The Silent Struggle of Dadaab: Women’s Resilience in the Face of Economic Crisis
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In the heart of the Dadaab refugee camps in Kenya, a quiet tragedy unfolds. The vibrant echoes of construction, once filled with hope and ambition, have dissipated, leaving women like Khadija Hassan Mohamed and Faduma Abdiqadir Khamis to navigate an increasingly harsh reality.
A Legacy of Craftsmanship
Khadija, a 42-year-old mother of 11, embodies the resilience of Somali women. For 14 years, she plastered houses using traditional methods handed down through generations, a skill she honed in her hometown Jamame. “Back home, our 12-hectare farm provided for us,” she reminisces, her voice tinged with nostalgia. “Now, the techniques taught by my mother have become relics of a lost life.”
However, the winds of change have blown cold in Dadaab. The flourishing community that once thrived on construction has withered. “Since April, I’ve not had a single job. The money I used to earn — between 10,000 and 15,000 Kenyan shillings per month — helped us cover our basic needs,” Khadija explains, pain etched on her face.
The Economic Collapse and Its Toll
With fewer homes being built and families opting for corrugated iron sheets over traditional plastering, Khadija’s livelihoods have vanished. “We used to share laughter and hopes for a better tomorrow,” she recalls, “but now, all I do is sit at home and talk to myself.” Her struggles echo in the dry winds that sweep through the camp.
This loss of income spells dire consequences for families. Khadija’s monthly UN aid of 9,000 Kenyan shillings came to an abrupt halt in May, plunging her into a grim survival mode. “The 30 kilograms of food barely lasts us two weeks. The relief once offered by the World Food Programme feels like a distant memory,” she states, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
A Day in the Life
For Khadija and many others, each day is a battle for survival. “I wander around town, searching for odd laundry jobs,” she mentions, her brow furrowed with worry. “If I find work, I can cook something for my children. If not, I rely on God.” The weight of her family’s hunger rests heavily on her shoulders.
As she walks three kilometers to fetch water, the sun blazing overhead, one can’t help but wonder: How many more families are facing this silent crisis? With five of her children expelled from school due to unpaid fees, the educational ambitions of the future generation flicker like the candlelight in their makeshift home.
A Shared Burden
Faduma, another traditional plasterer who supported a family of 15, including her five children and various siblings, shares a parallel tale of heartache. “Before the work stopped, things were manageable. Now, my children and I just look at each other, helpless,” she says, describing the hunger pangs that have become all too routine. “The meals are now just memories.”
Diagnosed with high blood pressure and diabetes, Faduma’s health has deteriorated from the stress of economic strain. “The day I fainted, I knew something was very wrong,” she reflects. “Sitting at home, I feel defeated, watching my children cry without food.” Her family, like many others, drifts through each day without the comfort of a secure meal.
The Bigger Picture
This grim reality extends beyond individual stories; it highlights systemic issues within the refugee economy. According to Amina Abdiqadir Ali, who heads a women’s empowerment initiative, more than 200 women in Dadaab have lost their primary source of income this year due to the ceasing of construction work. “The youth are especially hit hard; they finish school only to confront a wall of unemployment,” she explains. “Many families are going without proper meals daily.”
The sense of hopelessness hangs in the air like the humidity before a storm. Schools, once filled with laughter and learning, are now muted, as children idle at home day after day. Is this the future we want for our children? The voices of Dadaab’s women and children must resonate beyond the borders of these camps.
A Hope Beyond the Horizon
As the sun sets over Dadaab, Khadija and Faduma remind us of the perseverance that lies deep within the human spirit. They embody a transcendent resilience, drawing strength from community ties, shared sorrow, and hope. “We may be hungry now,” Khadija states softly, “but we still dream. We still have each other.” In their dreams lie the seeds of a better tomorrow, waiting to bloom.
As we reflect on their stories, let us not forget that each tale is a call to action. How can we support these resilient communities? In a world so divided, may we be drawn closer to those who silently bear the weight of struggle, their dignity intact, their voices reaching for the light.
In sharing their stories, we join them in their journey, transforming pain into potential, and hope into action. Together, we can help bridge the gap between survival and thriving, turning the tide for the women of Dadaab, one heartwarming story at a time.
Edited By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.
