On my arrival in Malta, I heard that a refugee boat arrived from Libya. It was described to m as a 'half boat'. I have heard several accounts of the arrival and each one of them slightly different from the other, but the basic story is that sometime during the voyage from Libya to Malta, another boat sailed up to her and claimed that they were on their way to Italy. If people want to, they can join them in this vessel and go straight to Italy. People started to climb over into the vessel that was going to Italy. Halfway through the clambering over into the boat, the refugees discovered that it was actually a Libyan boat with coast guards. They shouted warnings to the people in the process of climbing over. Chaos ensued with people trying to get back in the original refugee boat. The refugee boat took off. The people in the Libyan boat were taken back to Tripoli, and the rest of the refugees sailed on to Malta. Apart from the trauma of the experience, the result of this was that families were also separated with some back in Tripoli and some here in Malta.
I met a woman that was on this vessel. Her baby boy was born two days after stepping on land in Valletta. She named him: Ibrahim Malta. Her husband is back in Libya and have to try again to get to them. I have posted a photo of him as a symbol of the life stories that will be heard over the years; as story telling is a strategy for transforming the private into public meanings which in turn helps us to understand who and what we are and who and what we become, starting with our birth.

I have been very fortunate these last few weeks. This was also the case in Malta. I hanged out at the African bar, visited the Open Centers where the refugees are; was shown the accommodation and places of worship. And had many conversations with people that has been here many years and people who arrived not so long ago. As I am winding down the work and contact with refugees I plan to step back a bit and do some sightseeing around Malta and maybe even manage to have a swim in the sea.

A life changing opportunity, was one of the expression used to describe this to me before I left: I agree.

Thank you to everybody. The list will be too long in the thanking of people so I am not going to try and do it, but the most important is that it will start and finish with the Winston Churchill Memorial Trust. I am grateful.

They leave their shoes outside

I have been in Malta a week now and the roller-coaster ride continues; speeding up, slowing down, for a short section (going up hill) and then speeding down the hill with me clinging to the sides. I attended another wedding, where Somalian refugees got married, last week. I asked for directions to the church several times as Malta has many churches. Every time I was told by the person explaining how to find it that I will see that there are shoes outside the church with a repeat: "They leave leave their shoes outside" if a shake of the head. Even afterward when I was asked what have I done the week and I mention the Somalian wedding the information was given: 'They leave their shoes outside, did you know that'. The Somalian community here in Malta worship with an Orthodox sermon and have it in one of the churches in Valletta on Sundays. In Ethiopia and Somalia shoes are left outside the church and your house. When I attended the service in Tripoli, I had to leave my shoes with all the other shoes at the door. Entering the house of my host in Tripoli, shoes had to be left outside. I was asked politely by my host to do it, for the first time when I entered the house I did not take my shoes off.
The food at the celebration after wards were similar to the food I was offered in Kakuma refugee camp by the Somalian host there. Another event that took place in Malta was a public celebration of the diversity that is developing in Malta due to the refugee community. This was held in a lovely garden in Valletta (in the UK it would be called a park). Food from the main communities (East Africa) were offered to the public frequenting the gardens with their families. The weather was per usual lovely and hot. I mingled with the refugee community and was introduced to many people. The food was dished out to the locals and the holiday makers enjoying the gardens.

I was introduced to the only African bar on the island the second evening I was here and the topic that was discussed with me by most people frequenting the bar is: The FIFA world cup. A good topic to start conversations there. To the Africans this is a proud time according to them; for it happened in Africa. Towards the end of the evening the conclusion would then be reached that Africa is the 'beginning of the new world' (according to Patience from Nigeria serving the drinks). The bar is also used by the workers (NGO and religious) in the refugee community and holidaymakers. Most evenings it makes for an interesting mix of people.

This week I have arranged to visit the camps and hope to speak to more people in the camps in their own homes.

Tripoli in 72 hours.

