Driving from central Nairobi, the cosmopolitan hub of East Africa, to Huruma one of the largest slums in the surrounding area, is like a journey back into time. It was only a 10km drive but the scenery progressively deteriorates from high-rise buildings, to the less flashy two story stores of the bustling Somali neighborhood, Eastliegh, to the corrugated tin collage that is Huruma; from smooth, paved roads to an array of potholes that only a skilled driver can zigzag through and avoid serious damage to his car.
My supervisor thought it would be a good idea for me to see the other side of Nairobi and to look into ways that IRC could engage with urban slum dwellers. So I was off to Huruma to meet and speak with a community organizer who helped found a local NGO known as the Realtiy Tested Youth Project. This Organization started from a modest three room building donated by the French Embassy and has developed into perhaps the most reputable and resourceful organizations in Huruma and Mathare (a neighboring slum).
The key to RTYP’s success in Huruma is mobilization and coordination. “I have about 1,000 cell-phone numbers,” said S. the community organizer who showed me around, “If we’re not seeing the money that the government promised to invest in the community, we can march up there today.”
For about 500 Ksh a year, RTYP offers membership to community based organizations. Currently, over 150 CBOs have registerd with RTYP and receive valuable support including, educational and vocational training, connections with other NGOs community groups and access to grants/funds that RTYP has available from donors—in a word, RTYP provides people with the basic skills and resources to pull themselves out of poverty and sustain themselves financially over the long-run.
.
“We don’t like to be told we’re poor; we’re not poor. How can we be poor when we have 5 commercial banks surrounding us? There are many opportunities here, what we need is coordination,” said S. Hearing these words struck me with a new perspective. Humanitarian work always seemed to revolved around the idea that there are those in desperate need and it is our obligation to help them. But I began to question if the way in which NGOs and donor governments interact with communities such as Huruma really accomplishes the goals of development. Reinforcing the idea that people are needy and lack development, by providing them an occasional handout of humanitarian relief/assistance, is ultimately meaningless in terms of economic empowerment and sustainability.
Going to Huruma was an extraordinary experience; just remarkable. What struck me the most is how people who have very little are able to make ends meet by being a little innovative and working diligently. There is this despicable misconception that people live in poverty because they fail to work hard. What I saw in Huruma completely contradicts this idea. Poverty is primarily due to lack of opportunities rather than the lack of effort. Poor people are capable of sustaining themselves if they are given the basic opportunities to excel.
I heard profound stories from S. who had been working in Huruma since 2004. Stories about women seeking shelter from sexual abuse from OLF soldiers; children working as child-labors in the butcheries who have never, left the neighborhood, let alone seen downtown Nairobi; porters who come to the center so they are able to take a shower once a week and have some porridge. But there were also hopeful stories—people starting enterprises, such as an urban farming scheme to sell fresh vegetables in the slums, a garbage collection initiative sustained by contributions made by community members, cultural dance groups that have performed in places as far away as South Africa….
One encounter stands out the most in my memory. There was a man I met in Huruma belonging to the Borana tribe of southern Ethiopia (although he claimed to be from Moyale, Kenya as most unregistered Ethiopian slum-dwellers do).We spoke for a while, I tried to converse with him in my limited Amharic. This gentleman owns one of six butcheries belonging to a cooperative of Borana goat-herding families. On any given day, he boasted of selling about 4,000 goats and being left with an abundant supply of goat hides. Now, he is hoping to expand his business by working with a Chinese company who is willing to buy the hides for Ksh 120 a piece. Of course the Chinese will make a tremendous profit by processing the hides into leather in their own factories and selling/exporting them at an inflated price. For 1,000,000 USD, the cooperative of Borana families would be able to build and operate their own leather-processing factory in Huruma. They would be able to keep the profit for themselves and, at the same time, bring employment into the slum. These are the kinds of opportunity, that humanitarian organizations should be investing in…building infrastructure, providing training, and supporting income-generating, sustainable projects, not a simple handout. S., I think, was right.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
The Refugees of Nairobi
When I hear the word “refugee” a certain image comes to my mind. Namely, a worn-out woman with anguish and suffering in her eyes, holding a severely malnourished child. She’s sitting beside a tent in an over-crowded camp somewhere in the dry, deserted area where few others would dream of inhabiting. This is what I expected to see when I came to work with the International Rescue Committee; this was my limited conception of what it meant to be a refugee.
