Often I am asked by those I've interviewed "how do you like Kakuma?" I find the question deserves more than a cursory "it's been very good so far," or "I like it very much." This is not what those who pose the question are looking for. Nor is it the truth. Which isn't to say the exact opposite, that Kakuma "has been awful" or "I hate it here."
I invite a far lengthier discussion when I say I think that Kakuma has many dimensions. That I daily meet and hear from extraordinary people and have been shown tremendous kindness and hospitality. I say that there is so much to admire and enjoy here--Ethiopian restaurants where you can while hours away in shady courtyards smoking hookah and eating injera; motorbike taxis that drop you off (and pick you up) throughout the camp; Internet cafés and booming marketplaces--even an ATM.
But then you get off the main streets or out into the far camps--Kakuma 3 and 4 or the "new area" (somewhat of a misnomer as it's been new for over one year). On these windswept expanses you'll see images far more commonly associated with the term "refugee." Naked children with distended bellies, dilapidated tents, scores of people lying for hours under knarled thorn trees, waiting for the hours to pass by.
I've spoken with some of them, though they are usually too tired or too weary of the mzungu to tell their story. Yesterday, I met with a fifteen year old girl from South Sudan who is four months pregnant and for four years has been the only caregiver for her brother (he's now ten). They have no parents, no extended family to rely on. She has dropped out of school. He is still attending, but says he needs to work. Otherwise they will continue to go hungry, as their two week food ration barely lasts more than one week.
I ask if child protection, a unit of Lutheran World Federation (LWF) has come to see them. They say it has been two years. I take down their names and ration card numbers (the primary form of ID for refugees in the camp) and say I will give their information to child protection but cannot promise they will come by to see them. I feel an impotence commingled with shame and regret, but know I cannot promise more.
When I follow-up with a friend in the Child Protection Office, she is livid that no one has been to see these children in two years. Livid, but not surprised. We have spoken at length of the shortcomings of her office. Not for want of resources or personnel, Child Protection is crippled by the indifference if not apathy of many staff members. This, coupled with a lack of coordination with other units (most notably the education unit) or agencies, renders tens of thousands of children without the services to which they are entitled and desperately need (more on this in an upcoming post).
Hours later, in an air conditioned house in the UNHCR compound, I overheard one staff member ask another "how do you find Kakuma?" Without missing a beat, she replied that she loved it. I smiled politely and for a moment held to the image of the fifteen year old girl before returning to my roasted eggplant, feta cheese, and couscous dinner and opening another cold bottle of beer.
I invite a far lengthier discussion when I say I think that Kakuma has many dimensions. That I daily meet and hear from extraordinary people and have been shown tremendous kindness and hospitality. I say that there is so much to admire and enjoy here--Ethiopian restaurants where you can while hours away in shady courtyards smoking hookah and eating injera; motorbike taxis that drop you off (and pick you up) throughout the camp; Internet cafés and booming marketplaces--even an ATM.
But then you get off the main streets or out into the far camps--Kakuma 3 and 4 or the "new area" (somewhat of a misnomer as it's been new for over one year). On these windswept expanses you'll see images far more commonly associated with the term "refugee." Naked children with distended bellies, dilapidated tents, scores of people lying for hours under knarled thorn trees, waiting for the hours to pass by.
I've spoken with some of them, though they are usually too tired or too weary of the mzungu to tell their story. Yesterday, I met with a fifteen year old girl from South Sudan who is four months pregnant and for four years has been the only caregiver for her brother (he's now ten). They have no parents, no extended family to rely on. She has dropped out of school. He is still attending, but says he needs to work. Otherwise they will continue to go hungry, as their two week food ration barely lasts more than one week.
I ask if child protection, a unit of Lutheran World Federation (LWF) has come to see them. They say it has been two years. I take down their names and ration card numbers (the primary form of ID for refugees in the camp) and say I will give their information to child protection but cannot promise they will come by to see them. I feel an impotence commingled with shame and regret, but know I cannot promise more.
When I follow-up with a friend in the Child Protection Office, she is livid that no one has been to see these children in two years. Livid, but not surprised. We have spoken at length of the shortcomings of her office. Not for want of resources or personnel, Child Protection is crippled by the indifference if not apathy of many staff members. This, coupled with a lack of coordination with other units (most notably the education unit) or agencies, renders tens of thousands of children without the services to which they are entitled and desperately need (more on this in an upcoming post).
Hours later, in an air conditioned house in the UNHCR compound, I overheard one staff member ask another "how do you find Kakuma?" Without missing a beat, she replied that she loved it. I smiled politely and for a moment held to the image of the fifteen year old girl before returning to my roasted eggplant, feta cheese, and couscous dinner and opening another cold bottle of beer.
