I know the reason I'm in Djibouti is to evaluate the systems in place for attributing fault, punishing the guilty, and setting wrongs right when wrongs have been committed against individuals or the community well-being in the Ali-Addeh refugee camp. But, for the most part, I feel like I'm somehow hermetically sealed in some kind of protective bubble: the situations I'm investigating are far removed from the present; I'm exploring the past in the protected confines of an office; these situations are happening in the abstract and the people I'm interviewing are merely relating to me information that will be useful for my study.
Today in the camp was some kind of 'Celebration Of The Child' as put on by the Lutheran World Federation (LWF). As part of this celebration, biscuits were being distributed to children, and at some point in the day these biscuits were moved into the compound for ease of distribution (or some other equally compelling reason you might think of - the one I provide is mere speculation).
Digression: there is a 'policy' in place that staff are not to smoke in the refugee camp. I'm presuming this policy is in place for international staff, as I have seen some local staff smoking; or perhaps they're just not of the same policy-following bent that I am. I haven't asked why the policy is in place, or otherwise questioned why there is a policy in place, but have again used my powers of speculation to assume the policy is in place to prevent the refugees from seeing us smoking. So I've found a quiet, secure place where I can't be seen smoking: in the latrine. Coincidentally, the latrine stays a few degrees cooler than its surrounding; again, by speculation, I believe the concrete walls are slow to transfer the heat of the sun from the outside to the inside (it's been a few years since I studied heat transfer - but I believe my math is accurate here). In any case, for the next few months, until one of my superiors catches me or reads this blog, I'll be smoking in the boys room. But I digress...
At approximately noon, while walking back from the latrine to the office in which I was observing a resettlement interview, I was pulled aside by one of the refugees I'd met last week - he is very interested in talking to me about some of the things I'm studying (and in particular, as they have been affecting him over the 19 years he's spent in the refugee camp). As the gentleman and I were discussing his situation, something of a commotion started a few steps away from us. I later learned that someone - either a refugee or a local - was attempting to dispossess the LWF of some of the biscuits intended to be distributed to the refugee youth in celebration of their status as children.
Soon, the commotion escalated to the grabbing of shirts and the shoving of bodies; eventually, fists started flying in the form of punches; ultimately, rocks of all sizes began being thrown first by the two pugilists, and then by the bystanders. I was quickly ushered by the refugees - for my safety - through an open door so that I could wait out the commotion with one of my colleagues; she assured me that 'security should be quick to put down the commotion'. She was correct, and when I exited the office a few minutes later, everyone on the outside was all smiles: and any element that might otherwise reignite the troubles was standing outside the compound, looking in through the gate. All that was left to show there had been any sort of commotion were large rocks lying everywhere and the lingering memory of shouts and crashes.
And so it is that I have been blessed with the gift of context.
No comments:
Post a Comment