Living in Nairobi has really given me a new perspective of the hardships diverse people face when they make the unimaginably difficult decision to go into exile. Sidet, in Amharic, is a term that I used to hear adults using when they talked in a tone of gratefulness about how they came to the U.S. and nostalgia of the country they left behind. In my day to day life in Nairobi, I am constantly surrounded by people who live in Sidet. Somehow it is not so difficult for me to pick out who is not local; many of these individuals are Somali, South Sudanese, Oromo, and Eritrean.
A week ago, Aman, a fellow intern of Eritrean origins, and I met up with some Eritrean friends of Aman’s friend living in the U.S. They were all about our age 22-26. We hung out, ate dinner, played pool, went to a bar and had drinks….a typical Saturday night for people our age with no real responsibilities or worries. Our new friends dressed the way we do, spoke the same as us (not only in English but also an Amharic that outdoes mine), and shared our taste in music. They had attended some of the most exclusive schools in Addis Ababa…School of Tomorrow, Sanford, St. Joeseph’s. In all respect, they were no different than us but for one exception, they were all legally defined as urban refugees.
“If no work, going out every night and living off remittances from relatives abroad is what you define as refugee status,” I told Aman, “then I find it hard to feel sorry for them.” Though my pity would mean nothing to them, in my mind, I imagined seeing suffering, hunger, poverty and was surprised by what I encountered. Could it be really fair to categorize this group of urban refugees in the same category as those who actually live in desperation and seek shelter in remote camps such as Kakuma and Dadaab.
After being judgmental—usually the first instinct—I started to think about what it must be like to be in their shoes and realized that the life of a “urban refugee” is not much better than the life of a “real refugee”—you know, those we’re likely to see on the nightly news that easily strike an emotional cord in all of us. Regardless of socio-economic status in your home country, being a refugee in Kenya, you are automatically in a precarious legal and political standing. There are no guaranteed rights to most basic social services, abuse by the police and government officials is hardly given attention and making a livelihood in the formal sector is impossible as refugees are not legally permitted to work.
So, in effect, there is nothing to do but register and place all your hope in the possibility that one day your lucky number will be called and you find yourself en route to the promise land that is so often mentioned—America. Coming from a place like Kenya, which accommodates hundreds of thousands of refugees, that possibility is very slim. The time spent waiting for a bright future in the U.S. is squandered in a country that you barely know, do not care to remain in and, in return, is not welcoming to you. After a few months, a few years…even the most well-to-do, educated, motivated and aspiring individuals get worn out by the redundancy of this stationary life of simply waiting.
Living in Nairobi has really given me a new perspective of the hardships diverse people face when they make the unimaginably difficult decision to go into exile. Sidet, in Amharic, is a term that I used to hear adults using when they talked in a tone of gratefulness about how they came to the U.S. and nostalgia of the country they left behind. In my day to day life in Nairobi, I am constantly surrounded by people who live in Sidet. Somehow it is not so difficult for me to pick out who is not local; many of these individuals are Somali, South Sudanese, Oromo, and Eritrean.
A week ago, Aman, a fellow intern of Eritrean origins, and I met up with some Eritrean friends of Aman’s friend living in the U.S. They were all about our age 22-26. We hung out, ate dinner, played pool, went to a bar and had drinks….a typical Saturday night for people our age with no real responsibilities or worries. Our new friends dressed the way we do, spoke the same as us (not only in English but also an Amharic that outdoes mine), and shared our taste in music. They had attended some of the most exclusive schools in Addis Ababa…School of Tomorrow, Sanford, St. Joeseph’s. In all respect, they were no different than us but for one exception, they were all legally defined as urban refugees.
“If no work, going out every night and living off remittances from relatives abroad is what you define as refugee status,” I told Aman, “then I find it hard to feel sorry for them.” Though my pity would mean nothing to them, in my mind, I imagined seeing suffering, hunger, poverty and was surprised by what I encountered. Could it be really fair to categorize this group of urban refugees in the same category as those who actually live in desperation and seek shelter in remote camps such as Kakuma and Dadaab.
