Niamey, Niger – For those of us in the city, we are seeing the first signs of food crisis spreading across our country. We have seen it before. It has already started, and it is coming fast.

People are leaving their village and moving to town. (Photo: CARE/ Brooks)

The first phase is when young men and women start  leaving the villages, coming to the big towns, looking for work. ‘Knock, knock’: they come to your door and say ‘do you have any work?’ You ask them, what can you do? And they reply: ‘Anything. I can do anything.’

In the second phase, they come to the door, ‘knock, knock’: ‘Do you have any food? I haven’t eaten in three days.’

In the third phase, they don’t ask anymore. You wake up and go out side in the morning, and there is a family sleeping on your doorstep. They don’t ask for anything, they just look up at you, hoping. If you give them something, they say thank you. If you don’t give them anything, they are quiet. They just put their heads down, slowly get up and move to the next house.

It takes just a couple of months to go from phase one to phase three. We are already in phase one. It’s amazing how quickly it happens.

We need to act now: provide cash-for work so people can buy food, provide school feeding programs so children stay in school, support resiliance efforts like community gardens and cereal banks. Because once they start showing up in the cities, it means they are already coming to the end of their resources. They have sold their assets. They have no food. This is happening now.

CARE did an assessment in one of the villages, and already we are seeing that there aren’t many young men and women left – they are leaving for the cities and towns, hoping to find work. And here in Niamey, people are already starting to show up at our doors. ‘Knock, knock’.

Hugh spent over 10 months in Haiti working for CARE International and Save the Children on shelter and re-construction and writes about where Haiti is now, as the two year anniversary approaches.

Transitional shelters have sprung up all over the hillside, providing people with much needed protection from rain and heat. (Photo: CARE/ Cameron)

Haiti in January 2010, ten days after the earthquake, was a country in shock. For days and weeks afterwards, large parts of the population devoted themselves to sifting through the rubble. It was a dangerous job, as concrete houses were still collapsing weeks after the initial quake, triggered either by aftershocks that continued for months, or by people moving rubble to try and find their loved ones, usually dead.

As was heavily reported at the time, the damage to the airport, the seaport and roads in Port-au-Prince meant that bringing aid in during the initial phases proved a challenge. Additionally, an urban disaster – increasingly common globally – often causes much more damage to buildings, infrastructure and human lives, than if the same hazard strikes a rural area. This earthquake was no exception and in Léogâne, near the epicentre, 80% of the buildings collapsed.

These challenges were compounded over the year by several other crises, including a massive storm, political unrest following disputed election results, and an outbreak of cholera which required its own, almost parallel, emergency response. Each of these set Haiti back a step, delaying the progress in recovery the country had made before then.

The displacement of populations often gives media a visible and identifiable indicator of how much a disaster has affected a community. Haiti was no exception, and from very shortly after the earthquake, people were taking refuge in camps in any open areas available, including large public fields, school playgrounds and even in the middle of roundabouts. These populations included those who had lost their houses, or were just too scared to live under their concrete roofs.

But progress is being made. In one area in which CARE was working, in a cramped and overcrowded district of Carrefour, west of Port-au-Prince itself, the small local market square had been taken over by tents, bedsheets and any form of covering they could find. The community identified those families most in need of support, and CARE provided wooden shelters around the neighbourhood to these families. Gradually, as these structures went up, the camp disappeared. For approximately 350 families, or around 1,750 people, in a community of a few thousand, CARE has had a direct impact. The rest of the community also benefits, as everyone who relied on the local market to either buy or sell goods, can regain a sense of normality.

The 350 shelters for the community in Carrefour are just a few of the 2500 that CARE has built since January 2010, and a small percentage of the 95,000 that the humanitarian community together have been able to provide. These figures don’t include the other forms of assistance, either in shelter – such as repairing houses or providing tools and support for people to undertake repairs themselves – or any other walk of life, including water, sanitation, health, education, or livelihoods, for example.

This is all part of Haitian President Joseph Michel Martelly’s first strategy to encourage people to return to their original neighbourhoods. Another example is that CARE has been working with local authorities and communities to construct 228 latrines and three water fountains in earthquake-affected areas.

Life is returning to normal.

