Edited By Ali Musa
Axadle Times International – Monitoring
There are places on this earth where the gentle, seemingly innocent grains of sand become an unstoppable force of nature, reshaping lives with an unyielding grip on the future. Imagine waking up one day to find that your steadfast ally in life—your home—is slowly being consumed, silently and unhurriedly, by shifting sand dunes. This is the stark reality of 150 families in the Midnimo settlement, north of Kismayo, in Somalia’s Lower Juba region.
These families share a common story. Many of them, like the Hilowles and the Garnayls, were repatriated from Kenyan refugee camps, while others found solace in the lands within the region, only to face displacement once again. Is this supposed to be their fate—an endless cycle of hope and heartbreak dictated by capricious winds?
Hamid Muhumed Hilowle, a former refugee who once fled to Kenya, knows this nomadic uncertainty all too well. In January, she watched helplessly as the dunes buried her modest two-room house and latrine. What was once a sanctuary, her piece of stability, disappeared beneath a blanket of sand. Today, Hamid, 35, resides with a relative in Kismayo’s Siinay district, perpetually worried about their welcome wearing thin—a constant reminder of past temporary shelters in Kenya’s Dadaab refugee camp where she spent five arduous years. Hamid reflects, “I don’t work; I stay at home.” And how she manages to stretch the $50 her mother, a herder in Lower Juba, sends every month: $30 for food and the rest for other daily needs.
One might wonder, how far could $50 go amidst relentless challenges? Yet this speaks volumes about the lengths people will go to support their loved ones. Resilient in the face of hardship, though haunted by uncertainty, she shares, “Sand enters through windows and doors, climbs over the roof, and then the house collapses. We’d clear it one day, only to find it back the next.”
In Midnimo, the sense of despair is universal. This settlement, known also as New Kismayo, began its journey of development in 2017. Sand, however, has other plans. Businesses and homes crumble under its dominance. Take the story of Abdi Haji Garnayl. Abdi vainly rebuilt his shop not once or twice, but thrice—each attempt a testament to hope that the sand swiftly extinguished. His finances dwindled, leaving him to contemplate the unthinkable—a return to displacement.
Here he was, someone who rejoiced at returning from Kenya’s Dadaab refugee complex in 2016, who hoped for new beginnings away from the conflict of Dhobley district. But now, he confides, “The sand displaced our customers. The neighborhood is now empty. We and the remaining residents are trapped.” This trapped feeling transcends beyond Abdi’s home and shop. It seeps into his children’s lives, who had to stop attending Rugta middle school as he can no longer afford the education fees.
And yet, the resilience mixed with a tinge of desperation is palpable, “The roof and walls are collapsing on us. We hear things falling while we sleep,” he laments. It’s almost like a cruel symphony that haunts his nights. How would you endure under such relentless, uncaring conditions?
The struggle extends to Fanole, a southern Kismayo neighborhood that houses resettlement efforts—homes intended to be bastions of hope. There, Abdikadir Magange Dhomey, a tailor by trade, clings on in a small corner of his house—all that the merciless dunes have spared. Water, a basic need, becomes a challenge when the only source lies kilometers away, blocked by dunes that seem insurmountable.
Abdikadir’s story, like many others, embodies the spirit of perseverance against an adversary that offers no compromise. “The impact on us is immense. This sand needs to be managed with bulldozers, but the cost is beyond us,” he reasons. The world measures prosperity in currency, yet in places like Midnimo, resilience carries its weight in gold. Earning $4 a day, he shoulders worries over food, school fees, and meeting daily needs while facing homelessness—a heavy burden indeed.
Abdikadir resettled in Kismayo in 2005, having fled Middle Juba, where drought and marauding ocean sands claimed his family farm. His journey of survival, stitched with threads of hope and second chances, finds its latest chapter in Fanole with a home granted by the UNHCR, CARE, and the Norwegian Refugee Council.
Stories like these provoke the question—when will the world respond to those stranded in the dance between hope and despair? The answer may lie in intervention, an embrace of humanity that shelters and protects, before the dunes reclaim all.