In the North East of England there is an open air museum called 'Beamish - The North of England open air museum' This is a large museum presenting the past and interesting things to the public in a sort of one day tour. I have a post card of it, given to me by a gentleman called Nick Barton, and I use it as a book mark in the book I am reading at the moment. Tripoli felt like that museum to me. For the short time I spent in Tripoli I was taken to many places by my host who planned a schedule for me which would have covered the 9 days I was meant to spent there. With great determination he and his family crammed those planned nine days into the three days I was there.
This included historical sites, the city it self and a search to find out where the Sub-Saharan community are. My host know the city very well and managed to get me to a church out side the city where the East African community worship. The building is very non-descript and I would have had difficulty to find it as it did not represent the classic church architecture.
I asked permission from the padre who was available and he also gave me a blessing holding a cross over me. People in the court yard of the church watched this in silence. There were about hundred young men sitting around socializing. I later found out that they live there too in makeshift dormitories.
The next day I came back and stayed the whole day. I attended the service and was told that there are several services held which would indicate the country of the people attending. Friday was for Egyptians, Saturday the Ethiopians Sunday the Sudanese and Somalian people. Each with their elders doing elder rituals in the service as per custom. At the Eucharist I joined the women (Sudanese and Somalian) and ended up chatting to them while doing the washing up after wards. I also noted the drums ready in the courtyard where the young men were preparing for some entertainment. The singing and dancing is also done with events like weddings and other celebrations.
The short stay was intense and concentrated but at least I can say that I visited Libya, Tripoli briefly.

The importance of UNHCR-card number

The extra days in Cairo was beneficial in that people got to know me and I was greeted with enthusiasm; and of course I met more people. This is a story told to me by a man under the umbrella, siting on the white plastic chairs in the shade of the cathedral. I shall call him J.
J was very young when he ended up in Kakuma refugee camp. This was after he spend 'sometime helping the soldiers' as a very young boy. He told me how he tried to settled in and eventually discovered the church. The settling also consisted of fighting while being in Hongkong - the section where minors were placed in Kakuma. He enjoyed his studies and became an active member of the church, but he was troubled for he was looking for his brother who disappeared. So he went to Khartoum to see if he could find him. After four months there, he could not find his brother. By now he has to leave as he was being watched by the soldiers. He was arrested and questioned by them. They let him go, but he knew that it would not belong before he would be arrested again and taken up in the 'fighting'.
It was then he decided to come to come to Cairo. He got to the border post and there he was questioned by the officials. H could not speak Arabic and that was not good for him. He was asked what did he do? he said that he studied. Where? he could not think of a place so he said that he studied at the 'Catholic Center'. They left him to go and look at his papers and passport again. After a while they came out and said that he could go through. Very relieved he took the train and then the steamer and got to Cairo where he ended up at Refugee Egypt through the UNHCR. He still had his UNHCR card with him.
The number on this card is edged in his memory as he is using the number as a password to his Face-Book page. He still has the card.
Somehow, to me, this was a very poignant act in his understanding of what shaped him into who he is today, a dapper, well dressed, accountant, working in Cairo, with a young family, which he proudly showed me the photo's of. This includes the love, as he explains it, for his brother that brought him to Egypt. He did find his brother (who converted to Islam) and they speak regularly over the phone. His brother was looking for him too.

Still in Cairo...

At the airport, I was not allowed on the plane, as the visa I had was granted in the UK and the officials were not happy about the e-visa I carried on me. The result was that I have to get a visa granted by the Egyptian based embassy of Libya. After long discussions with several officials I was told that, this was the only way I would be allowed to go. As is was Saturday, the embassy would be closed. I had to find accommodation, as I knew this would not just take a day. I got the taxi to take me to Refugee Egypt Center at the All Saints Cathedral in Zamalek, I previously heard the refugees talking about accommodation that is available. As it is summer, which means 'out of season' there is place for me. I was a bit shaken by it all and decided to rest the evening and went to bed early.
The next day (Sunday) I went to the embassy. This started a waiting procedure and queuing which became a strategy. I knew some waiting was going to take place and came prepared. I took some reading and my notebooks with me. It was obvious that I was me on my own. One of the many questions asked were: "Where is your husband?". At first I thought he (the man-behind-the glass-partition) knew something about my husband I did not know, as perhaps something happened to him, but then I realized; he was asking: why am I not being escorted by a male family member?. This meant more explanation and took longer than I anticipated.

After many phone calls to the Tour company that did the visa application for me, and long conversations with man-behind-glass-partition, I got told to come tomorrow. The next day I was told: "Sorry madame, we cannot help you". I got nowhere. I noted that most of the people before me (I was called last to the partition) had money in the hand with the papers that they would hand over to be dealt with by the official. Would this be the 'tip' you have to give to get service? On the one hand, I came prepared with things to pass the time, so was not too stressed about waiting and then; not being called when it was my turn.