Now, nearly two years on, Port-au-Prince looks a lot different. Whilst I was there, I often barely noticed any change. But in even August 2010, having been out of the country for a month, returning made the progress apparent. Since then, recovery has accelerated. A large number of camps have been disbanded, such as in the example above, and their inhabitants have returned home, or found other places to stay. It is true, however, that many of the bigger camps still remain. There is still rubble littering the streets, there is still a shortage of housing, and the situation remains dire.

But we must keep the current situation in context. Even before the earthquake, many Haitians were moving to Port-au-Prince in the hope of finding some form of work. The earthquake didn’t stop urbanisation – immediately after, many people left the capital, but the lack of livelihoods outside the country soon reversed that trend. The lucky ones who do find jobs might earn $1 per day – the same as the cost of a plate of food. Given such chronic poverty and high unemployment, combined with the massive shortage of housing stock available in the capital, people have been settling informally there for a long time. The lowest estimate I have encountered is of 300,000 people without adequate shelter prior to the earthquake. The camps that formed after 12th January provided a centralised point for informal settlements.

NGOs, such as CARE, are trying desperately to replenish and augment the housing stock in Port-au-Prince, but it is not easy. I have seen cases where three different people all legitimately claim to own the same patch of land, each with reasons and documents to prove their case, and constructing on disputed territory merely causes more problems. And these situations are not rare. But where possible, the humanitarian community is repairing, facilitating, training, to allow Haitians to recover to where they were before the earthquake, or better.

Progress has been made. But recovery was never going to be a quick process. In comparison, if a disaster of similar magnitude struck London, it would be a long time before the country was fully reconstructed, and this is with significantly more infrastructure, resources and capacity than Haiti. To respond to this, CARE and other agencies have agreed to provide support to Haiti for at least another three years. It is not, and never will be, an easy task, but it is one from which we should not shy away.

They say the floods that hit Pakistan on 2010 were the worst ever floods since 1929. One would think nothing would compare to the pain and misery that met the eyes during the flood response in 2010. But it seems there is no limit for human misery. Eyes can open to observe more devastation, hearts can feel more pain, and souls can be shaken again. 29^th September 2011: I have never been one for remembering dates, but this date will be engraved in my mind for years to come.

Water is receding slowly, and families face another month or two of displacement before they can return to rebuild their homes. (Photo: CARE/Rauf)

Field visits to areas affected by floods mean working 36 hours out of 24. Route clearance, coordination, travel arrangements, security monitoring… It is natural to have your mind buzzing with multiple things to focus on, while your cell phone keeps ringing.

Driver aware of the route, check; meeting with timings set up, check; departure for field in time, check; reservations made, check. The check list is never ending. Make a plan and be prepared for the plan to change. We set out at 0830hrs, our destination district MirPurKhas in southern Sindh. It is a bewildering sight to watch the destruction water can cause. Stretches of land, for as far as you can see, blanketed with water, leaving only memories and debris of what has been. For those who have never travelled here, it must almost seem peaceful. For those who have had the chance to visit this region, you can imagine how strange it is to see a normally hustling and vibrantly colourful place engulfed in ice cold grey water.

We found a woman in her early 20s, sitting by the road near a bundle of clothes covered with flies. She looked weary, exhausted and very ill. The cry of a baby filled the air and, to my amazement, she picked up that bundle of cloth and rocked it. We stopped our car and went over to her. She held in her arms an infant, newly born and very weak. Upon inquiring, we discovered that she was stranded. She had lost her husband somewhere in the chaos and after giving birth was too weak to go to a nearby camp or search for her husband. The baby was starving. His tiny body was covered with mosquito bites, and greedy flies clung to his delicate skin. She said she was lucky – her baby was alive. She pointed to another woman sitting across the road, saying, “She lost her four year old son and gave birth to a stillborn baby.” Then she turned to us and pleaded for shared hope and reassurance: “My baby will live, right? We survived this. Surely God will not let him die now!” I looked at the feeble child, and at the others. We all wanted to be hopeful, to say truthfully, “Yes, he will live to be a strong healthy young lad.” When the camp vehicles came to take the two women away, I stood there watching the track the tyres left behind and wondered: how much more can people suffer? These young women, who have grown up in a culture where they do not go out of the house uncovered, were left to care for their surviving children while lying exposed, un-chaperoned and unprotected.

