I was 22 years old the first time I set foot in a refugee camp. I had managed to get an internship of sorts with an international NGO. They would pay for my accommodation and flight in and out of Kenya’s Kakuma refugee camp and let me do my PhD fieldwork on the side. In exchange, I would work with their team on the ground.
I had no idea what I was getting into but I fell in love. With the young South Sudanese refugees who, without fail, at every single community meeting, asked us to build a secondary school and help them go to university because they needed a better education for when they went back home to an independent South Sudan. With the Somali women who were the antithesis of the stereotyped, subjugated Muslim female – strong, proud, fighters to the end. With the Ethiopian university students and journalists, engaged in intense debates, over endless rounds of coffee, who knew much more about realpolitik than I ever would with my fancy Oxford education.
Fast forward a couple of years and I was off to Ethiopia to work on a resettlement project for the UN. Once again, I had no idea what I was getting into. I just knew that I wanted to work with refugees and this was my way in. And also, that I was going to subvert what I saw as a broken humanitarian system from the inside.
One of my first resettlement cases was an Eritrean man. He was already sitting in the interview room when I walked in. We talked for about an hour. He told me about all the difficulties he’d faced. He was ex-military. Many people are. Military service is compulsory. I’m ashamed to admit I don’t remember his story in detail. What I do remember is that halfway through the interview he turned his head to the left. And half his skull was missing. He hadn’t thought to mention it. Apparently, in his mind, this wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him. I can never unsee that image.
Fast forward again. I have been a humanitarian worker for a decade now. I didn’t bring down the system. Somewhere along the way, I realised we need it. I am by no means a naive, optimistic hippy. I am one of the most cynical people you will ever meet. My work has scarred me. I have witnessed and heard terrible things. I have also, I think, seen the best that humanity has to offer. I know that there are many things that don’t work in the UN but I also know that the world is a better place for it.
My life’s work with refugees is a series of snapshots. The Somali single father, whose wife died in Mogadishu, who made his way, along with their five-year-old daughter, to Kebribeyah camp in Ethiopia. The mute Congolese woman who stopped speaking after being subjected to multiple rapes by militia. And her husband who helped her tell me her story. The 11-year-old Syrian girl who was really, really sick and died because it took too long for her security checks to be completed. Disjointed memories. I forget a lot. Mostly, I suppose, because there are many things I don’t want to remember.
So here we are. I am trying really hard to remember because I want to tell you a story. I want you to understand that this is life. And life sucks sometimes. I want you to understand that people run away because they have to. That they are good people. People like you and me. That they want to go home more than anything else. But they can’t, they just can’t. Because home doesn’t exist any more. They aren’t here to take away your home. Or your dreams. Or your jobs. They are here because they have no choice. Or rather because they’ve made the only choice they could under very, very difficult circumstances.
What would you do? What would I do? Who knows? I don’t. If you’re honest, you don’t know either. I like to think I would be strong. I would fight. I would do whatever it takes to stay alive. I would walk for a really long time. I would get on a boat in the middle of the night and set off for an unknown destination so my children could finally get to go to school. I would give away my life’s savings for the promise of a better future. But would I? Would I really? Would you? Are you brave enough?
Only 1% of the world’s refugees are resettled. It’s a terrible job, trying to decide which 1% is the most in need. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. But it is also incredibly rewarding. Resettlement is hope. It is dignity. It is safety. It is a better future. There are so many facts I could throw at you right now. I could tell you about the positive economic impact refugees have on their countries of resettlement. I could tell you that everyone has the right to seek asylum and wax lyrical about the international obligation to protect. But I can already feel you slipping away.
So instead, I leave you with this. I was born in Kenya. I come from a middle-class family. My mother is European. My father is African. I speak the Queen’s English, albeit sometimes in a Kenyan or American accent. I’m a little bit like you. I love Nirvana and Sauti Sol. One of those might mean something to you. But whether you like it or not, we’re not that different. And that’s my point. You don’t know me. But somewhere, somehow, someway, our lives intersect. And those refugees? Their lives intersect with yours too. As much against their will as yours. So forget about the facts. Just do the right thing, the human thing. Be brave. Speak up. And welcome refugees.
Annabel Mwangi is a policy advisor at the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development, writing here in a personal capacity.
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