Godoria Grave MarkersIt has been so long since I last blogged that my incredibly tech-savvy, Kindle and Ipod toting father said I was slacking. Since a daughter can’t let her septuagenarian father down, I promise to be a more dedicated and habitual blogger in the future.
I think it’s about time to get down and dirty with some of the real issues regarding my relocation to Djibouti. Let’s do so through the lens of a recent trip I took to the field as part of a cross border mission with UNHCR and IOM colleagues from Yemen.
We left Djibouti for Obock-a town approximately 3.5 hours drive north of Djibouti town. Located on the Red Sea, Obock is less than 25 km from the coast of Yemen.
It is quite an experience to travel through mountains, deserts, around salt lakes and on the sea all within the span of 3 hours. Our biggest hazard was stubborn suicidal camels occupying the middle of the road.
I think it’s about time to get down and dirty with some of the real issues regarding my relocation to Djibouti. Let’s do so through the lens of a recent trip I took to the field as part of a cross border mission with UNHCR and IOM colleagues from Yemen.
We left Djibouti for Obock-a town approximately 3.5 hours drive north of Djibouti town. Located on the Red Sea, Obock is less than 25 km from the coast of Yemen.
It is quite an experience to travel through mountains, deserts, around salt lakes and on the sea all within the span of 3 hours. Our biggest hazard was stubborn suicidal camels occupying the middle of the road.
The reason for the trip was simple: to meet with authorities in Obock and visit one of Djibouti’s most frequented migration routes and departure points for Ethiopian asylum seekers.
To say that this well-travelled migration route is rough is a wild understatement. It can take up to a month on foot to make it through the rocky mountains to the desert then on to the sea. Some refugees have the means to pay illegal smugglers to help them cross portions of the terrain; others must attempt to do so on foot.
To contextualize, Djibouti is rarely a destination in and of itself for asylum seekers/migrants/refugees in the region. It is a transit country, “used” for safe passage to Yemen, and/or Saudi Arabia. Once in Saudi Arabia, many migrants can hope to earn $150 a month: a fortune compared to what they could earn at home, but so little given many risk and lose their lives along the journey.
We arrived in Obock, having been escorted in convoy by the Secretary General of the national refugee agency, and were met by the Préfet- the head of the local government. To sum up a meeting conducted in French and Arabic (I am destined to an eternal career in translation…argh), the local authorities are swamped by the number of what they called “economic migrants” in the region. They lack the funds for a proper coast guard, as well as for facilities in which to detain migrants. Interestingly, they openly admitted breaking international law by refouling (returning) people back to the other side of the border (given that Djibouti is party to the International Refugee Convention, they know this is illegal). What they didn’t articulate but made quite silently clear was: 1) it is in their best interest to turn a blind eye and let people risk their lives at high sea (in this way these persons are no longer the responsibility of Djiboutian officials but become Yemen’s “burden”) and 2) they have no interest in determining whether the Ethiopians were refugees fleeing persecution, rather blindly labelling them all economic migrants.
After the meeting was abruptly cut short as a Q&A got quite political, we were invited to convoy to Godoria, the actual departure point to Yemen- approximately 30 minutes through a roadless desert along the Red Sea. Nothing in site but the ominous truck tracks in the sand of countless human smugglers’ vehicles. The tracks were so recent that the sea winds hadn’t yet blown them away. Occasionally you’d see a gazelle, or an empty plastic bottle or bag-the only evidence of recent human presence.
I will be frank and admit that I was naively shocked to see groups of refugees off in the distance, huddled under small desert bushes on a small peninsula that jutted out into the Red Sea oblivion. I cannot even articulate how hot it was in this coastal desert, nor could I contemplate making the journey on foot that was difficult in an air-conditioned UN truck. I learned that refugees pay $60 to jam into overcrowded and shoddy fishing boats in hopes of making it to Yemen. It is true that Yemen was close; not only could you see it, but my Yemeni colleagues received a “Welcome to Yemen” text from their cell phone service thinking they had made it home safely. But to say that Yemen is close is not to say that the journey is guaranteed. It is merely the “safest” risk a refugee could take.