Around 300,000 people have sought shelter in schools and makeshift tented settlements. (Photo: CARE/Alexopoulos)

When we reached the camp, I saw desolation that comes to haunt me when I try to close my eyes at night: the dirt streaked faces of children, some lying listlessly on bare ground, some with tattered clothes to cover their bodies, others with nothing. Women, oblivious of what they were wearing and what they had lost, were trying to protect their children from swarming mosquitoes and other vermin. The stench of waste, sweat and filthy water was nauseating. Those who had energy to fight for it were competing for the stale, dry pieces of chapattis that were available to eat. Others, who were too weak to even get up and claim food for themselves, just lay down, with watchful eyes, waiting for someone to drop them a piece. Desperation and helplessness can do that: kill your dignity, finish your will and rob you of everything.

Now that I am back in my home, I can appreciate much better all the little things that life has to give: the togetherness of family, the comfort of shelter, the clean, fresh air, the warm food… And the knowledge that even if we cannot help all, we can give some back what was taken away. That is the only thing that drives me. We can help give them back their life, their dignity. This is a message to all humans. We can care!

My friends say I can appear expressionless, even cold at times. It’s an occupational hazard ofsecurity training, where we learn not to show too much emotion on the job. But one glance from a small village girl, and I was lost. As her eyes pinned me, sparking fiercely with anxiety, I found myself wondering almost aloud: What are we doing here? How can any amount of humanitarian aid make a difference in this poor girl’s life?

She was staring at me, reciting her lessons while looking uneasily at the guests, intruders in her world. (Photo: CARE/Khan)

As we respond to the Pakistan floods of 2011, it’s impossible not to reflect on the tireless efforts of my colleagues and our partners to aid survivors of the catastrophic flood which struck just last year. Like the mud when the waters receded, memories clog the hearts of those who are rebuilding their lives, and those who went to help. The second flood has now hit harder, like a terrible flashback.

When my boss called to say that I had to travel to south Punjab to support the field work, I had mixed feelings. I didn’t want to be away from my fiancée. I had no idea that nature was about to hit me with a different kind of flood, or that I wouldn’t be able to work or sleep until I responded to the emotions that came rushing in with it.

On the road, we passed lush green fields which every year produce the best mangoes in the world. After two hours of bumpy driving off the main highway, we reached a village that been devastated by the rains. It was scorching hot, 47 degrees.  As I sweated outside a small one-room school building, watchful for security problems, I kept soaking myself with cold water from a tube well, to the amusement of kids playing nearby.

“Her hair was matted, but she would fix her veil often, with the dignity of a princess”

Inside, the makeshift classroom was crammed with children of all ages, and some adults curious about our team’s arrival. As I scanned the room, my eyes caught those of a small girl. She was staring at me, reciting her lessons while looking uneasily at the guests, intruders in her world. While she clenched a small book with her mouth, biting it, her brother sitting next to her would poke and tease her, over and over again — and she would not say a word, even though it was clearly testing her patience. With the permission of her parents standing nearby, I snapped a photo. She continued to stare, without speaking. She wore a ragged shalwar kameez, the local dress, and her hair was matted, but she would fix her veil often, with the dignity of a princess.

Her parents were Pakhtuns, but could speak some Urdu. When I commended them for educating their children, they laughed, and replied that they sent their children to “this place” to keep them out of the way When I asked why not let them stay and learn, to benefit the whole family, they said the girl would be married as soon as she turned 14. I persisted in my argument that both children needed education, as it would elevate them. They almost seemed convinced, but explained that they couldn’t go against local traditions. They had already given their word on the marriage to a family in a nearby village.

Sardar Rohail Khan is working for CARE Pakistan as Security Operations Assistant (Photo: CARE)

The gaze of the small girl pierced me, as I struggled with the realization that what little knowledge she might acquire through this program could only raise her hopes — for a life she would not be allowed to live. Education could give her the vision to bring her family out of poverty, but not without a whole new way of thinking in her village.

Sitting on the cement floor, clutching an English book she could not read, she seemed to plead with her eyes: “Help me find the courage and the strength that I need.” And while I ruminated on what we could and could not change in her world, this little girl changed mine. She had the power to change my life, simply by letting me peer for a moment into hers. Without speaking a word, she somehow helped me understand that I needed first to stop thinking I had all the answers. Instead, I would begin to ask myself bigger questions:  “With my knowledge, my happiness, what can I share?  How can I make a difference?”