Now I went to plan B: back to the airline company. That took a long time as I had to explain the situation to a person who spoke some English. After several tries, with every time a simpler version given, repeated over and over several times we got to what I need. She also spoke to the person in Libya. Thus she got going and phoned around. After several tries she got what was needed. The electronic code number for the e-visa. I then could book my ticket to get to Libya. Unfortunately the next available booking is on Thursday the 15th of July. So be it.

This meant that I am spending more days in Cairo than planned. I thought about it and it maybe not such a bad thing, as I have cheap accommodation and can get more stories from the refugees here at the center. This resulted in me being invited to a Sudanese wedding. A wonderful and very colourful event. The Dinka ladies shimmered and shined in their long dresses and as all of them are taller than me, they radiated a grace that no-one can copy. I am over six foot. There were a lot of white suits around worn by the the men. Children played around in the church while the ceremony was conducted by revered Emmanuel (he invited me: " you must come - it is an African wedding, you cannot miss it") and clambered on any adult's lap when they wanted attention. I had a few little one's on my lap during the ceremony - so did not escape from that at all.
The rest of the time during the day I would spend sitting where all the people sit, on the chairs set out in the shade of the big church section. There I listen to the people talking and watch the interaction going on.
I hope to fly tomorrow .

Wednesday the 7th of July 2010

This is my wedding anniversary and decided to do the tourist thing for the day and go and see the pyramids and other places of interest, displaying the history of the country. I arranged transport and someone to go with me as I am constantly approached by people when I walk in the street. The taxi collects me and on the way to Giza picks up the woman guide. A very friendly lady. The tour was good and I enjoyed the distraction from the daily writing, reading and thinking. The statues are really huge and the desert a joy - for me it was not hot at all, as I grew up in the Kalahari where high temperatures are the order of the day in summer. The pyramids were interesting, so was Memphis. The constant harassment was deterred by Eme, my guide and a relief as I watched other tourist being followed and constantly nudged by the sellers of 'stuff'. Maybe it is my looks that triggers it off, for everybody here thinks I am German, therefor a rich tourist. The taxi's I take is also problematic, in that I tried to negotiate, but the first time ended up in a dispute with the driver. He charged me an extraordinary price for a 10 min drive to the center. I refused his price, but paid what I thought was fair, and he was not happy. The next day I asked the hotel reception to get me a taxi (instead of me hailing one) and negotiate for me. This was done: about two thirds cheaper than what I ended up paying for the previous day. The third time I asked for a 'metered' taxi- which means a meter indicates the price. The same route: half the price of the second day negotiation with the help of the hotel staff! To me the guide was worth it.

On the way back I asked the taxi to let me off near the hotel as I wanted to update my blog at an internet spot. I did that. I bought some falafels for supper and had one on the way back, trying to avoid the stares and people trying to sell me stuff. To end the day, I thought that I shall watch the match (Spain vs Germany) at a coffee shop and have a mint tea. I ordered the tea, but had to leave as I felt 'uneasy' - I needed to get to a lavatory fast. I power-minced, Charlie Chaplin-style, to the hotel and got to grips with the traffic very fast - and reached my room just in time. I blame the falafel.

The next day I was in my room most of the day. I managed to go and do one interview with a Sudanese refugee at the center with the help of my good friend: Imodium.

The same for Friday - I spent the day in my room recovering. Saturday morning I packed and went to the airport, yes, with a taxi.

Refugee Egypt

The Refugee Egypt is situated at the Anglican All Saints Cathedral. When I asked permission to enter, the Egyptian security guard called the Sudanese security man, as I ask to go to the Refugee Egypt office. The Sudanese security man is about six inches taller than me. I explained why I am here. He took me to the administartion office. There I was asked to come back as the Director is not in.

I asked the taxi driver to pick me up in two hours when he dropped me so, I decided to wait at the gate. The sudanese security man called me back and I explain that the taxi will comein about two hours."Did you pay him?" he ask andwhen I nodded to affirm he smiled "I do not htink he will come back". I was told. He then offered me a chair while waiting and placed it next to aother Sudanese man. he turned out to be the local Anglican priest for the Sudanese community. The next two hours we chatted and compared customs and habits - Sudan and South Africa. There were several women sitiing around alos waiting. He came to Cairo on a one off exchange programme to study and stayed on to be the parish priest here in Zamalek Cairo. He has met the Arch Bishop of Cantebury and of York.

After two hours, the security man smiled at me as I walked to the gate. Lo and behold the taxi man in there, I look back to him and smiled.

