A Glimpse into the Life of a Refugee
Few people I have met in my life have left a mark on me like that of Pastor Paul. A Sudanese refugee in Northern Uganda for fifteen years, Paul’s fate and the survival and future of his family is entirely in the hands of governments and NGOs – just like those of hundreds of thousands of people who have sought refuge in the region over the past two decades. Yet, he exudes grace, warmth and kindness – even as he describes suffering upon suffering to me. This is his story.
“We left Sudan in 1993 by foot. We first settled in Kitgum district, living in a camp called Achol Pi. There we were attacked by the LRA rebels – many people lost their lives there, including women and children. We were all affected. So we fled to Lira where we stayed for two weeks until UN transferred us to another camp in Masindi, where we stayed for two years in transit whilst the government of Uganda tried to find a solution to relocate us. So we came to this refugee settlement in Ariwa. It was difficult to come to this place because we feared we would face the same problems as in Kitgum district, but we were forced to go.
“When we fled Sudan we were welcomed by the government of Uganda and we felt safe again. But then the reality of being a refugee hit us when we were attacked in the camp. You know, we moved from Sudan to Uganda because of the insurgency and terror in our homeland, so we hoped that we should be safe here and when time comes we can go back. But then we experience the same thing again, which shows us that there is no difference. We might as well have stayed in Sudan, because there we feared death, and now, here it’s the same thing. In case of looting, the looting is there. In case of killing, the killing… the torturing…. it’s all there. What is different? Most of our people by that time decided to go back, that it is better they go back and die there in their homeland. The rest of us thought to endure the situation, which we did right up until the camp was overtaken by the LRA rebels. That’s when we fled again.
“Things were better in Masindi, because it’s further from the border and less rebel activity. In fact, I enjoyed living there because I could sleep from six in the evening to six in the morning.”
As I smile and jokingly think ‘lazy bum’ to myself, Paul laughs gently and elaborates.
“Compared to Kitgum where you could sleep maybe for one hour, most of the time you are just alert. You are watching out, listening to the sound of footsteps, is it coming this way…. or that way? You are affected when the day comes like that. You don’t understand why, because we are living in transit, we are harmless, peaceful; you can let us live without worry.”
I’ve stopped smiling.
“But in Masindi, we were ok – still, the government thought it better we transfer and resettle here in Ariwa. This caused us a lot of psychological torture, because we knew that from 1994 to 1996, a group of Sudanese refugees was living here, and they were attacked by the rebels and chased away. Many people died in this place. So we have this information, and still we are being forced to go there. Psychologically, we were touched by that, we were scared and confused. The government of Uganda wants us all be killed…. or what?
“When we came to Ariwa in 2003 the rebel war had just ended and the settlement had been demolished by the military police, who had bombed with teargas and burned the huts, so it really was a very big chaos. We had very little hope as to how people could live in this place. But we settled here, trying to see that the situation had changed and that conflict was in the past. And this is how we’re currently living, through the help of NGOs. Especially through the help of TPO, they have carried out a lot of activities trying to harmonise the refugees and the local people. In the beginning it was very difficult, there was a lot of conflict with the local people – everywhere, in market places, at the wells, in schools, even at the health centre. But TPO and my sister Faiza (a TPO social worker) have done a lot of work – teaching and discussions – for us to overcome our differences and live in harmony, and now things are much better. We can now live here in peace, and when time comes we can leave this place and go home.
“My parents are in Sudan, but they have now become old… they are unable to… they need some help from us. Your parents bring you up, and when they get older and weaker and need help, then it is time that you give some assistance to them. But we are unable to help them – it’s like a link is missing somewhere, and it is so cruel…”
For the first time Paul trails off, goes quiet, then lets out a long, strangled laugh. After a while, he points at his children and continues.
“Like these kids here, I think I should provide them with an education, a proper education. But I’m unable to. All of my four children were born in refugee camps; they have been moving from place to place and instead of progressing from one class to the next, they keep repeating. The young ones should have the opportunity to have education, so that tomorrow when we, the parents, are no longer here, it can help them stand on their own. It affects them very much as you can imagine. It’s not easy.
