IDPs: Seeing Beyond the Statistics
All Images: Ramatu Ada Ochekliye A visit to the Internally Displaced People’s camp in Durumi, Abuja on May 28, 2017 was everything I expected it would be; emotionally draining. We partnered with Save OurWomen Foundation (SOW Foundation) for the #1Girl1Pad project, a project that saw us advocating for menstrual hygiene for girls and women in the IDP camp. The project entailed educating these girls and women about menstrual hygiene and providing them with sanitary pads to last them at least three months. As many know, May 28 is #MenstrualHygieneDay and globally, individuals and organizations design events to ensure more women get access to menstrual hygiene education and products. As soon as we got into the camp, we were surrounded by children excited at our presence. They smiled up at us with the true innocence of children; trusting that we were good even if we were total strangers. I quickly took out my camera. The children lit up when they saw it. I smiled at them and they smiled right back. They had already begun to take poses and I was not going to disappoint them. So I clicked. And clicked. ‘Say kiss! Say kiss!’ the kids kept saying. I thought I wasn’t hearing them well. ‘Say Kiss’? Were they trying to say ‘Cheese’? I smiled. Of course that was what they were saying. “Say Cheese”! And then I noticed something else. Almost all the children put up two fingers in the air when posing for the camera. I shouldn’t have been surprised…but I was. It seemed like in spite of all the problems these people were going through, popular culture still seeped into the camp and influenced the young people and children. Even the smallest child put up those fingers when the camera was pointed at them. And can you see those big smiles?! These children had a lot working against them but they were genuinely excited at having their picture taken. They didn’t even ask to see what the shots looked like. I could have been clicking the flash lights for all they cared. All they saw was a person with a camera paying attention to them. The simplicity of it all was almost my undoing. I turned away to focus on our reason for visiting. As we educated the girls and women about menstrual hygiene, we began to hear of some of the problems they were facing. One of the problems that I considered a sore thumb was the access to medical care. Most of the women and girls said they ‘managed’ their pain until it rode over because there were no doctors to help them. Again, I looked at the children – gathering at the door because they had been told the meeting wasn’t for them – and I wondered how they ‘managed’ their pain. Looking at them, you couldn’t tell they were going through anything. They were are as carefree and jolly as children are wont to be. We finished the education part and went into disseminating the pads we raised via donations. As we gave each girl and woman a package of pads and panties, the children returned, clamoring around us in the hopes of getting theirs. Older women shooed them away but the children returned as soon as the women’s backs were turned. They kept stretching their hands to get a package. Even though we insisted the sanitary pads weren’t for them, the children didn’t budge. He took a pose after I gave him the sanitary pads So I took a packet and broke it open. I gave two pads each to the little girls; even though it was clear they couldn’t possibly be menstruating yet. As I gave them the pads, the crowd around us thinned out and it was at this point I noticed a little boy in the mix, arms stretched out, face almost crumbling. He didn’t want to miss out what everyone else was getting. I told him I couldn’t give him because he is a boy. He crumbled at this point. I held his face and asked what he wanted to do with it. His reply was definitely my undoing. ‘For my mother.’ The tears were a second away from falling so I turned away into the boot of our vehicle and calmed my nerves. I breathed in deeply and willed the tears to go away. I took out two sanitary pads and gave him. He curtsied and said thank you. I knew I needed to take more deep breaths. Something distracted me and when I turned back, the boy was gone. It occurred to me that I had not asked his name. I was ashamed because until that moment, he was a statistic, a child in an IDP camp, one of many. I wished I had seen him as an individual, one with a story, possible fears and hopes and most especially, a name! I wished that I had focused more on him instead of getting shots of everyone around me. I wished I had dignified him by, at the very least, knowing his name so I didn’t have to refer to him in this post as ‘a little boy’. But he is a little boy, a child in an IDP Camp, one of many and to some, a statistic. And the longer he has to make do with the problems all the children and women in that camp are facing – problems ranging from rationed meals, poor access to health care, inadequate housing and privacy, little or no formal education and the indignity of depending on do-gooders for basic necessities – the more likely it is that he becomes an even worse statistic; one tied to crime, hate, unproductivity or even death. The children in Durumi IDP camp look better than most of those from the North East but let’s be clear, it is not in the slightest bit a ‘lesser’ humanitarian crisis. We owe it to ourselves to help out in whatever way can to alleviate the suffering of these people. It
