“On Wednesday morning, CARE sent a helicopter to the areas affected by cyclone Giovanna to assess the damage. The storm made landfall on Tuesday, February 14, on the east coast of the country and it brought heavy winds and rains. Our staff have been preparing for this as we could monitor the storm coming close. Luckily, when Giovanna made landfall, it lost some speed and was therefore not quite as strong as the Category 4 storm that had been predicted. But still, it left a path of destruction through several districts.

Impact of previous cyclones in Madagascar, such as storm surge. (Photo: CARE/ Dasy Ibrahim)

Two districts in particular, with a total population of over  400,000 were particularly hard hit. What was really unusual was that after hitting the coast and traveling inland, the cyclone passed directly over the capital city, so I and the rest of our staff had to stay home until late Tuesday morning. There were extremely strong winds. Giant billboards were blown down and debris was flying around. I am glad that all of my colleagues are safe and accounted for. Here in “Tana”, as we call the capital, there has been quite some destruction and people were not really prepared for the storm.

Tomorrow we will have a better picture of the devastation when we evaluate the data from our aerial assessment. CARE staff from our sub-office in Vatomandry report that at least 60 percent of dwellings in the town have been partially damaged or completely destroyed. Houses in these poor areas are often built of bamboo and palm leaves, so it is easy for a strong wind to rip them apart. Many families have experienced these storms before, so they usually repair their houses quickly. But especially elder people or households headed by women need our help now to provide them with construction materials. There are sixteen reported deaths so far, but I expect the numbers to rise. Many areas are still cut off and have not been reached yet.

CARE had plastic sheeting prepositioned in our warehouse that we can distribute to 6,000 households or 30,000 people as a first emergency response. Once we have clearly assessed the needs and locations, we will begin with the distribution. People will probably also need food assistance, as their stocks might be lost in the damage. And as roads are destroyed, we need to rebuild them quickly to get access to affected villages. CARE is one of the most established emergency actors in Madagascar, we have provided emergency relief to cyclones in the past years, such as Bingiza and Hubert. I hope that this time again we will get the necessary support and funding to act quickly and reach those who need our help now.”

Nothing illustrates this better than listening to the people affected by the drought. When asked about the impacts of the 2011 drought, many start recalling the interrelated chain of events over past years that have pushed them over the edge this year. The story of one man in West Hararghe last November is particulalry striking. Ashenafi, a 35 year-old farmer and father of eight children, explained to CARE how he progessively sold his productive assets over the years to cope with the drought or lean seasons. As result, he was backsliding each time a little bit more into the cycle of poverty.

In 2005, Ashenafi was in a position to provide a decent life for his family and send all his children to school. He owned a house with a corrugated roof and had three oxen, one cow, three sheep, three goats and thirty chickens. Then, during the 2006 drought he was forced to sell one of his oxen and three sheep. A year later, he had to sell another ox and his three goats to cope with the lean season. The last ox was sold in 2008, along with all his chickens. And then in 2009, he had to sell his cow that provided milk for his children.  Moreover, every time Ashenafi sold his livestock, he did so at the peak of the lean season, which meant that he had to sell at a reduced price.

When the drought hit in 2011, with no other assets on hand, Ashenafi was forced to sell his house. He now lives in a hut with his family and has started to receive food assistance, initially from the Government and later from CARE.

My own family story is very similar to Ashenafi’s. We were also farmers, and during the severe drought in 1984, my family lost all their assets. We had to sell our cows, plow oxen, horses and goats in order to survive. During that year and the one that followed, we received support from NGOs. My family participated in cash-for-work projects, where they worked on soil and water conservation activities in exchange for a salary. We also received funds to buy plow oxen that helped us to restart our agricultural activities.

Two years later, my father was able to secure a position as a guard in a government seedling nursery. As a result, we were less vulnerable. We still continued to farm, but a low harvest no longer had the devastating impact it did before.

Progressively, my family was able to rebuild its capital and buy plow oxen, sheep, goats, cows, donkeys and horses. Recovery was a long process, but eventually all my siblings were able to graduate from college and find good jobs. Today, we are in a position to resist shocks, such as drought, and we can also support other family members and friends.

Ashenafi’s family can follow a similar path if they also receive timely and appropriate support. Receiving seeds and small ruminants will help his family to restart their agricultural activities in the short term. Water system rehabilitation/development will ensure that his family has reliable and easy access to water, which will positively impact the health of all the members of his household. Since women typically bear the main responsibility for fetching water, this will also free up time for his wife and daughters – time that can be better used for school and productive employment.

Other initiatives, like village savings and loans associations, will help his family to accumulate savings, improve their cash management skills, and enhance their access to credit. Such projects, which focus on gender equality, will also help Ashenafi’s wife to be more active in her community and engage in income-generating activities, therefore increasing her family’s income.

We know how to support people to improve their resilience against recurrent shocks, thereby avoiding future crises. Ideas abound, but recovery support will be critical. Ashenafi and his family will get back on their feet only if we immediately support them in recovering from the drought and continue to do so in the medium/long term. This way, in a few years Ashenafi’s family can also succeed like my family did and become independent and resilient. Let’s work together to make this happen.

I clearly remember July 2011 when the world started to focus its attention on the food crisis in the Horn of Africa. At that time, more than 4.5 million people in Ethiopia were in need of food assistance and water shortages were putting millions at risk of waterborne diseases.

I remember July 2011 because by then it had been almost a year since I released a drought alert for the Horn of Africa to our key partners. In August 2010, la Niña, a meteorological phenomenon that usually provokes dry weather conditions, was forecasted. As an Ethiopian who grew up in the north-eastern part of Ethiopia and who has been affected by drought, I knew the potential consequences of such a forecast.

In response to this, we at CARE immediately started to prepare ourselves to respond to the potential crisis. We launched our first relief interventions in February 2011 with activities to provide water to drought-affected communities in Borena, located in the southern part of Ethiopia. We also provided food assistance in East and West Hararghe in Oromia region and in Afar region in eastern Ethiopia. We later complemented our drought response with nutrition and livelihoods interventions in order to have an effective, comprehensive and integrated approach.

Chronic food insecurity is, however, commonplace in rural Ethiopia in any year, irrespective of unusual climatic or economic shocks. Many factors contribute to this, including land degradation, limited access to basic social services, population pressure, and near complete dependence on rain-fed, subsistence agriculture.

The vast majority of the Ethiopian population relies on agriculture for their livelihoods. As most agriculture is rain-fed, reliable and sufficient rainfall is critical for the country’s economy, livelihoods and food security. Each year, depending on the location, Ethiopia has two rainy seasons and one or two dry seasons. The most difficult period of the year is called the “lean season”, when food stocks are low and the new crops have not been harvested yet. This usually happens at the height of the rainy seasons. Food prices tend to rise during that period while livestock prices significantly decline.

People use different mechanisms to cope with the lean season, such as reducing the number of meals per day, buying less preferred food and selling key assets (e.g., livestock). Once key assets are sold, it takes a very long time for people to rebuild their capital. They therefore become increasingly vulnerable over time and are trapped in a cycle of poverty.

So, when the drought hit Ethiopia in 2011, people were not only affected by this event but by the cumulative impacts of previous events (droughts, floods, economic shocks or lean seasons).

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.