Cairo

I left Nairobi early (3 am) in the morning. The flight was fine. In Cairo, it is clearly summer. The heat is intense, and the traffic non-stop. Street crossing, is a brave act in this city! It is a big city with all the 'big-city-chaos' very evident in the shops, traffic, and people frequenting the shops and markets. I shall be here till the end of the week. I hope to have enough confidence by then to be able to cross a street on my own. As the taxi driver said to me on the way to the hotel; "Let me tell you the rules about Cairo; first the streets... there are no rules; no rules" he repeated.

Winston Churchill had several meetings here with the dignitaries involved in the war. This visit to Cairo is to experience the city. I hope to see some of the sights here.

From Caprivi to Kakuma - one refugee's story

The Caprivi strip is along narrow section of land in the north of Namibia that spikes out to the east touching Zimbabwe with Zambia to the north and Botswana to the south. Angola shares the northern border with Zambia. Here the Himba people live with a scattering of other tribes including the San-people.

In the seventies this piece of land was cris-crossed by the South African Defence Force waging a full scale war against SWAPO a communist based political party.

Rasta was a nine year old boy living with his parents and extended family on the eastern section of the Caprivi strip.
"One day the tanks came and was shooting all the time, they just came down the road, we were running. I can still see them coming. The children just kept on running and running through the bush. We run for a long time. We run every day for many days! Until we get to the people on the other side of the river (Angola).There we are put with many other people who ran away. There we stayed, but after a while the army (SADF) came again. The SWAPO helicopters came and was in the air trying to get people away.They were hanging ladders out of the people to cimb in.I climb the ladder and hanged on. Yes why not! I held tight. We were put down. Then the lorries came and took us to the north west of Angola. There was a refugee camp there. I went to school there. "

I sat and listened to him; we were drawing the outlines of the countries boarders in the dust. He got very exited when I point out places like Grootfontein, Katima-molilo, Tsumkwe and the Poppa falls. "Yes! yes! you know" he exclaimed. By now a few peope were gathering around us listening.

"I moved to the next camp" he says "and the next and some other camps until I get to Nairobi. There I go to college, I study, I live there. For seventeen years. Then they put me here in Kakuma. Now I am fifty. Here I am. Here in this camp".

He is the only Namibian in the camp and has been at the reception area for about five years. The normal time spent there in the dormitory-like buildings are between two to three weeks until tent is given and a place allocated to erect it. Mark the refugee guide explain that we were lucky to find him in a co-herent state, as sometimes he is not so lucid. He refuses to move from the reception and now they (the camp officials) are used to him there.

When I ask Rasta what he wants to happen; he smiled "I am waiting" he says "I am waiting to go to America!"

A place called Hongkong

I was met by the driver at the little airport. The heat was intense and we opened the car windows for a bit of cool air. As we drove the 90 km to Kakuma, Alpha the driver and a local Turkana, gave some local information. he explained which colour beads a Turkana woman wears when married etc, when we passed a group on Turkanan women walking at the side of the road. The view was desolate and very dry - it rained two months ago. He showed the camels, cattle and goats as we pass them grazing in the interior under the acacia trees, dotted all over. We were stopped twice by police check points but it seems that they know Alpha. I stood watching a herd of fat-tailed sheep been herded pass by three Turkana men into the arid interior, while a flat tire was being fixed. We had to wait for the next car to come, as we had no jack in the car. That took about 15 minutes.

The camp staff received me with wonderful hospitality and the camp coordinator for NCCK arranged for a guide (Mark - a Sudanese refugee), and a driver (Bob - a Kenyan) the next day. I was taken through the whole camp (about 12 square meters). All four Phases, introduced to many many people, shown the housing arrangements, had a meal in a camp hotel run and owned by a Somali refugee and drank the best coffee I have tasted in a long time in an Eritrean refugee shop. I saw the Reception center and witnessed an arrival where the family were given their mats, blankets etc. and shown where to sleep for the night in the reception camp before they will be allocated a place in Phase 4. There they will live in UNHCR tents while they build their house I saw the administration, settling in, training (IT, sewing etc.) and observed the daily routine of the camp. Housing is supplied by an agreement with the refugee building the walls - standard size and NCCK giving the roof.I saw the food distribution by WFP. This is given on producing the ration card (given at reception on arrival).