The Plight Of The Displaced
Credit: The Guardian Nigeria Terror struck the morning of Sunday, 7th August 2014, when members of the insurgent sect – Boko Haram – took over Michika town in Adamawa State. Many people were not aware of the news until they began to see huge influxes of people into Yola, the State capital. People were on trailers and lorries, and jam-packed in other smaller vehicles. The fear factor reached fever pitch when news spread that the military had closed the gates of Mubi, keeping the fleeing residents trapped in the town. I was in the office, totally oblivious of what was happening, when I got snapped out of my false sense of security. One of my colleagues came in and said he had seen over seventeen army trucks lined up in town and many fleeing refugees with nowhere to go. When I went outside, it was to see other colleagues in a state of frenzy. I walked slowly, hoping to find out what was happening and telling myself over and again that getting scared wouldn’t help me. I realized that many people were making speculations and no one really knew what was happening. At that point, I was tired of the rush of emotions I was feeling and just wanted to go home. The company driver said he couldn’t head out because the roads were clogged. At that pronouncement, staff members – including those who had their own cars – decided to head out on foot. I followed them. I asked my program partner to join us and she was adamant because she didn’t know what we were going to be walking into. I was sure we would be safe but she needed some convincing. After a few minutes of cajoling and threatening to leave without her, she finally budged and then we set off. We took a short cut and came out on the main road after walking for about ten minutes. It wouldn’t have taken a magician to know that something was really amiss. The cars were lined up as far as one could see and at each other’s bumpers. All the cars were full, and in fact, over loaded with people, bags, properties and what not. Adamawa had become the latest to suffer at the hands of the insurgents. Months after that first major attack, there have been many more, which has prompted more and more people to flee into the state capital: Internally Displaced People or IDPs for short. They were talked about in the news, among traders and drivers and even among the elite. To many, they are nothing but statistics and numbers. But today, they were real to us. One of my colleagues decided to spend his birthday with these displaced people. He called on friends and family to support him by bringing clothes, food, toiletries and other necessities for the IDPs. The response was massive. People went all out to help in whatever way they could. On his birthday, we all headed out to the Bajabure IDP camp in Adamawa. There was a convoy of cars filled with materials for the people. When we got to the camp, I must say that we were a bit surprised. The camp was an estate built by Vice Admiral Murtala Nyako on the Numan road. The area is a bit far from town and the houses were largely empty. As a result of the overwhelming influx of people into town, the estate was turned to a camp for the IDPs. So you can imagine our surprise when we got there and saw a row of nice houses. When we got to the gate, the security man made a fuss about our visit and only let us in when the celebrant called the camp director or someone like that. As soon as we got in, people started trickling out to see the visitors. It wasn’t long before the word spread; visitors had come and they came bearing gifts! Soon enough, people started coming out in droves. We were suddenly surrounded by a sea of people. I must admit, I never knew they were that many. They couldn’t wait until the address from the celebrant was done. All they cared about was the piece of the bounty they were going to get from us. Some of the women and children moved closer to where I stood. Their murmuring drew my friends and I even closer. We asked what the problem was and they told us that we had to stay for the distribution of the items. When we asked why we needed to wait, they were quick to tell us that certain individuals had crowned themselves bosses and were hoarding relief materials for their personal gain. My friend and I shared a look. We proceeded to ask more people if these statements were true. It turned out that they were in fact true. A few people were using the pain these people were facing to dominate them and accrue more materials to their selfish selves. I spoke to a boy whom I’m going to call Kwaji. He sounded very intelligent, somehow knowing my Hausa was stilted and proceeding to speak in English. He didn’t speak the Queen’s English but he wasn’t far off. His tenses were correct and his grammar sound. I asked if he was a student and he said, quite clearly I might say, that he had been in Junior Secondary School 3 (JSS 3). My next question would have been what he wanted to be in life but looking at his condition at that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I kept repeating that it would be well, not sure whether or not he believed me. As soon as the distribution started, any dignity of their person fled. They crowded the distributors like ant to sugar. I was shocked at the desperation I was seeing. It was no surprise that a fight broke out and got out of control. People started clawing their way to get the items. I must admit