When I told my family and friends that I was leaving for six weeks to work with CARE on temporary assignment in Dadaab, the world’s largest refugee camp, I was immediately bombarded with Facebook messages, emails and calls along the lines of “I’m so proud of you. You’re going to save the world!” and “You’re making such a difference!

A newly arrived refugee child attemps to lift the family's new cooking utensils. (Photo: CARE/Clark)

To be honest, besides being a bit exaggerated, it makes me a bit uncomfortable. Now, don’t get me wrong, I cannot emphasize how much I appreciate the good wishes and thoughts of my loved ones. Their support has allowed me to take this journey. But as I experienced during my trip to Kenya in November, and as I am once again experiencing here in Dadaab, nothing—absolutely nothing—compares with the dedication and passion of CARE’s employees in the field. And to even be put in the same category as these colleagues seems more than a bit ludicrous.

This past weekend, for example, I partook in my first real Dadaab celebration—complete with grilled goat (a rather tasty treat, if you’re curious)—a send off for long-time CARE employee Julius. Julius is leaving Dadaab for a new CARE post in Nairobi after nearly 19 years in Dadaab. Nineteen years! That’s the equivalent of 133 years in a normal career, as I’m convinced Dadaab years should be counted like dog ones. He joined CARE when the refugee population was around 35,000. Today, nearly 400,000 additional people have since been added to that number.

For nineteen years he has lived here, away from his family. He has most likely shared a room, used a communal bathroom and shower. Because space is at a premium, when staff go on leave, people exchange rooms, some moving every few weeks. There are no hanging photographs, no personal mementos. In many ways, the staff are unsettled as the new arrivals. They are nomads without a home.  They work for hours on end in the unforgiveable combination of heat and dust.

A refugee "incentive" worker is distributing oil to refugees. CARE employs around 1,600 of these workers. (Photo: CARE/Clark)

I am here for six weeks, and even in that relatively brief time I have succumbed to heartache and homesickness. I assumed that unlike me, the devoted staff in Dadaab must have solitary lives, free of the commitment of relationships. Until I met Maureen, a new coworker who casually mentioned her three-year-old son and husband back in Nairobi. Or another colleague who mentioned how he was planning some quality time with his wife during his next break. CARE staff work eight weeks on, two weeks off. Because of limited resources, sometimes even those brief breaks get shortened. But I have yet to hear a complaint. I have yet to see a frown. There is a Jewish proverb that says, “I ask not for a lighter burden, but for broader shoulders.” CARE staff in Dadaab are star athletes in that regard.

In addition to the tough environments in which they work, the actual work they do is difficult. Imagine feeding 427,000 people. Getting clean water to them. Educating them. Training them. These jobs are difficult no matter the circumstances, but in these conditions, accomplishment is an amazing feat. Many that have made the long trek from Somalia have experienced personal violence or loss, each tale of tragedy and horror more unfathomable than the one before. CARE’s sexual and gender-based violence officers have the colossal task of helping the survivors heal, start their lives anew. Day after day after day.

I have just started my third week in Dadaab. From day one I have been completely in awe of the dedication and commitment in which CARE staff serve. I asked a colleague why staff that work so hard, so tirelessly. And why are the people that CARE serves, people who have been through the most of trying of times, always smiling? Why despite everything that surrounds them, do they always greet me with a handshake, with a sense of joy? He answered, “Because we are Africans. We have been through so much and we survive. We have hope now.”

No individual is saving the world. But here among CARE’s dedicated staff, I have met a lot of people who are doing their part.

Here I sit, 7,500 miles away from home. I’m a week in. Over the course of just a few days, my life has completely changed. On a Monday I reported to work at CARE’s Washington, D.C. office. By Thursday I was on a plane bound for Nairobi where my final destination would be Dadaab Refugee Camp, the world’s largest. I will spend the next six weeks here as CARE’s emergency media officer. It is a position that both thrills and terrifies me. As an employee of one of the most prominent global humanitarian agencies, there is always an excitement that surrounds “going to the field.” But this is different.

Niki Clark, who works in Policy Communications at CARE USA, is currently working in Dadaab, Kenya. (Photo: CARE/Wilke)

Unlike my colleagues who have preceded me in this position, and most likely the ones that will follow, I have not been in a humanitarian emergency crisis situation before. I haven’t seen the devastation of a Haiti or a Pakistan. The closest I’ve come was the fall of 2005, when my grandmother came and lived with us after Hurricane Katrina. Her Biloxi home had been destroyed. But even then, I witnessed the situation only through my constant refreshing of CNN.com, and through my grandmother’s stories, not firsthand. And Dadaab is unlike other emergency situations. It is established. There are second generation refugees that have grown up in the camps. I’m not quite sure what to expect. Or how what I experience, the people I meet, will forever impact me.

