Politics in the camps

The father sat squatting on the ground facing his only child, a daughter. His left hand was on her knee, as she turned slightly to answer Costantinos’ questions. He seemed to be assuring her that these questions would end up being helpful to her and that she shouldn’t be afraid. Costantinos was an education officer for the organization I was working with and part of the team responsible for providing educational opportunities for the refugee camp, called My’Ayni. He carefully went through the questionnaire that I had prepared, translating my English into his native Amharic and then to Tigrinya, the girl’s mother tongue,  when he could, and turning to Eyob or Samara, our Tigrinya speaking camp liaisons, when he needed translation help. The purpose of the questionnaire was to triangulate data I was collecting in classrooms regarding perceptions and capacities around reading.

Boys and adolescent males gathered around us, keen to listen in on what was happening. One young male wore pants with the word “Obama” lining the left leg. As Costantinos asked the girl questions about her fluency in her mother tongue, Saho, and her access to reading materials, a man rode up on his bicycle. He was wearing blue wind pants and a commemorative t-shirt from a strawberry festival somewhere in the US. He was frowning.

He, Costantinos, Eyob and Samara engaged in a terse conversation in Tigrinya. His facial expressions made it clear to me that he was saying threatening things. Eyob stood up and got closer to him. They exchanged terse words and then he bicycled away. I could tell that the conversation had not ended well.  He circled around and came back.  He began focusing his attention and words on Costantinos. Suddenly, Costantinos switched to English.

With the tense conversation now taking place in my mother tongue, I was able to confirm my assumptions but also to gather more details. This man came from an indigenous Ethiopian NGO that was responsible for child protection in the camp. He was not pleased that we were interviewing children in the camp.  I wasn’t clear on whether or not he felt we should have informed him or asked his consent, or if he felt it was out of our entire purview. The communication was not nice. I stood up and walked over to him. In English, I told him that if he wanted to express frustration toward anyone, he needed to do so toward me, as it was because of my visit that we were searching for and interviewing students. He ignored me and continued to scowl at Costantinos. He got back on his bike and left. I didn’t want to push what had happened, so we continued with the interview.

The next day, we went to find and interview unaccompanied minors who attended the school that we ran. The man with the bike was summoned. Costantinos stayed in the car and, this time, the acting camp manager of the INGO I was working for came along to speak with the man. They had some words in private and the man came out smiling and welcomed me into the space…their main office in the camp and supposedly a child friendly space. This child friendly space, however, had only two foosball tables, some loose stones in the courtyard, piles of wood and an old satellite dish. He gathered three girls and two boys and invited us into his office. We sat down to conduct the interviews, when suddenly we were told to stop.  This time, the Ethiopian government agency responsible for refugees had called a halt to our interview, stating concerns for child protection.  I left the space, only to be pelted with rocks by a three year old boy named Mesfin who was paid, as I later learned, by local community members if he was successful in hitting me.  It was proving to be a challenging morning.

While I was avoiding the rocks flying in my direction, my colleague went to the local refugee office to speak with the head of the office about the challenges we had faced. The reason behind all of the frustration? The head of the government office in the camp had failed to share my introductory letter and the outcomes of the meeting I had had with him the day prior upon my arrival at the camp: no one had been apprised of my visit.

Regardless of what could have been done, I was frustrated by the lack of collegiality and professionalism displayed by the local NGO and the Ethiopian government representatives in the camps. When working for the benefit of displaced persons, the last thing that the response agencies should be doing is fighting with one another. Unfortunately, the politics of humanitarian aid are not that different from other sectors. It’s about resources and survival of self and sometimes the refugees’ well-being is not prioritized the way it should be.