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Published: September 26th 2008
During the weeks of June 9-20 I had my first round of real interviews, in which I was conducting refugee status determination with refugees on my own. It was a really difficult period, partially because the interviews are depressing and partially because it’s just very exhausting work. We leave for the camp around 8, arrive sometime after 9, and then sit in a room with all the members of a family of applicants and take verbatim notes on everything they say. We usually interview only those members of the family who are old enough to recall events, but sometimes there can be five or six people old enough to be interviewed in one family. After one interview, which usually lasts somewhere between 1-2 hours for a family of 2 or 3 individuals, my wrist is killing me. Then I have two more interviews to do! I try to be very thorough which means my interviews last longer than my colleagues’ (so they are always waiting for me at the end of the day!). There is such a backlog of cases that we really can’t afford to postpone an interview, and for various reasons it is definitely not advisable to have to
Sacks of staple
This month it was rice.conduct a second interview with the same person, so it’s really important to try and ask all the questions that need to be asked the first time around.
On Wednesday June 11 after football practice I headed to Mabuya Camp, the hostel Mike and Lesley had ended up moving into, to watch the Czech Republic play Portugal in the Europe cup. It was an extremely tough game to enjoy; I was completely torn between my allegiance to the motherland and Ronaldo’s hotness.
Thursday a couple of my interviewees didn’t show up so I had some free time; as I was heading down to the center of the camp from the UNHCR office, I passed the food distribution hall which was bustling with activity. Hence the reason for my no-shows! I had never seen food distribution going on so I decided to wander over. It was a little uncomfortable because I definitely felt like a spectator at something that shouldn’t be entertaining. I mean, this is just people getting their food, but it is nothing compared to the means of getting food we are used to—walking down grocery store aisles, ordering from a waiter in a restaurant. Refugees registered
in the camp are allotted 13.5 kilograms of a staple food, per person, per month, by the World Food Programme. This staple varies from maize meal to rice, depending on availability. In addition, camp residents receive a small amount of cooking oil branded by the donating country (i.e. “USA Vitamin A-Enriched Cooking Oil”), a small amount of beans—the only protein most people will eat—and salt and sugar. Each head of household in the camp carries a ration card that indicates the number of people in her family, and she can then go collect the corresponding allotment of food.
The process is well-organized and managed by the Red Cross, but still chaos reigns supreme outside the hall. First of all, food distribution lasts about a week, and is broken up each day according to neighborhood. (The camp is divided into various neighborhoods bearing the names of Malawi cities, like Blantyre and Karonga.) On each day of that week, a particular neighborhood is designated for food distribution. Seems simple enough. But, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of itinerant Somalian and Ethiopian men who have fled their home countries—many or most of whom are asylum seekers, but nearly all of whom
UNHCR meets Starlight nightclub
Left to right: me, Lesley, Mike, Caroline, Sebastien aka Le Baguette Man (Brook kindly took the photo) do not stay in Malawi. These men receive a 2-week food ration when they arrive, but most of them sell it in order to pay for their transport down to South Africa, which is like the America of Africa (by that I mean where everyone wants to go because it has the most opportunities). Usually they are smuggled and some die in the process. But during their first two weeks in the camp, because they have sold their food rations, they are hungry, and they beg. And they also stand around the food distribution hall, either because there is nothing else to do, or because they hope in vain to be one of the poor few who might get a meal if they carry one of the huge sacks of staple on their heads to some more prosperous refugee’s home. There are even Malawian women from the villages near the camp who come during food distribution days for the same purpose, hoping to earn a handful of kwacha or a meal this way—some of them balance the sacks on their heads while carrying babies on their backs.
Unfortunately, there are not nearly as many jobs of this sort available
as there are large refugee families with more food than they can carry—and with some money or food to spare, so fights tend to break out between the various groups over who gets to carry whose sacks. There are volunteer “scouts”—something like boy scouts but for adults—who monitor the area outside the hall and attempt to maintain order. It was a sobering experience to really see right before my eyes just how hungry some people are, and what they have to go through just to eat that day. Like I said, I felt uncomfortable being there, watching these people standing in line, waiting for their food. They can’t work legally in Malawi, but they are stuck here through no fault of their own, and have to go through the indignity of standing in crowded, often impatient and pushy lines for what everyone tells me is not nearly enough food to last a month. I am sure for many of them, who are just honest, hard-working people with no possibility of employment, it is humiliating. But given that it is such an essential part of the lives of people in the camp I felt it was important for me to see.
(The photos you see are of the Malawian Red Cross workers who distribute the food.) The Red Cross guy basically took me under his wing and walked me through the entire process, which was incredibly nice of him.
That week we had been joined—or should I say blessed 😊—by Caroline, a new UNHCR intern who very shortly proved to be a true kindred spirit. Along with Mike and Lesley, and Sebastien, our super-French, hyper-Parisian new addition, we decided to have a night on the town and go dancing. We went to Starlight, the newest of Lilongwe’s three nightclubs and the only one that does not charge a cover fee—which has its advantages and disadvantages! The advantages being that it's cheap and non-elitist, the disadvantages being that it's the roughest club in town. Brook, a documentary filmmaker who was staying with Mike and Lesley at Mabuya Camp, also came along with us. We danced the night away until about 3 in the morning, when the 35 kwacha sausages they cook on the braai outside the club looked a lot better than they probably would have in the daylight! They were actually delicious—almost comparable to what you used to find in
These little girls were seated next to me at the wedding
I don't know what was more of a spectacle for them: all the wonderful music and dancing, or seeing a mzungu there! street stands along Vaclavske Namesti back before it became a Russian mafia-infested tourist nightmare (minus the rye bread and Czech mustard!).
