SUDAN-CHAD: Longing and gratitude – the refugee experience
It is pitch black; the sun has not yet risen, but Achta Abakar Ibrahim is kneeling outside her straw home in Djabal refugee camp in southeastern Chad, praying to God.
She thanks Him that she escaped war in Sudan and that she and her family are now safe in Chad. She thanks Him that the Chadian people have welcomed her so openly and that humanitarian workers have helped her build a temporary life.
She still has scars on her back from the beatings she received while pregnant, by armed men she calls `janjaweed', who stormed her village in western Sudan, burning homes, killing men and raping women.
"Until now, I do not have peace of mind," she told IRIN in January, in a small sand yard outside her straw hut. "I think what happened will happen again, even at the level of the [refugee] camps."
According to the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS), which currently provides psycho-social support to some of the 250,000 Darfur refugees in Chad, trauma is a common problem.
"They talked about nightmares, about not being able to sleep, about hearing the bomber planes, about the orphans they found along the way from Sudan," said Rachel Zelon, former vice president of programme operations, who worked in Chad in 2004 when most Sudanese refugees arrived.
Four years later, the trauma continues, but in a different form. Julie Grier worked with the refugees early this year, as head of HIAS's team in the southeastern Chadian town of Goz Beida, the main town outside Djabal refugee camp.
"To realize that you have probably left your home forever is difficult," she told IRIN. "It's almost a trauma in itself.
"To realize that you are indefinitely going to have to rely on the assistance of other people can be disempowering, discouraging," she added, referring to a process of "learned helplessness" or unlearning how to help yourself.
"I feel I am living in dignity"
But despite these feelings, Abakar says she has much to be grateful for.
Her children never went to school in their home village of Tandoussa in Sudan - their father did not see it as a priority. Now they do, as is their right as international refugees. Those too young for school go to the nursery. Those too old have the option of literacy classes.
In their home villages, some Sudanese used to walk kilometres for unclean water, aid workers said. Now, clean water is just five minutes away in a public fountain constructed for the refugees.
Abakar used to pay every time she went to a hospital in Sudan, where "traditional doctors" were often part of the treatment. Now, when her children fall sick, she takes them to the free heath care clinic in the camp. And every month, she is guaranteed a ration of flour, oil, salt and sugar.
"I feel I am living in dignity," Abakar said. "The children go to school; they play with balls; they have fun; they have access to water. I thank God." *continues*
She thanks Him that she escaped war in Sudan and that she and her family are now safe in Chad. She thanks Him that the Chadian people have welcomed her so openly and that humanitarian workers have helped her build a temporary life.
She still has scars on her back from the beatings she received while pregnant, by armed men she calls `janjaweed', who stormed her village in western Sudan, burning homes, killing men and raping women.
"Until now, I do not have peace of mind," she told IRIN in January, in a small sand yard outside her straw hut. "I think what happened will happen again, even at the level of the [refugee] camps."
According to the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS), which currently provides psycho-social support to some of the 250,000 Darfur refugees in Chad, trauma is a common problem.
"They talked about nightmares, about not being able to sleep, about hearing the bomber planes, about the orphans they found along the way from Sudan," said Rachel Zelon, former vice president of programme operations, who worked in Chad in 2004 when most Sudanese refugees arrived.
Four years later, the trauma continues, but in a different form. Julie Grier worked with the refugees early this year, as head of HIAS's team in the southeastern Chadian town of Goz Beida, the main town outside Djabal refugee camp.
"To realize that you have probably left your home forever is difficult," she told IRIN. "It's almost a trauma in itself.
"To realize that you are indefinitely going to have to rely on the assistance of other people can be disempowering, discouraging," she added, referring to a process of "learned helplessness" or unlearning how to help yourself.
"I feel I am living in dignity"
But despite these feelings, Abakar says she has much to be grateful for.
Her children never went to school in their home village of Tandoussa in Sudan - their father did not see it as a priority. Now they do, as is their right as international refugees. Those too young for school go to the nursery. Those too old have the option of literacy classes.
In their home villages, some Sudanese used to walk kilometres for unclean water, aid workers said. Now, clean water is just five minutes away in a public fountain constructed for the refugees.
Abakar used to pay every time she went to a hospital in Sudan, where "traditional doctors" were often part of the treatment. Now, when her children fall sick, she takes them to the free heath care clinic in the camp. And every month, she is guaranteed a ration of flour, oil, salt and sugar.
"I feel I am living in dignity," Abakar said. "The children go to school; they play with balls; they have fun; they have access to water. I thank God." *continues*
- added August 21, 2008
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