Marginalized and Impoverished IDP Families Find Shelter in Washington Camp

In the heart of Northeastern State, where hope often feels just out of reach, numerous families from marginalized communities have started a new chapter of survival in the Washington internal displacement camp. The current year has proven to be a tumultuous one, and the stark reality they face is nothing short of alarming. Urban life has grown increasingly unattainable for them; whether it’s due to exorbitant living costs or the ever-present shadow of discrimination, many have found solace—albeit limited—in makeshift camps on the outskirts of cities like Garowe.

A recent survey conducted by the Somali Minority Women and Children Development (SMWD) organization highlights the grim financial circumstances these families endure. Without the means to purchase even the most basic necessities like food, water, shelter, healthcare, and education, their struggle for survival has intensified.

Amino Hirsi Guled, a mother of six who has been living in the Washington IDP camp since late January, shared a harrowing account of her daily existence. “We often go without food for days at a time,” Amino recounted to Radio Ergo’s local reporter, her voice wavering with emotion.

“My family and I have no money at all. I swear we didn’t eat anything last night or the day before,” she continued, revealing the unfiltered truth of her family’s circumstances. “Now, we’re cooking a small amount of food I took on credit from a shop, and Allah is my witness. I have no other food. My neighbours here are just like me.”

Amino’s youngest child, just five years old, goes to bed hungry when the pantry is bare. The family’s descent into poverty began when Amino’s husband lost his modest job as a shoemaker in Garowe late last year. “He used to bring in between $7 and $10 a day—just enough for us to scrape by. But business dried up, rent became unaffordable, and people began opting for cheaper, imported footwear,” she explained, sadness clouding her words.

The seemingly innocuous act of asking for credit at a local shop has turned into a humiliating experience for Amino and many like her. “Once you are looked down upon, that’s it,” she lamented, recounting how shopkeepers refuse her requests, taking one glance at her and dismissing her entirely. “If you ask for something, they’ll say, ‘Do you have money?’ And when you say no, they send you away. The discrimination is palpable.”

Access to clean water has become an arduous battle in addition to the daily struggle for food. “We drink bitter water I carry on my back from a well two kilometers away. I can’t afford clean water, which sells for 70 cents per jerrycan,” Amino said, her brow furrowed with frustration. “The children wince when I give them this water; it’s barely fit for drinking.”

Upon arriving at the camp, Amino constructed a makeshift abode from scraps of cloth, branches, and battered iron sheets. Time and the elements have not been kind; her shelter is now a far cry from a home. “The wind and rain have taken their toll. Last week, rain seeped through the roof while floodwaters rose from below. Tonight, the clouds are heavy with rain.”

Tragically, Amino’s family has not received any assistance since their arrival at the camp. Before relocating to Northeastern State, they lived in Ethiopia’s Shabelle Zone. Losses due to drought and disease devastated their livestock, her family’s sole source of income, triggering their desperate decision to leave. “I came here hoping for a better life, yet nothing has changed,” Amino shared wistfully.

The findings published by SMWD on April 25 provide a snapshot of the extreme circumstances faced by families like Amino’s. With the growing rates of unemployment and escalating expenses, the framework of support appears to have all but crumbled. “Our study confirmed what many already knew: these individuals lack all basic necessities of life,” stated Farhiyo Yusuf Hirsi, head of SMWD. “Their traditional trades have disappeared, and they were never affluent to begin with. Sadly, they have received no support here—no shelter, no water, no healthcare, and no means for education.”

Farhiyo’s tone grew somber as she added, “Most of them aren’t officially registered, which means they have no access to available aid for internally displaced individuals. Their numbers are swelling, yet they remain invisible to both aid agencies and local authorities.”

The survey proposed 17 recommendations aimed at confronting 28 challenges identified—ranging from targeted aid to the establishment of protections under the law. “These people are not treated equally,” Farhiyo emphasized. “They are shut out from administrative opportunities, which means their voices go unheard. We must create laws to shield them and ensure they receive humanitarian aid like anyone else.”

In another harrowing account from Sahra Ali Abdi, an elderly woman raising ten orphaned children in the Jilib Shan camp, the grim reality is echoed. “I used to work diligently to support these children, but after a throat surgery in February, I could no longer perform physical labor. That’s when everything went downhill,” Sahra relayed, her spirit weighed down by the burdens of survival.

Resource shortages compound Sahra’s challenges. “Sometimes, we go without food for 24 hours. A kind neighbor may occasionally provide a meal, but it’s never a guarantee.” And in June 2024, tragedy struck; two of her sons were captured and killed in a clan conflict, leaving her to navigate the future for her children alone. “We fled our home seeking relief, yet my illness and the loss of family left me with nothing,” she reflected.

Water scarcity is another pressing concern; Sahra’s neighbors band together to buy a barrel of water for $3.50, which must last her family over a month. “There are no schools or health facilities here,” she pointed out, shaking her head. “How can children learn when we can’t even find food?”

As night approaches, the reality of their cramped living quarters sets in. “We crowd into our small hut, standing up when it rains. It’s suffocating, and I live in constant fear of eviction.” Sahra recalled a recent encounter with landowners who demanded they vacate immediately. “I honestly don’t know where we’ll go if they force us out.”

For women like Sahra and Amino, life hinges on borrowed resources, impure water, and the fading hope for recognition. The SMWD has urgently called for action to ensure that displaced families receive the support they require rather than languishing “forgotten in the margins of a broken system.”

As we reflect on these stories, one might ask: What can we do to ensure that these families are seen, heard, and valued? As stories cross borders and cultures, we have the opportunity to empower the voiceless, turning empathy into action.

Edited By Ali Musa
Axadle Times International—Monitoring