The Triumphs and Trials of Resilience

“I find myself in a difficult position,” shared Maryan, as the evening darkness enveloped the settlement. “Tonight, it was a neighbor who had the kindness to give us a bowl of rice and sugar. I cooked it for the children. Raising seven children without a father is not easy—some are older, others younger—but too often, we go to bed with empty stomachs.” Maryan’s eyes reflected a mixture of weariness and quiet fortitude.

Maryan’s journey has been arduous. For nearly four years, she worked tirelessly as a cleaner in local homes; now she finds herself without any other means of support. Every day is a struggle, marked by a five-kilometer trek to fetch water from a distant borehole. With it comes an uncomfortable burden—both physical and economic—as the $0.20 fee for every 20 liters sometimes proves unaffordable. “This hard labor of carrying heavy loads on my back has become unbearable. Adding the long distance makes it even more difficult. Sometimes, I don’t have money to pay the fee,” she lamented, her voice edged with exhaustion.

The family resides in a modest shelter, more like a patchwork of sacks and poles, offering little against the freezing nights and scorching days. She dreams of providing better housing for her family, yet the present economic landscape, harshened by relentless drought, quashes these hopes. “When the drought hit and resources became scarce, people stopped giving credit or loans—even to close relatives. Everyone is struggling equally in this area,” Maryan relayed to Radio Ergo.

Educational opportunities, the cornerstone of a promising future, also hang delicately in balance for Maryan’s children. Her two children attending Hirdo Primary School, three kilometers away, face an uncertain educational journey. The school sent them home at the end of January due to $60 in unpaid fees—four months overdue. Her eighth-grade son faces an uncertain future, and Maryan fears for his prospects.

“We live in a camp facing numerous problems and neglect. Before, we washed clothes to provide for our children. Now, Oromo women have taken over those jobs,” Murayad said, sharing her frustration.

Originally, her family hailed from Galgadud, living as livestock herders. But the 2020 drought leeched strength from their flocks—100 goats perished—and they were pushed into displacement. The prospect of employment evaporated, leaving Maryan in dire straits.

In the 36 IDP camps surrounding Abudwaq, many experienced similar stories—unemployment, fierce competition, and a cash-strapped local community. Displaced families whisper among themselves about the loss of jobs to outsiders, a quietly simmering tension.

Baar Hassan Abdulle, another resident, understands this deeply personal struggle. Supporting a family of 11, she’s seen her household income dwindle to almost nothing. There was a time when her $4-6 daily from cleaning jobs, although modest, sufficed to sustain their basic needs. Now, uncertainty has become a constant companion.

“In the past, we ate three times a day. Now we’re lucky if we eat once. Sometimes we go to bed hungry. Food comes either from close relatives or strangers we ask for help,” Baar recounted, her voice a testament to resilience, tinged with resignation.

Baar had sought out her former employers, only to find herself replaced by Ethiopian women working for $50 a month—a stark reminder of the economic harshness they face.

These challenges extend beyond mere sustenance. Baar’s makeshift house—a fragile combination of mosquito nets, sticks, and cardboard—lies exposed to elements. Yet, she lacks the means for repairs.

Her children’s education hangs by a thread. Four children have stopped attending primary school, a $100 unpaid fee closing the door to their education. “Education is now out of reach,” Baar lamented.

This cycle of displacement and hardship is all too familiar. Fleeing drought in Dollow, she lost all her livestock—goats and camels—eight years ago upon arriving at Somaliweyn IDP camp. Back then, work offered a way through the storm.

“In the past five months, I’ve only worked nine days. Every morning, I search for cleaning jobs but return empty-handed and exhausted by afternoon. Going out to find work has proven futile,” shared Murayad Salad Guled, a mother of 12.

Murayad’s story echoes the collective voice of many in the camp. For nearly a decade, she provided through washing and drying clothes—a task now usurped by a growing number of foreign women working at reduced rates. Work that was once a guaranteed respite now eludes her grasp.

Her family’s own path to the camp was marked by loss—400 goats and 16 camels to drought and disease. Initially, the camp offered respite after those rural hardships. Now, connections in the city might have eased the waves of unemployment, yet she finds herself adrift.