I have never felt more powerless in my life- standing on the cliffs of the Red Sea, in the company of the Head Official of the Djiboutian refugee agency, the highest UN official in Yemen as well as the IOM and watching refugees waiting. Waiting to risk their lives at sea. And us watching, doing nothing. It wasn’t until that moment when I looked down, and realized that I was standing atop a fresh grave of an Ethiopian who had recently lost his or her life on the trek. I looked down the coast and saw many such stone markers, impromptu gravesites. In any other situation, it would be a beautiful resting point. But in this context, it couldn’t be more bleak.
We drove back silently, contemplating what we had seen, knowing that droves of people would soon appear for the daily 6pm sunset departure.
This was my third day on the job. I didn’t really know what to say.
To say that this well-travelled migration route is rough is a wild understatement. It can take up to a month on foot to make it through the rocky mountains to the desert then on to the sea. Some refugees have the means to pay illegal smugglers to help them cross portions of the terrain; others must attempt to do so on foot.
To contextualize, Djibouti is rarely a destination in and of itself for asylum seekers/migrants/refugees in the region. It is a transit country, “used” for safe passage to Yemen, and/or Saudi Arabia. Once in Saudi Arabia, many migrants can hope to earn $150 a month: a fortune compared to what they could earn at home, but so little given many risk and lose their lives along the journey.
We arrived in Obock, having been escorted in convoy by the Secretary General of the national refugee agency, and were met by the Préfet- the head of the local government. To sum up a meeting conducted in French and Arabic (I am destined to an eternal career in translation…argh), the local authorities are swamped by the number of what they called “economic migrants” in the region. They lack the funds for a proper coast guard, as well as for facilities in which to detain migrants. Interestingly, they openly admitted breaking international law by refouling (returning) people back to the other side of the border (given that Djibouti is party to the International Refugee Convention, they know this is illegal). What they didn’t articulate but made quite silently clear was: 1) it is in their best interest to turn a blind eye and let people risk their lives at high sea (in this way these persons are no longer the responsibility of Djiboutian officials but become Yemen’s “burden”) and 2) they have no interest in determining whether the Ethiopians were refugees fleeing persecution, rather blindly labelling them all economic migrants.
After the meeting was abruptly cut short as a Q&A got quite political, we were invited to convoy to Godoria, the actual departure point to Yemen- approximately 30 minutes through a roadless desert along the Red Sea. Nothing in site but the ominous truck tracks in the sand of countless human smugglers’ vehicles. The tracks were so recent that the sea winds hadn’t yet blown them away. Occasionally you’d see a gazelle, or an empty plastic bottle or bag-the only evidence of recent human presence.
I will be frank and admit that I was naively shocked to see groups of refugees off in the distance, huddled under small desert bushes on a small peninsula that jutted out into the Red Sea oblivion. I cannot even articulate how hot it was in this coastal desert, nor could I contemplate making the journey on foot that was difficult in an air-conditioned UN truck. I learned that refugees pay $60 to jam into overcrowded and shoddy fishing boats in hopes of making it to Yemen. It is true that Yemen was close; not only could you see it, but my Yemeni colleagues received a “Welcome to Yemen” text from their cell phone service thinking they had made it home safely. But to say that Yemen is close is not to say that the journey is guaranteed. It is merely the “safest” risk a refugee could take.
I have never felt more powerless in my life- standing on the cliffs of the Red Sea, in the company of the Head Official of the Djiboutian refugee agency, the highest UN official in Yemen as well as the IOM and watching refugees waiting. Waiting to risk their lives at sea. And us watching, doing nothing. It wasn’t until that moment when I looked down, and realized that I was standing atop a fresh grave of an Ethiopian who had recently lost his or her life on the trek. I looked down the coast and saw many such stone markers, impromptu gravesites. In any other situation, it would be a beautiful resting point. But in this context, it couldn’t be more bleak.
We drove back silently, contemplating what we had seen, knowing that droves of people would soon appear for the daily 6pm sunset departure.
This was my third day on the job. I didn’t really know what to say.
Soooooo long.
ReplyDeleteCan you summarize all this in 3 sentences for me, please?
Nestor- you must get edumicated in gooder english. This blog will help.
ReplyDelete