The Refugee.

The  "Refugee" bears a certain aura about him,  a sort of unwanted  mark. The Refugee is despised, scorned, ridiculed, unloved, unwanted, unrecognised. His voice isn't given much attention, The Refugee's life is likened to a stain upon the proverbial White Fabric of society.  A blemish. We often forget that before all fell apart. The Refugee led a happy and peaceful life.  The Refugee held large dreams and big prospects. Then one morning His sons and His neighbours' sons took up arms and gunsmoke filled their kitchens. 

We often encounter the unwashed, wretched lot. We forget they're that way because of circumstances out of reach. Each one of us is a potential refugee.

Kyangwali Refugee Settlement Camp, undoubtedly the largest Refugee Camp in Uganda is located in Hoima District South West Uganda. The Camp is  home to over 38,000 refugees. The refugees are mainly from Congo, South Sudan, Somalia, Rwanda, Burundi and Kenya.‎

A number of non governmental organisations like AAH-I Uganda, Refugee Law Project, American Refugee Commit, UNHCR are  trying to change the lives of the refugees through provision of  health care, food, security, education, legal aid, water and sanitation, environment and sources of livelihood.

A team bubbly  of 3 bubbly lawyers, an immoral-tongued driver and I  crammed into a Navy Blue Mitsubishi double cabin and hit the rather beautiful highway which leads to the oil fields at Kaiso-Tonya.  We soon branched off onto a dirt road, slowly leaving civilisation in our wake.

The main entrance to the camp is manned by armed guards. Within the camp are tents set up by UPDF soldiers. The civilians live in mud and wattle houses. A few lucky  enterprising refugees own concrete and iron roofed houses.  

We had lunch at Betty's.  Betty Kiden, is a rather hyperactive South Sudanese woman with trademark fair Dark Sudanese skin,  snowy teeth and clear glassy eyes. Her beans cost 1000 less than her chicken stew. I prefered chicken. She has about 3 cooks who double as waitresses and a sarcastic boy help. 

"Aunt Betty, are you planning on boiling this water?" he asks of the dirty water collected in a hand washing bowl.

 The chicken in Kyangwali is mammoth. It's like the thigh of a Khoi Khoi newborn child. The chicken looks like the sort which has to be chained and held by strong men from Kabale quarry on the day of its slaughter.  Monstrous piece of meat. Unlike city broilers whose bones might be chewed. Betty's chicken is rocky. Hard enough to crack your jaws on attempting to crack it.‎

I suspiciously eyed the greasy looking chilli in a glass jar before pushing it aside; 'poison' I muttered under my breath.

I walked the lengths of the trading centre and most shops were filled with more soft drinks neatly arranged.‎

We visited a police cell where we found 3 inmates detained. All males, one man had beaten up his wife after taking one too many gulps of the bitter stuff.  An eleven year old chap who beat up a peer because he'd betrayed them was inside the cell. The boys nicked a bowl. Their peer betrayed them, earning himself a proper beating. He spent the weekend in jail.  He looked visibly shaken and traumatised.  

Kids in tattered cloth and no shoes hold dog-eared exercise books, returning home after a long day at school. We hit the road again, with about 3 lawyers. Lawyers have certain dark humour. You always wonder whether laughing would be against your conscience.‎

 The people in this Camp are peasant farmers.  Large gardens of maize, sorghum, millet and tobacco race by. The houses here are mud and wattle. In the midst of one of the villages within the camp stands a Jehovah Witness Church, majestic  like a blue eyed child in a Nigerian village.

The chairman's house has an iron roof with small rocks conveniently placed on its top to prevent the roof from flying away when it storms.

We went to Nyapindu village where we were meant to have a community meet. The folks sneaked upon the meeting point quietly and sat. The legal team shared with the folks on the intricacies of the law.

Boda boda cyclists here zoom past. Loud music blaring off their bicycles.

I met a Congolese girl. Here girls  are are goat queens.  The little girl had a rather uncanny ability, tending goats. She summoned them, beckoned them. They seemed to listen to her, the goat whisperer and do her bidding. She ran after the little ones. Goats, ducks, hens are quite common here. 

Dogs and cats are deemed useless. They produce neither meat nor milk. "What will they eat? Dogs and cats refuse to eat grains. Proud little devils." laments Michael.

"UPDF goats stray here and destroy our crops. Even when we arrest them their owners take forever before they claim them. There are no drugs within the health points. I have a child dying in my house. I haven't a thing to do." Laments a man. 

 His voice is firm with bitterness. Wearing a rather frustrated look. He keeps swinging his hands wistfully. The sort of demeanour a man watching dark clouds of the bleak future hovering keeps.

"The health personnel don't understand our language, we need translators. The police men ask for 50,000 UGX when we report crimes. It's an insult to ask that much from a
man who has a dying child and no penny in his house."

An old woman raises her voice in lamentation. She missed last month's food ration, her name was somehow struck off the Refugee register.

The people here are troubled.  UNHCR is nonetheless doing a commendable job, so is Refugee Law which offers free legal representation.

"We don't like court cases, we resolve all issues amongst us. We already are in strange lands. We would all love to be buried home. We can't afford to have our own locked away in strange lands. When the time is right, we shall return home. The thought of home gives us hope."

"Last month, a police commander came here and said were like prisoners here. I wouldn't disagree, we are financial and moral prisoners. The people out there make it worse, it's cruel. " adds Michael.

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