Oxfam in six different camps and towns.
One of my proudest achievements over these years was our fight against cholera in Gereida camp—the biggest in Darfur sheltering over 120,000 people. Most of them arrived during just a few months in 2006. The camp grew rapidly, conditions were very basic, and there were very few organizations working there. We worked with the other aid agencies and with the community itself. It was one huge effort, but together we succeeded and nobody died of cholera.
Now the conflict has been going so many years we have to be more innovative in our work. People have heard our health messages many times—we can't just keep visiting homes and telling them the same thing over and over again. We have to find new ways to get our messages across—working with youth groups, teachers and religious leaders to educate people through music, drama, art, and at prayer sessions in the mosques.
The security problems have made things increasingly difficult over the years. It was hugely disappointing that after all our good work in Gereida, we had to close our office there because of attacks on our staff members. We worked there in a very close team and we wanted to expand our work into the rural areas and villages nearby. It was terrible that we had to pull out—but the insecurity made it impossible to continue."
Mahmoud joined Oxfam in North Darfur in early 2004 as a public health worker in Abu Shouk camp, before becoming assistant program manager of Oxfam's work in Kebkabiya. He now works in close liaison with all our field offices throughout the region.
"When we started work in Abu Shouk camp, it was like a desert. There were no water sources, no food, nothing. We dug wells and latrines and set up sanitation systems, but most of the people arriving from the villages didn't know how to use the latrines. We had to teach them. After just a few months they quickly learned and there was a big improvement in the camp.
It has been great to see the community learning and taking responsibility. At first there were lots of Oxfam staffers: The community just didn't know what to do and they needed us to show them. Now we have fewer staff in the camp, as communities participate much more and are now able to manage their own facilities.
Abu Shouk today is totally different from then. It is much more organized, and people have much more water and assistance. As the conflict goes on, people's security is still a huge issue, but many of their other concerns have changed over the five years. Earlier, people were focused on how to get food and water. Their aim was just to survive another day. Now people are thinking longer term—how to give their kids an education, how to build houses, and how to earn an income. We are constantly developing our programs to meet these needs and make sure that our work really benefits people.
There have been so many achievements to be proud of over the past five years. Most of all, I am proud of how Oxfam is perceived by local communities throughout Darfur. They know there is no political agenda to our work, and that we try and work with whichever communities need assistance—no matter what their tribe. My biggest regret is that the great work we have done in remote villages around Kebkabiya has been so limited because of the security situation, which makes it too dangerous for us to leave the town. I hope things improve so we can work in more villages again as well as in the camps."
]]>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."
]]>