The following morning I somehow managed to wake up early enough to drive to the camp for a wedding. I had been invited to the wedding by a Congolese doctor who’s brother-in-law was tying the knot, and was told the ceremonies would begin at 8am (!!!) but (mercifully) that I could come later as the festivities would be going on until well after dark. Driving the car along the road to Dzaleka was an adventure I will never repeat; I still see it as a more than tiny miracle that it made it to the camp, let alone back, given the horrible condition of the extremely bumpy, rocky, dirt road. In the UNHCR Land Cruiser it takes about 45 minutes to get from town to the camp; in my car it took over two hours! But I finally made it and was offered a prime seat with the host’s family just in time for some amazing matrimonial rites I had never seen before. Like in the U.S., the bride and groom cut the cake; but in the Democratic
Ehtiopians and Somalians standing outside the fence
The wedding, like most, was invitation-only, but the Ethiopians and Somalians (who are mostly here temporarily) were crammed all around the perimeter to catch a glimpse of the festivities. Republic of Congo they also feed the cake to their respective families. So the bride went around with a tray of cake, feeding pieces to her in-laws, while the groom did the same. It's really lovely, and everyone gets a kick out of it.
The gift-giving is also completely different. At American weddings you simply leave a gift in some huge pile and it gets opened at some point after the wedding (um, right?). Here (in Congo as well as Malawi), gift-giving is a major, major part of the wedding ceremony. A great production is made of it, too. Congolese music—which is without a doubt my favorite African music—played in the background, and one by one, people slowly danced—not walked, but danced—their way up to the bride and groom and handed—or threw—them their gifts. It’s really hilarious and fun to watch (and participate in). You can’t just hurry on up there, give your gift, and turn around. You take your time, step by step, wiggling your hips and preferably shaking your gift above your head as you go to show off your munificence. If you are giving money—which appears to be the gift of choice, and which is given
View of the crowd
The gregarious host, who invited me to the wedding, allowed some of the men standing outside to come in and dance after the wedding. to help the new couple start their family—you might either throw actual bills at the couple (as in showering them with money, literally), or tuck some bills into the bride’s hair or even into her décolletage! It’s a wonderful spectacle and if/when I ever get married I intend to incorporate it into my wedding (so be forewarned!). Eva and I had the joy of participating in a similar ceremony at a Malawian wedding last year, and it was loads of fun. The groom at this wedding, a Congolese man who is a teacher at a Malawian school in Lilongwe, had invited his colleagues—all Malawians—to his wedding, and watching them go up was the most entertaining of all. As they slowly danced their way up with their gifts, one by one, everyone at the wedding was laughing at them. When I asked why, I was told it’s because Malawians can’t dance to Congolese music. (That meant nothing to me before I started taking Congolese dance lessons, but now I get it! Malawians have their own style of dancing to Malawian music, but when applied to Congolese music I guess the effect isn’t quite the same!)
After the couple was sent
The lovely couple
The groom actually became my Swahili teacher! off, the party continued until well after dark. The women in-laws of the newlyweds began dancing and singing traditional songs and generally having a good time (many of them were enjoying a beer, which is a very rare sight in the camp), and they were absolutely thrilled to have a little mzungu there to sing and dance for. I eventually joined in the dancing and the crowd went nuts. I’m sure I looked even more ridiculous than the Malawians, but apparently I can shake my hips at least decently so they were all really impressed. They did all of these traditional dances, but it wasn’t like at a concert or a cultural display; it was the real deal. They were just at a wedding doing what they do back home in their own countries, and they wanted to share it with me, which was one of the coolest experiences of my life. Afterwards they asked me to say a few words; I told them how beautiful I thougt their weddings are, and said that when I get married, I hope to have a Congolese wedding. But what I think got
conveyed to the women by my host, who interpreted for
Lesley and Brook
At poker night! me, was, when I get married, I hope to have a Congolese
husband. The women went totally wild and all started talking about their sons and brothers and nefews whom they would introduce me to! It was hilarious.
Around 7pm when it was starting to get really cold I finally headed home with one of the guests who lived in Lilongwe. My car somehow made it back out of the camp to the tarmac road, and I headed to Mabuya Camp for a night of poker with Mike, Lesley, Brook, and Sebastien. Sunday morning Mike, Lesley, and I headed to the beach for a day of mostly sunbathing and talking nonsense about politics and office gossip, then I returned to Lilongwe to watch the Czech Republic’s heart-wrenching defeat by Turkey. Sometime right around this period I also received a HUGE box of books from Ki and Bruce, which I am still working my way through, as well as another book from Steve—thank you all so much for thinking of me and going to all that trouble. All in all it was a very exciting week! Sorry if it seems like I’m rushing through but I have so much to
tell and so little time left!
Love,
Martina
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anonymous
non-member comment
that what you did was very good of you