“I have a hope of returning to Sudan one day; most of our people have already gone back. But my wife is HIV positive and very weak so it’s not easy to go there when health care is still not well organised. Here, at least, she is getting treatment. It’s very difficult to stay here, but if we had gone back, I think by now I would have been a widower. I think we would all have been dead. She is really broken down, I cannot leave her for long. All I can do is domestic work – make firewood, collect water, go to the market, cook our meals. If we were back in Sudan, there is no way I could do this and provide for us at the same time. And in Sudan, there would be no one providing food like here. So I don’t know how much longer before we can go back, it depends on the improvement of the sickness of my madam. I want to go back and help with the struggle of our people, mobilise communities to improve standards of learning. Just like we have done here with opening the nursery school.
“When she gets better, we will all go back.”
I wonder if no one has had the heart to explain to him that most likely she won’t get better. But maybe he knows that already. He must have witnessed enough people dying from this disease during fifteen years in refugee camps to know. Maybe he simply doesn’t want to know. Maybe he just won’t put words to the heartbreaking reality that until his wife passes away, he can’t go back.
Meanwhile, TPO social worker, Faiza, works tirelessly to heal the wounds inflicted upon the refugees. “In 2003, when they arrived, there were about 8000 refugees, most of whom have been repatriated in Sudan, though some of them have since come back to the camp. About 3000 remain here; they’re the special, and most desperate, cases. Some have problems in their homeland and are afraid of returning, others, like Paul’s wife, are HIV positive and remain here for treatment.
“Their psychological problems are immense, and many of them are not willing to open up about their reasons for refusing to return to Sudan. We, as social workers, are able to explore their cases further, counsel them and provide emotional support.
“Whenever we have had conflicts between the refugees and the locals, we sit together with the people involved, the leaders of the community and try and resolve the problems, increase mutual understanding. But it’s always an interactive exchange – never me giving them solutions. Our goal is to educate and build capacity, so that if we are no longer here, if funding runs out, they will be better equipped to manage conflicts and psychosocial problems on their own.”
I hope that funding doesn’t run out. I hope that families like Paul’s won’t be left to fend for themselves, with no emotional support. I hope he’s going to be all right.
Story and images by Tine Frank
“We left Sudan in 1993 by foot. We first settled in Kitgum district, living in a camp called Achol Pi. There we were attacked by the LRA rebels – many people lost their lives there, including women and children. We were all affected. So we fled to Lira where we stayed for two weeks until UN transferred us to another camp in Masindi, where we stayed for two years in transit whilst the government of Uganda tried to find a solution to relocate us. So we came to this refugee settlement in Ariwa. It was difficult to come to this place because we feared we would face the same problems as in Kitgum district, but we were forced to go.
“When we fled Sudan we were welcomed by the government of Uganda and we felt safe again. But then the reality of being a refugee hit us when we were attacked in the camp. You know, we moved from Sudan to Uganda because of the insurgency and terror in our homeland, so we hoped that we should be safe here and when time comes we can go back. But then we experience the same thing again, which shows us that there is no difference. We might as well have stayed in Sudan, because there we feared death, and now, here it’s the same thing. In case of looting, the looting is there. In case of killing, the killing… the torturing…. it’s all there. What is different? Most of our people by that time decided to go back, that it is better they go back and die there in their homeland. The rest of us thought to endure the situation, which we did right up until the camp was overtaken by the LRA rebels. That’s when we fled again.
“Things were better in Masindi, because it’s further from the border and less rebel activity. In fact, I enjoyed living there because I could sleep from six in the evening to six in the morning.”
As I smile and jokingly think ‘lazy bum’ to myself, Paul laughs gently and elaborates.
“Compared to Kitgum where you could sleep maybe for one hour, most of the time you are just alert. You are watching out, listening to the sound of footsteps, is it coming this way…. or that way? You are affected when the day comes like that. You don’t understand why, because we are living in transit, we are harmless, peaceful; you can let us live without worry.”
I’ve stopped smiling.
“But in Masindi, we were ok – still, the government thought it better we transfer and resettle here in Ariwa. This caused us a lot of psychological torture, because we knew that from 1994 to 1996, a group of Sudanese refugees was living here, and they were attacked by the rebels and chased away. Many people died in this place. So we have this information, and still we are being forced to go there. Psychologically, we were touched by that, we were scared and confused. The government of Uganda wants us all be killed…. or what?