CARE has worked in Dadaab since 1991, as the main implementing partner for the distribution of food and water and as well as a lead provider of education and psychosocial support and rights education for sexual and gender-based violence survivors. We’ve been here for decades. But with the recent declaration of famine in five regions of southern Somalia, coupled with ongoing conflict and instability, a surge of new arrivals have flocked to the camp, and a global spotlight has been shone on the region, particularly on Dadaab. Dadaab’s population stood at 423,361 as of August 28th. Every single day, it grows by 1,200.

Refugee children in the Daghaley influx area. CARE manages five primary schools in Dagahaley camp, offering education to over 15,000 students. (Photo: CARE/Clark)

As we landed—my colleague Michael Adams, the Senior Sector Manager for the Refugee Assistance Program in Dadaab, and I flew in on a small UNHCR humanitarian aid plane—the pilot circled around towards the gravel airstrip. A bird’s eye view of Dadaab and its three main camps became visible below me. It was a breathtaking site, a massive settlement that’s now effectively Kenya’s third largest city. It’s hard to fathom until you’ve seen it. And even then, when it’s right in front of you, and you’re face to face with women and children and families that have traveled 80 kilometers or more to get here, there’s still something surreal about it all. Something that makes putting it into words seem a sort of insurmountable task.

But that’s what I’m here to do. To share the lives of the people I meet, people up against incredible odds, some who have thrived and some who are struggling to survive. To share the stories of the unwaveringly committed CARE staff whose dedication to the people they serve is first and foremost. To share the successes of CARE’s programming, and its far reaching impact. I’m not sure if I’m up to the challenge; if I can accurately portray the scale and struggles or the unexpected hopes and triumphs. But I do know one thing. I’m going to do my best. There are too many lives at stake not to.

by Niki Clark

dadaab from above. Up to now more than 420.000 people live here. (Photo: CARE/Wilke)

The frenzied activity of taking photos, writing stories and organizing your way around Dadaab helps you tune out some of the misery and extent of human suffering. But it also makes you focus on only one part of the story. For the past two weeks in Dadaab, I spent most of my days in the camps, documenting the work of CARE, accompanying journalists or interviewing colleagues. My head is still buzzing with all the information and impressions. Like any humanitarian crisis, Dadaab is fast-paced and loud.

But now, sitting down in the sand near a water tap stand, I am quietly watching the hustle and bustle going on around me. I close my eyes as the wind blows fine-grained sand my way. I gaze around in all directions. The photographer stands on top of a water tank to get a better angle. None of the women or children fetching water pay much attention to us — water is much more important than the strange sight of a visiting foreigner. I curiously watch two young women leaving with their jerry cans full of water. But they don’t carry them on their heads; instead, they roll them across the sand. This really calls for a picture: Two women in long veils and torn sandals kicking their jerry cans full of water through the desert. But with my camera batteries empty, my eye batteries seem to be more charged than ever.

Sabine Wilke coordinated the press and media work for CARE in Dadaab for 4 weeks. (Photo: CARE/Clark)

After a while I move to the side of a latrine. It’s just four walls of corrugated iron, but at least it guarantees some privacy. Standing in the shade I watch a man with his donkey cart. Bit by bit women lift their jerry cans onto the cart, tightening them with ropes and rags. Getting places here in Dadaab takes time. The three camps cover some 56 square kilometers. Owning a donkey cart is a pretty good business. It is so hot that everything here seems to happen in slow motion. Finally the cart starts to move. I wonder how much the women have to pay for their transportation and whether they will still have enough money left to buy food for their children. While I sit in the sand, their skinny legs are at eye level. I can count the children wearing shoes on the fingers of one hand.

Humanitarian aid means reaching as many people as possible with at least minimum needs, given limited resources. In Dadaab, CARE and other agencies provide about 500 grams of food and about 12 litres of water per person and day, some basic medical assistance, some counselling. Every one of these 414,000 refugees is a unique person with a particular history, hopes and sorrows – but the scale of this emergency is so vast, we can’t possibly meet all those individual, specific needs. What we can do is slow things down for a while and pay attention. Observe. Understand. And adapt our programs to what we see. For example, CARE might soon pay the owners of the donkey carts so that weak and poor women don’t have to spend the rest of their money for transportation of water and food.

