welcome to “forgotten kenya.”

To

As the Somali-Kenyan locals say, drought first takes the animals, then the people. As we turned off the nine kilometers of paved highway which connect Garissa to the North Eastern Province (NEP), we are first greeted by the carcasses of two dead goats. Later, we see dead donkeys and cows. Drought is here.

A majority of Somalis in Kenya are pastoralists. They follow opportunities offered in water and pasture. They tend to herds – sometimes hundreds – of goats, camels and cows. They live in small groups, an average of 7 households per community.

This region has faced huge climactic challenges over the past few years. One Somali mentioned 2006 as the first memorable problem year; he also says this year is the worst for drought.

In a few months, the rainy season will come. Faced with two extremes, the region is expecting flash floods. The countryside, now gray, “the color of death,” will burst into all shades of green. Bush forests will emerge in formerly desolate sands. Animals will come to drink at new watering holes. Homes will be swept away.

Farah, the Deputy Chief of Party of Education for Marginalized Children in Kenya (EMACK), is from far north in NEP. He is careful to bring extra water, which we give out to mostly young girls and boys, and older women. They are herding their animals to the next watering point, or back. The children are scared of the car. The region was once known for its bandits. Farah’s ability to understanding suffering in the region is key to both his programs and the humanity that comes with us as we drive to visit one of EMACK’s mobile schools.

Sometime ago, the Kenyan government promised to pave over 20 km of road out of Garissa. The 9km we took leading out of the city was as far as they got. For miles, we’re surrounded by a desolate landscape. Occasionally, the earth changes from deep orange to pastel grey, and back again. And, to highlight a common stereotype, the sunset is formidable.

We drove for four to five hours. We stopped in Abakore, our point town, for a few minutes. Farah alerted the chief of our presence, indicating that we would like to visit the mobile school the following day. Following this, we drove another hour to a small, dustry town called Habaswein where we spent the evening in a hotel self-named, “an oasis in the desert.” Hospitable, a little courtyard full of flowers and a soft breeze. A sign in the bathroom reminding visitors to call or think of their mothers.

This quickly became a favorite ritual of mine: chai. On the way to the mobile schools in the morning, we stopped for our first cup. Sweet, milky tea. Hot chapatis. Goat stew. The woman running the little restaurant was very much in charge: a big, broad mama with her purse hung around her neck and hanging down her back. A popular spot for the trucks and busses heading further North.

We left Abakore early in the morning. After greeting the chief (second picture from the top) and several other notable persons (including the local water chairman, a key job during a drought), we loaded the car with water to bring to the pastoral community we were visiting. Farah (last picture above) also packed glucose biscuits for the children, milk and sugar. In his culture, sugar is a key zawadi when visiting a guest. We must also compensate for taking people’s time during clear hardship.

Leaving Abakore means diving into the bush. Following the faint track of donkey cart wheels, we bushwacked 13 km in. It took us an hour. The trees, equipped with thorns the size of your pinky, mercilessly destroyed the jeep’s paint and windows. The thorns, if caught in a wheel, would puncture them without hesitation. A key difficulty of maintaining mobile schools is access: during the dry season, these communities are close to towns. During the wet season, they are often more than 50 km away enjoying greener pastures. The above picture was taken after arriving in the temporary camp.

The Rebai Mobile School

Mobile schools are an attempt to provide early childhood education, and the opportunity of transitioning children into boarding schools, to communities which would otherwise have no access to formal education. Somali education, traditionally, solely takes the form of an intensive course in Islamic teaching. In partnership with Nomadic Heritage Association (NOHA), EMACK has made an attempt at providing a secular component – literacy and numeracy – so that children will have an alternative future. As climate change increases the length and strength of the dry season, there is no doubt that many of the next generation will be forced to look towards other means of survival.

The schools are “classrooms without walls.” They are easy to set up and make efficient use of the natural environment. Each community has two teachers, one faith-based, the other secular. Both are drawn from the community. While their own educational levels are limited, these teachers are trained – as best as possible – to engage young children in reading, writing and counting in English and Kiswahili. Children can attend two hours of class during the day or in the evening, some attend both. In the Rebai mobile school, several of the children were writing their names and counting. This is a huge improvement in a community made up of generations of illiterate individuals. Changes are slight, but significant. For example, children can now write down the license plate numbers of cars on the highway.

Ebla

Ebla is brilliant. She wants to be a teacher. She wants to work back in her community. But, EMACK expects that she’ll be married by the end of the rainy season, without being given the chance to go to school. Negotiating girls’ education is hard: EMACK has convinced the community to let four boys leave immediately to boarding school. They told EMACK the two girls would have to wait until December, when the wet season comes. Chances are, the opportunity will never be there.

Home

These homes fit seven or more people.

Leaving

Through Daadab, the world’s largest refugee camp.

My host were quite pointed in their remarks about the refugee camps surrounding Daadab. Together, they host the highest number of refugees in the world. While the media generally portrays the downtrodden, extreme poverty that exists in these camps, they have a whole other perspective. The camps have become living, breathing, money-markets for a richer class of refugees. Somalians from across the border use the camps both to sell their illegally exported products and to recruit into factions like Al-Shaabab. The latter often have wives in the camp. There is human trafficking: girl refugees sold from the centers. Once again, humanitarian aid makes a situation both better and worse. The band-aid solution keeps the situation alive; but, there is no alternative. Kenya and the UNHCR cannot turn away refugees who show up at the camp.

Garissa