The Struggles of Displaced Families in Baidoa: A Glimpse into Their Lives

In a world where the echoes of hope often clash with the harsh realities of survival, we find compelling stories of resilience and despair. In the IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) camp situated in Baidoa, Somalia, the plight of families like that of Quresho Adan Ishaq captures attention. A widow who has been blind since birth, Quresho is a testament to the indomitable spirit of those who fight against dire odds to nurture the next generation.

Since the cessation of cash aid from the NGO World Vision in February, Quresho has faced an uphill battle to care for her four children and two grandchildren who depend on her. The $120 per month she once received was a lifeline, enabling her to purchase enough food to not only survive but to cook three meals a day— a luxury that now feels like a distant memory. “Now I only cook once a day, relying on what kind people give me,” she shares, her voice tinged with the weight of loss. “Our lives depended on the cash aid. I had a good life; my children were educated.”

Imagine the warmth of a kitchen bustling with the aromas of fresh meals, giving way to the stark silence of an empty pot. Quresho describes her reality poignantly, saying, “Now I feel like I’m exposed to the sun and standing in a lonely place, facing a tough life.” Such vivid imagery encapsulates not just her condition, but that of nearly 500 families residing in the Al-Amiin and Nimcoole camps, who find themselves equally vulnerable as the aid they relied on diminishes.

These camps are fraught with stories of loss, displacement, and heartbreaking adjustments. Quresho arrived in Baidoa in 2022, having been uprooted from her 3-hectare farm in Dinsor district. She didn’t merely leave a home; she abandoned dreams and aspirations, trading them for uncertainty and survival in a makeshift tent.
Her children are growing up in a world where education seems like an elusive dream. “I can no longer pay the $15 monthly fees for their Koranic school,” she laments, reflecting on her children’s fading hopes for a brighter tomorrow.

The ripple effect of aid cessation extends far beyond Quresho. Abdi Mohamed Hassan, a devoted father of nine, echoes her sentiments as he grapples with the reality of a kitchen that only cooks once every 24 hours. “Our lives became very difficult. I haven’t received any assistance from anyone for the past two months,” he states, as he reluctantly finds himself turning to begging in Baidoa. Picture this: a father, with sunken eyes that tell tales of sleepless nights, searching for water as a basic necessity becomes a luxury. A mere 20-litre jerrycan costs 4,000 Somali shillings— a sum he cannot afford. “How can we survive like this?” he asks, his voice strained with worry.

As hunger looms larger, Abdi’s children have been forced out of Mustaqbal School, diminishing their chances for a proper education. He had previously been investing $20 a month in their future, but now those plans have crumbled. He reflects on the bittersweet memories of learning, noting, “Five children were studying, but now they have returned to the neighbourhood. Their food is scarce, and they are not getting enough.” It is a heartbreaking saga common to many in these camps, reinforcing the painful question: what happens to a generation deprived of education?

The family’s history tells tales of resilience too, as they were farmers displaced by a merciless drought. Abdi’s realization that he no longer cultivates the land he once cherished brings forth a deeper sadness. An entire livelihood upended, replaced by uncertain days.

Said Osman Gabow, a father of 13, also reflects on the abrupt change that swept into their lives with the cessation of aid. “In the past, we managed our lives through aid. Our daily lives were 100 percent stress-free, but now everything has changed.” These words resonate with a chilling reality: when life changes overnight, what does one cling to?

As we reflect on these narratives, Abdinasir Abdi Caruush, Minister of Relief for the South West state, emphasizes the transient nature of humanitarian support. It underscores a complex truth— while the aid is essential, it was never intended as a permanent fixture. “The assistance addresses immediate needs but is not a permanent fix,” he notes solemnly.

The stories from Baidoa illuminate the struggles that extend far beyond basic survival; they touch the very essence of hope and aspirations crushed beneath the weight of circumstance. Herein lies a compelling call for action, a reminder that within every statistic is a personal story waiting to be told.

As you read these accounts, consider this: what are we doing to ensure that hopes continue to flourish amidst adversity? It is a shared responsibility— one that requires empathy, awareness, and action from every corner of the globe.

Edited By Ali Musa
Axadle Times International – Monitoring