After being judgmental—usually the first instinct—I started to think about what it must be like to be in their shoes and realized that the life of a “urban refugee” is not much better than the life of a “real refugee”—you know, those we’re likely to see on the nightly news that easily strike an emotional cord in all of us. Regardless of socio-economic status in your home country, being a refugee in Kenya, you are automatically in a precarious legal and political standing. There are no guaranteed rights to most basic social services, abuse by the police and government officials is hardly given attention and making a livelihood in the formal sector is impossible as refugees are not legally permitted to work.
So, in effect, there is nothing to do but register and place all your hope in the possibility that one day your lucky number will be called and you find yourself en route to the promise land that is so often mentioned—America. Coming from a place like Kenya, which accommodates hundreds of thousands of refugees, that possibility is very slim. The time spent waiting for a bright future in the U.S. is squandered in a country that you barely know, do not care to remain in and, in return, is not welcoming to you. After a few months, a few years…even the most well-to-do, educated, motivated and aspiring individuals get worn out by the redundancy of this stationary life of simply waiting.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
A Typical Day
Welcome to the unglamorous world of humanitarian work. A typical day: 6:00 am wake up, turn on water heater in the kitchen, go back to sleep for 30 more minutes until water heater begins working. 7:00 take a lukewarm shower; decide what clothes to wear (something you wouldn’t mind being drenched in exhaust fumes and dust).7:20 Breakfast, toast bread, cook eggs on a gas stove (remember that everything cooks twice as fast on a gas stove); brush teeth; pack my bag: laptop, iPod, money, keys…check; God please bless this day…
The walk from my guesthouse to the office takes about 45 minutes. All along the way, my coworker and I get stared at by every person who strolls past us. It’s something I got used to after a few days—you learn not to get offended. For me, after two months of people bending over backwards and stopping in the middle-of a street to gawk at me in New Delhi, I can handle the subtle staring in Nairobi. The other intern who happens to be Eritrean/American must stand out as much as I do, together with our American clothes, over packed backpacks, we walk while jamming to our ipods…no wonder people stare at us. It’s because you have strange features said a Kenyan coworker who noticed how much more attention people paid to him too when he walked with us. Strange features? Does he mean our jutting foreheads or is he paying us a compliment for our more pleasant Habesha traits? I choose to believe the latter :-)
On the way to work, we usually stop to get coffee from Java House, the easiest way to describe it is a crossbreed of Starbucks and IHOP but with much better quality. It’s my guilty pleasure here. Though almost everything is relatively cheap compared to the U.S. coffee seems to be the exception. It makes sense too because Java is always packed with coffee-addicted Europeans, Americans (and maybe wealthy Kenyans) who don’t mind paying 2-3 dollars for a latte or mocha. The most money I will spend on one thing in a given day is for this single cup of coffee in the morning.
The IRC Somalia, Kenya and Regional East Africa office is not far from Java. On the third floor of the IKM building, is where IRC Kenya is located. The office is very modern looking with bright yellow walls and laptops at almost each of the small cubicles, By the time I walk in with the other intern at around 8:40am, almost everyone is already at their desk, typing away, trying to finish a grant proposal before the deadline or on the phone trying to sort out some kind of logistical difficulty in the field offices. For a new intern, things are less exciting. My job usually involves reading over reports and proposals; it seems the most useful skill I can offer at this point is my excellent grasp of the English language. To be sure, sitting in front of a computer and meticulously reading over a 20 pg technical document was not what I had in mind when I decided I wanted to work for an NGO in Africa. It’s easy to romanticize the lifestyle of a humanitarian worker. I imagined being in refugee camps, working hands on with beneficiaries or collecting qualitative data for field research—something, anything other than the typical 9-5 job. My first revelation in Kenya: humanitarian work is at least 80% administrative and 20% other. But I also realize that working for a humanitarian organization, every small part contributes to the greater whole. Even my unglamorous work right now is necessary so that the overall IRC Kenya program can operate. Without grants, there would be no programs and without a well-written grant proposal, there would be no grants…This is what I tell myself to keep motivated throughout the day.
At 1:00pm we walk across the street to Al Yusur, a Somali restaurant which makes amazing chapattis. We eat in the dimly lit room which is always packed with people from 1-3. Afterwards it’s back to more proposal/report reviewing for another three hours. Time goes by slowly. The walk back from work is more pleasant and a time to really take in the city. If we leave around 5, we drift into the after-work rush hour crowd. The streets are more hectic than usual, traffic moves forth inch by inch, people are pouring out of their offices and running to get on one of the big green buses with the words “city hopper” written on the back that traverse the town. Men leaning out of the infamous matatus (taxi minibuses) call out the locations of where they are heading to try to fill their cars with passengers. We walk past the big intersection where you can take Jomo Kenyatta Avenue straight to town but turn and walk down narrow streets with no sidewalks. One of my biggest, irrational fears is getting hit by some reckless driver speeding down one of these unmarked roads. Judging by how people drive in Nairobi, though, it might not be irrational.