It is quick and easy to take a picture, upload it to your computer and then store it somewhere in your archives. But the pictures I saved in my head today will linger on for some time before I will be able to store them anywhere.

Theresiah Nthiani works in Dadaab in the field education since 1999. (Photo: CARE/Wilke)

I sit down with a group of four colleagues who are having what seems to be a lively discussion in Swahili. As much as we speak the same “language” as part of the CARE family, I sometimes wish for a button I could push to be able to speak the local languages of the countries I am deployed to. But there’s no button, so I just watch and listen before they change into English. As a newcomer, it’s hard to figure out who does what here, with so much buzz and activity everywhere. So I start asking around what their jobs are.

“I work in maintenance of our vehicles, making sure that they function properly”, tells me one the guys. “I’m part of the WASH team”, says another. WASH is one of our most common acronyms and everyone who uses it tends to forget that the outside world needs interpretation for it. WASH sums up all activities in Water, Sanitation and Hygiene promotion, one of the most crucial programs in any emergency to prevent disease outbreaks and ensure that people have sufficient potable water to survive. “We get called when there are problems with the boreholes, pipelines or water stations”, he adds. So is he going out to one of the camps today? “That depends, I am basically on call for any emergency. Otherwise I stay in the office and catch up on paperwork.” Paperwork in a refugee camp? Yes, sure. Quality management, accountability and proper information management are crucial for any successful operation, even more so in the fast-paced environment of a humanitarian crisis. If we don’t document what we are doing and how things are working out, we cannot communicate our needs and plan for the upcoming months. Moving on to the third person at the table: “I work in construction.” Constructing what? “Anything that is needed, whether that be new rooms or sanitation facilities in our compounds, or services for the refugees in the camps. We just rehabilitated some classrooms in a school.”

CARE workers repair a water tank for the new arrived refugees. (Photo: CARE/Holt)

This conversation gets me thinking as I wonder off to the office: There are two faces to the humanitarian work CARE is doing: One face consists of the men and women who appear in the photos and TV images, those who get interviewed by newspapers and radio stations: doctors treating patients, staff distributing food to refugees, and of course the spokespeople of our organizations. But behind the scenes, there is a whole army of workers managing the operation every day. They work from early morning till late at night, lacking private life and comfort, missing their friends and families. Journalists often ask whether we employ Western volunteers who have given up their life of comfort to help people in need. As  honorable as this is, humanitarian assistance demands expertise, local knowledge and a long-term presence. All over the world, CARE’s staff is over 95 percent local, speaking the language, understanding the social dynamics, and committing to these difficult working conditions for longer periods of time.

When I leave Dadaab, my colleagues will still be here. And when the cameras leave and the public eye wanders off to the next crisis, they will continue to do their jobs to provide water, food and social assistance to the more than 400,000 refugees here. And I hope they will have many more laughs in Swahili at the breakfast table to start their day with a smile.

The realities of a refugee camp are hard to explain to the outside world. Many people think of Dadaab as a fenced-in area, overcrowded with tents, and people lining up for assistance. Some of this is true, to a certain extent. But Dadaab has grown for over 20 years now, and developed into an almost urban settlement of huge dimensions.

You can see the relief on the face of the father arrived safely in Dadaab. (Photo: CARE/Wilke)

There are actually three refugee camps in Dadaab, Dagahaley, Ifo 1 and Haghadera. And we spend about 10 to 20 minutes in the car getting from one camp to another. There are no fences around the camps, so people are generally free to go from one place to the next and into the town of Dadaab. But with long distances to walk in the sand under the blazing sun and no legal rights to actually leave the camps and settle outside, freedom is not the right term to use. Tents can be seen everywhere, but many new arrivals in the outskirts have simply put up wooden sticks and cover the structure with tarps, for now. Those who have been here for decades, who have raised their children here, have grown old in Dadaab and still see no way to return, those families have built more solid houses, constructed of bricks or mud, fenced and well-maintained. When I enter one of those homes, it reminds me of other places I have visited in some countries in Africa. Clothes hang up to dry, children play around in the court, the elders sit together in the shade of a tree.

