Southern Sudanese refugees could face harsh life back home
By Katie Nguyen
KAKUMA, Kenya, March 14 (Reuters) – Sitting in the gloom of his mud and brick house, Pierre Mading Mengistu looks out across Kenya’s parched Rift Valley and talks of returning home to southern Sudan.
Instead of living in Kakuma’s sprawling refugee camp, the 23-year-old dreams of being a teacher in his Upper Nile birthplace.
But aid agencies say that refugees used to the primary school education, healthcare and regular handouts of food in the camp could struggle to come to terms with life in Sudan where two decades of civil war have ravaged the south of the country.
There are no roads or electricity and few hospitals or schools. Water and sanitation are poor and many areas are riddled with landmines.
Most Sudanese refugees say they are keen to escape Kakuma, citing the harsh climate and frequent clashes with the local Turkana tribe.
“We’ve got to face the possibility of some waking up and going off. There’s nothing we can do to make them stay,” said Cosmas Chanda of the United Nations refugee agency (UNHCR).
PEACE TALKS
Limited to the confines of the camp, Mengistu has little idea that in the lower, greener part of the Rift Valley the Khartoum government and the Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA) are engaged in talks which observers hope could deliver peace to Sudan sometime this year.
Africa’s longest civil war has killed some two million people and forced millions more to flee, many of them to Kakuma, which now shelters about 90,000 refugees.
If a peace deal is signed in the first half of this year, the UNHCR anticipates that up to 30,000 Sudanese will want to leave the camp and head home, travelling in UNHCR planes and trucks.
It has to make sure the refugees have some idea what they would be heading back to.
“They need to go with some dignity and order,” said Chanda.
“We’re not going to do things in a hurry. This is not about throwing people into buses and trucks but adhering to international standards.”
A former child soldier, Mengistu spends his days teaching English and Kiswahili to hundreds of Sudanese aged between eight and 23 who cram into one of the camp’s primary schools.
Lessons end at lunchtime and the monotony of the days is broken up by the odd volleyball game under the setting sun when the relentless heat finally lets up.
“If you tell me there’s peace I can pack and go today,” Mengistu said. “I am longing to go home.”
After eight years in exile, Mengistu may even see his father, a rebel fighter in the SPLA which has waged war for greater autonomy in the south from the Muslim Arab-speaking government since 1983.
“My fear is raising children in this hard life. There is not adequate food, the climate is very harsh,” Mengistu added as the wind whipped up dust clouds and blew sand into ears and eyes.
“When there’s peace we’ll have a meaningful life. We’ll be able to do permanent things. We can plant, we can farm because we know that’s where we belong and where we will stay,” he said.
“The young and able are the right people to build the country. We’ve gained enough skills in the camp to take home and put into practice.”
Not everyone is lost in the euphoria of imminent return that the peace talks in Naivasha appear to promise.
Many south Sudanese are cynical about a deal being struck soon despite agreements struck on security arrangements and wealth-sharing during a six-year interim period leading up to a vote on whether the south should secede.
They worry that the negotiations are taking too long to bear fruit and fear the United States, which has played a major role in pushing the parties to the bargaining table, will shift its focus to presidential elections in November.
“I will be the last man to go home,” said Gideon Kenyi, 41. “A water system, hospitals have to be put in place, landmines removed.”
While many Sudanese are waiting to go home, others continue to trickle into Kakuma’s reception centre where above the cacophony of babies crying and toddlers wailing, they talk of protection.
“I thank God my children are safe. I will stay here until my children are big so that they can be fed and protected,” said new arrival Alual Deng Hal, suckling her 10-month old baby.