I also met some of the Lost Boys of Sudan who arrived as small boys in 1992 and are still in the camp. They are now in their thirties. The area they were placed, then a section on the edge of the camp, was where the minors were placed. They were all grouped together. After a while this resulted in them starting to fight. The "stick-fighting" way. The two opponents will fight in a sparring fashion with wooden sticks (about spear length). The camp authorities thought that this was not good for harmony as it urged the Boys into opposing groups supporting their fighting champion. The camp officials arranged meetings with the Boys. They were told that "this kind of fighting with sticks are done in China - like kung-fu fighting. This should not happen in Kakuma - it is not China".
The Boys promtly named the area they were settled: "Hongkong".

Get me to the airport...

This exercise takes courage and it is not for the faint hearted.

After two days of been sent from one office to another, a phone call came; I can come an get my letter, from the Commissioner, which gives me permission to go to the camp (perhaps the Winston Churchill letter helped!).
This meant; booking tickets arranging transport - armed guards etc in one hour. I even packed! Then we had to endure the traffic...this included being stopped by police (Wilson, the driver sorted that out), going through walls of very big lorries spitting and spewing the blackest smoke and other traffic like the matatus and a camel
He got me to airport with a minute to spare - exactly a minute! Now I am on my way to Kakuma.

Hopefully the transport is awaiting me there.

Yesterday, while 'waiting' I went to the Commonwealth War cemetery and had a respectful look at all the graves of fallen soldiers in East Africa. Wilson commented: There are all the people here; Christians, Muslims, and one Jew from all over. They came here? that is brave. I told him about the war and Winston's role in it. He looked at me with an open mouth...'I shall tell that story tonight to my friends!'he said.

Nairobi and the 60 dollar story

I have been traveling for three days, of which I have spent either at an airport, and/or bus stations...waiting; or going from one official building to another. This took the whole of yesterday. I need formal (official) permission to go to Kakuma. Then only to find out that the one person who needs to sign my permission letter is: "still not in his office" and "please can you come back tomorrow". So, I wait again.
This waiting consist of being taken to several places in Nairobi by the taxi driver, Wilson, where many people live, work and survive on a daily basis. At one stage I heard a story from an individual; who on his first night here spend $60 on accommodation - a hotel - before he found a much much cheaper place to stay. That meant he spend half of the amount of money he saved to come here; to safety, in one night. For him there is a very long wait still to come.

Thank you...

I am grateful to the Winston Churchill Memorial Trust for this chance to experience new horizons. I am to follow in the footsteps of the great man as he also traveled the trajectory I am embarking on. It is in this spirit that I ask that anybody who takes a look at the blog, also have a look at the Trust fund's website on www.wcmt.org.uk. This makes for enjoyable reading.

Leaving for Nirobi

The preparations has been fun and stressful at the same time. Juggling many little things (which all takes time) and dealing with the waiting has been the mainstay of the last few weeks.
But now I have booked the flights, and got some email answers from connections in the cities I am planning to visit, have some accommodation in place and are packing my bags.
I shall leave the UK this weekend and emerge on the other side of it; in Nairobi. Strangely it will entail some waiting (airports) some stress (to be on time and not miss transport)and lastly ...some fun (the trip has started)!

I have seen my friends in the community in Teeside and they wished my well. This went with lots of descriptions ans explanations of places, transport details etc. They have been very exited for me and have been very helpful in making the connections in the counties I am visiting.

Introductory post: getting ready to leave

Working in Teesside in the North East of the UK I met some remarkable people from the asylum seeking and refugee community. Over the years I have listened to them telling their stories and witnessed the effort by them to integrate in to the host community. There are some parallels to my story but also sections in our narratives that are not similar. Listening to the stories, I tried to imagine the village/town and family life in the household of the refugee in the hope that I can assist in some small way to make things a bit easier and/or better for them to integrate in to the North East. For telling their stories are important: they need to establish their presence here to have a symbolic place in this society in Teesside. If people do not know where they are from and what they did, they do not fell that there is place/space here where they can fit in They need to explain they are teachers, mechanics, dentist, nurses etc. which would place them in a status level in the society. Perhaps the same level as ‘back home’, perhaps not; as they are unemployed here (asylum seekers are not allowed work). This means that they have find a different path up the social status ladder. In other words: start all over again.

This process includes a lot of explaining and also, as mentioned, narratives. With this journey I am embarking upon, I hope to be able to at least take in the geographical environment so that I can relate in some way to the stories and be able to understand it with an insight which will be constructive in the interaction with asylum seekers and refugees from East Africa. Then my friends and I can compare our stories.