Struggling Families Escape Gedo Conflict, Face Hardships at Ethiopian Border

Resilience and Despair: Families Fleeing Conflict in Southern Somalia

In the heart of Jubaland state, Somalia, families are caught in a harrowing struggle for survival. Rising from the ashes of destruction, hundreds have fled the agonizing conflict in the Luq district, seeking refuge in small, rural towns along the Ethiopian border. Many, like Nimo Omar Ahmed, find themselves grappling with the unimaginable: making a home out of shattered dreams and unyielding uncertainty.

Take Abdihakim Warsame Kiro, for instance. A father of eleven, he arrived in Qooney last April, stripped of everything he once knew. “Our house—two rooms, a kitchen, a latrine—all of it was burned to the ground by armed militias one fateful night,” he recounts, his voice heavy with loss. They reached Qooney without so much as a blanket, their hands empty, their spirits shaken. “We came here to the countryside, but we have no food or anything.” The stark reality of life here is evident; the lack of jobs weighs heavily on their shoulders.

Amidst the backdrop of their plight, Abdihakim paints a picture of community resilience. “The kind people we live among contribute small portions from their homes, some kilograms of rice,” he shares. Yet the kindness of strangers only goes so far. Faces filled with desperation, he pleads, “We don’t have a home, no bedding, no livestock. Our situation is very complicated.”

Back in Luq, Abdihakim was a farmer, earning about $150 a month. This modest salary was his lifeline, enough to provide two meals a day and pay the $16 fees for his children’s Koranic schooling. In Qooney, however, education is a distant memory, and the simple act of buying water—a once mundane task—has become an insurmountable challenge. Water tankers sell a barrel for $4.50 to $5, prices he cannot afford. “I rely on my neighbors for water,” he says, echoing a sentiment many share in these dire circumstances.

Similarly, Nimo Osman Ahmed, a mother of seven, fled Luq to settle in Boholgaras. Her family has called the Tulo-Banan camp home since April, but life’s challenges have followed them. “Some days we go hungry,” she reveals, eyes downcast. “It’s whatever God provides for us.” Despite her efforts to seek cleaning jobs, they remain elusive, and even when she does manage to find work, her income merely covers a kilogram of rice or flour—a meager family meal.

The struggle for sustenance is palpable. The exorbitant price of a jerrycan of water—$0.60—turns a basic necessity into a luxury she cannot afford. “Relatives bought us a barrel last month, which lasted two weeks, but now we depend on the kindness of our neighbors,” Nimo explains with a sense of resignation. Relying on borrowed resources, she wanders neighborhoods, jerrycan strapped to her back, asking for a few drops of water. “Water tankers are drawing from the river,” she shares, “but we can’t afford it. We used to work, and now—what can we do?”

Nimo’s heart-wrenching narrative takes a heavier toll as she shares about her children. “Two of them have been suffering from a cough and high fever, but without money, we can’t go to a doctor.” The reality of living under trees and makeshift shelters—crafted from donated materials—adds another layer of agony. Each gust of wind is a reminder of their vulnerability, threatening to dismantle the fragile life they have pieced together. “We came here for safety, but we are enduring so much suffering,” she adds, voice trembling.

The displacement is a profound shift, marking the first time this family has been uprooted from their home in Luq. The Tulo-Banan camp is home to 300 families, while 150 families have found refuge in the Qooney camp. Abdi Abdullahi Mohamed, chairman of Qooney camp, explains the dire need for solidarity: “We have organized a committee to collect food and everyday essentials from the local community. Our biggest problems are the lack of medicine and shelter.”

As the grim truth unfolds, the region’s agricultural backbone suffers under the weight of drought. The mounting pressure of rising fuel prices complicates water delivery, further exacerbating the already dire situations faced by displaced families. “There are no farms left. The land is parched,” Abdi laments, pacing as he contemplates his community’s plight. “We have sent appeals for help to various organizations and the government, but a response is yet to arrive.”

This story of struggle, loss, and tentatively held hopes is a poignant reminder of the resilience that defines the human spirit. As these families navigate their daily hardships, one is left to ponder: How can we, as a global community, stand with those whose lives have been irrevocably shattered? Perhaps the answer lies in compassion, action, and the recognition that every gesture, no matter how small, can shape lives anew.

As the sun sets over the makeshift camps, the laughter of children can be heard, a faint echo of the joy that once filled their homes. Will the world take notice? In the face of profound adversity, may the spirit of collaboration and humanity rise up, lighting the path to brighter tomorrows.

Edited By Ali Musa
Axadle Times International — Monitoring

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