Once safely at home, there are a few hours of relaxation. The most entertainment on a typical weekday is watching one of the three channels we have on our T.V. By 10:00pm, exhaustion takes over and its time for bed, only to begin the cycle again the next morning.
The walk from my guesthouse to the office takes about 45 minutes. All along the way, my coworker and I get stared at by every person who strolls past us. It’s something I got used to after a few days—you learn not to get offended. For me, after two months of people bending over backwards and stopping in the middle-of a street to gawk at me in New Delhi, I can handle the subtle staring in Nairobi. The other intern who happens to be Eritrean/American must stand out as much as I do, together with our American clothes, over packed backpacks, we walk while jamming to our ipods…no wonder people stare at us. It’s because you have strange features said a Kenyan coworker who noticed how much more attention people paid to him too when he walked with us. Strange features? Does he mean our jutting foreheads or is he paying us a compliment for our more pleasant Habesha traits? I choose to believe the latter :-)
On the way to work, we usually stop to get coffee from Java House, the easiest way to describe it is a crossbreed of Starbucks and IHOP but with much better quality. It’s my guilty pleasure here. Though almost everything is relatively cheap compared to the U.S. coffee seems to be the exception. It makes sense too because Java is always packed with coffee-addicted Europeans, Americans (and maybe wealthy Kenyans) who don’t mind paying 2-3 dollars for a latte or mocha. The most money I will spend on one thing in a given day is for this single cup of coffee in the morning.
The IRC Somalia, Kenya and Regional East Africa office is not far from Java. On the third floor of the IKM building, is where IRC Kenya is located. The office is very modern looking with bright yellow walls and laptops at almost each of the small cubicles, By the time I walk in with the other intern at around 8:40am, almost everyone is already at their desk, typing away, trying to finish a grant proposal before the deadline or on the phone trying to sort out some kind of logistical difficulty in the field offices. For a new intern, things are less exciting. My job usually involves reading over reports and proposals; it seems the most useful skill I can offer at this point is my excellent grasp of the English language. To be sure, sitting in front of a computer and meticulously reading over a 20 pg technical document was not what I had in mind when I decided I wanted to work for an NGO in Africa. It’s easy to romanticize the lifestyle of a humanitarian worker. I imagined being in refugee camps, working hands on with beneficiaries or collecting qualitative data for field research—something, anything other than the typical 9-5 job. My first revelation in Kenya: humanitarian work is at least 80% administrative and 20% other. But I also realize that working for a humanitarian organization, every small part contributes to the greater whole. Even my unglamorous work right now is necessary so that the overall IRC Kenya program can operate. Without grants, there would be no programs and without a well-written grant proposal, there would be no grants…This is what I tell myself to keep motivated throughout the day.
At 1:00pm we walk across the street to Al Yusur, a Somali restaurant which makes amazing chapattis. We eat in the dimly lit room which is always packed with people from 1-3. Afterwards it’s back to more proposal/report reviewing for another three hours. Time goes by slowly. The walk back from work is more pleasant and a time to really take in the city. If we leave around 5, we drift into the after-work rush hour crowd. The streets are more hectic than usual, traffic moves forth inch by inch, people are pouring out of their offices and running to get on one of the big green buses with the words “city hopper” written on the back that traverse the town. Men leaning out of the infamous matatus (taxi minibuses) call out the locations of where they are heading to try to fill their cars with passengers. We walk past the big intersection where you can take Jomo Kenyatta Avenue straight to town but turn and walk down narrow streets with no sidewalks. One of my biggest, irrational fears is getting hit by some reckless driver speeding down one of these unmarked roads. Judging by how people drive in Nairobi, though, it might not be irrational.
Once safely at home, there are a few hours of relaxation. The most entertainment on a typical weekday is watching one of the three channels we have on our T.V. By 10:00pm, exhaustion takes over and its time for bed, only to begin the cycle again the next morning.
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