“When we came to Ariwa in 2003 the rebel war had just ended and the settlement had been demolished by the military police, who had bombed with teargas and burned the huts, so it really was a very big chaos. We had very little hope as to how people could live in this place. But we settled here, trying to see that the situation had changed and that conflict was in the past. And this is how we’re currently living, through the help of NGOs. Especially through the help of TPO, they have carried out a lot of activities trying to harmonise the refugees and the local people. In the beginning it was very difficult, there was a lot of conflict with the local people – everywhere, in market places, at the wells, in schools, even at the health centre. But TPO and my sister Faiza (a TPO social worker) have done a lot of work – teaching and discussions – for us to overcome our differences and live in harmony, and now things are much better. We can now live here in peace, and when time comes we can leave this place and go home.
“My parents are in Sudan, but they have now become old… they are unable to… they need some help from us. Your parents bring you up, and when they get older and weaker and need help, then it is time that you give some assistance to them. But we are unable to help them – it’s like a link is missing somewhere, and it is so cruel…”
For the first time Paul trails off, goes quiet, then lets out a long, strangled laugh. After a while, he points at his children and continues.
“Like these kids here, I think I should provide them with an education, a proper education. But I’m unable to. All of my four children were born in refugee camps; they have been moving from place to place and instead of progressing from one class to the next, they keep repeating. The young ones should have the opportunity to have education, so that tomorrow when we, the parents, are no longer here, it can help them stand on their own. It affects them very much as you can imagine. It’s not easy.
“I have a hope of returning to Sudan one day; most of our people have already gone back. But my wife is HIV positive and very weak so it’s not easy to go there when health care is still not well organised. Here, at least, she is getting treatment. It’s very difficult to stay here, but if we had gone back, I think by now I would have been a widower. I think we would all have been dead. She is really broken down, I cannot leave her for long. All I can do is domestic work – make firewood, collect water, go to the market, cook our meals. If we were back in Sudan, there is no way I could do this and provide for us at the same time. And in Sudan, there would be no one providing food like here. So I don’t know how much longer before we can go back, it depends on the improvement of the sickness of my madam. I want to go back and help with the struggle of our people, mobilise communities to improve standards of learning. Just like we have done here with opening the nursery school.
“When she gets better, we will all go back.”
I wonder if no one has had the heart to explain to him that most likely she won’t get better. But maybe he knows that already. He must have witnessed enough people dying from this disease during fifteen years in refugee camps to know. Maybe he simply doesn’t want to know. Maybe he just won’t put words to the heartbreaking reality that until his wife passes away, he can’t go back.
Meanwhile, TPO social worker, Faiza, works tirelessly to heal the wounds inflicted upon the refugees. “In 2003, when they arrived, there were about 8000 refugees, most of whom have been repatriated in Sudan, though some of them have since come back to the camp. About 3000 remain here; they’re the special, and most desperate, cases. Some have problems in their homeland and are afraid of returning, others, like Paul’s wife, are HIV positive and remain here for treatment.
“Their psychological problems are immense, and many of them are not willing to open up about their reasons for refusing to return to Sudan. We, as social workers, are able to explore their cases further, counsel them and provide emotional support.
“Whenever we have had conflicts between the refugees and the locals, we sit together with the people involved, the leaders of the community and try and resolve the problems, increase mutual understanding. But it’s always an interactive exchange – never me giving them solutions. Our goal is to educate and build capacity, so that if we are no longer here, if funding runs out, they will be better equipped to manage conflicts and psychosocial problems on their own.”
I hope that funding doesn’t run out. I hope that families like Paul’s won’t be left to fend for themselves, with no emotional support. I hope he’s going to be all right.
Story and images by Tine Frank
Pastor Paul with three of his children at their temporary home in the Ariwa refugee settlement
'Repatriation' tents in the Ariwa refugee settlement in Yumbe, West Nile
Four month old orphan Ivan, who was born in the Ariwa refugee settlement
UNHCR distributes food and utensils to the some 3000 refugees remaining in the camp
TPO Social Worker Faiza provides psychosocial support to the refugees and local community
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