But whether settled or just arrived, all 400,000 refugees in Dadaab depend on assistance to meet their basic needs. They cannot legally work or leave the camps, and the sandy soil and lack of water make it difficult to plant vegetables or other staples. This is where CARE, the UN Refugee Agency UNHCR, the World Food Program WFP and others come in: Many of us have been here from the start and it is encouraging to see the level of cooperation. I think of critical media coverage about how aid agencies compete for funding and don’t coordinate their work that usually comes up with any emergency. But everyone who has been to Dadaab quickly understands that our humanitarian mandate is a much stronger bond than any talk of money, influence or popularity. Over 400,000 refugees are in need of assistance, there is enough to do for all of us. CARE manages two cycles of food distribution per month and hands out food and relief items to new arrivals; our engineers maintain and extend the water supply systems; counselors and social workers help the most vulnerable, mainly women and children suffering from violence and exhaustion; teachers are trained and schools set up.

Currently everyone here is worried about the bad state of newly arrived families. Exhausted, malnourished, traumatized: When I look into the faces of women, children and men in the reception areas, I can only begin to imagine what they have been through. With the increasing stream of refugees arriving, there is a backlog of around 35,000 people who have not yet been registered. CARE distributes food and other relief items to them, but they cannot settle permanently yet. Much of the first help is information: Many newcomers simply don’t know that the food and water is free, where the next clinic is, some don’t even know where exactly they are.

Food and relief items have to be handed out quickly to the new arrivals. (Photo: CARE/Wilke)

It’s also hard to describe to the outside world how aid workers cope with the suffering and misery they are confronted with every day. Over the years, I have had many discussions with colleagues, and although it is a very personal affair, I feel like we have a common understanding: Most of the time, you cannot look beyond the crowd to acknowledge the individuals, your work needs to be about quantity: Handing out food to as many people as possible as quickly as we can. Disseminating information about counseling services and support for women victims of gender based violence to a whole area as fast as possible. Hurrying to a bursting pipe to get the water supply going again.

But this line of work would not be called humanitarianism if you would not care deeply for every single person. And every now and then, you cannot blend out one of the faces in the crowd. At the reception center of Dagahaley, I catch the eye of a young father; he sits at the reception area with his three kids, his wife next to him. It is impossible to explain how and why this connection happens, but his smile is so inviting and their relief of arriving here safely, their family intact, is almost palpable. We exchange smiles, I ask for a photo. Then I just sit next to the reception table and watch them for some time. Then something else comes up, I leave. When I turn around again, the family has gone. Back to be a part of the crowd. But I know that they now have food to last them for 21 days, water, and have met people who can assist them with their needs. And that must be enough, for now.

CARE distributes food and other relief items at the reception centre of Dagahaley camp (Photo: CARE/Wilke)

Touching down in Dadaab the next morning, I remember that friendly voice. The refugee camp in the North of Kenya is now home to more than 400,000 mostly Somali refugees. Their numbers have risen immensely in the last weeks, due to the ongoing drought and insecurity in their own country. The landscape is dry and plain up here, and one wonders how any group of people, let alone such a high number of refugees, can survive in these difficult circumstances.

This is my first time to Dadaab, but weirdly enough, everything seemed very familiar. Maybe that’s a CARE thing: The refugee assistance program for Dadaab is one of our longest humanitarian missions, many colleagues have worked here at one time or another. And for years, we have continuously talked about it to the public, launched appeals and tried to get journalists interested. But now, with an average of more than 1,000 new arrivals every day and extremely high numbers of malnutrition, Dadaab has become something like the epicenter of the current humanitarian crisis in the horn of Africa.

But a walk through Dagahaley, one of the three camps, also shows the impressive efforts by all the agencies on the ground to provide basic services to all these people. We pass by the reception area where CARE distributes food and other relief items to new arrivals, we see trucks delivering water, and visit the service tents – all of this I have heard about before, but it is still a whole different story to see the work with your own eyes and listen to the admirably energetic colleagues explaining their work.

To provide food for the new arrivals CARE workers are up for long hours. (Photo: CARE/Wilke)

And we meet Amina Akdi Hassa, who serves as chairlady for the camp Dagahaley. She has been living here for 20 years and is a leader and an advocate for her community. “I want the world to know that they should please share our problems with us”, she explains. “We have had five schools here since the 1990’s, but now there are so many more children.”

The people of Dadaab are talking. But is the world listening?