Journalistic frenzy in Dadaab

I had a hard time this week trying to reconcile the intrigue of journalists with my obligation to ensure that all those brought to the reception center with acute medical and psychosocial needs were provided access to the health facilities. I arrived one morning to the reception center to find camera crews circling the waiting area. I was approached by many about a story of young Somali women being abducted by bandits, raped and having returned on foot to the reception site. I was already informed of their arrival, having been to see the family the day prior. My aim was to move them through the crowds swiftly and with discretion so that they could get to the hospital and be provided with the necessary treatment.

Journalist frenzy

The frenzy around the arrival of ‘fresh’ rape victims was maddening. While at first it seemed a natural reaction to want to know the story, to highlight the perilous journey the Somalis take to reach safety in Kenya, I was horrified by the need to stick a camera in their faces, to show to the world that this woman, these women, those eyes had been violated by bandits the night prior. While we succeeded in moving the women through the system, we had an ambulance take them away within an hour of arrival, I had to exchange a few harsh words with a journalist who was insisting on speaking to these women, and who without remorse or after thought expressed her disappointment in my taking the women to the hospital. What is more important, the story or the assistance? And why does the story always have to be about sex?

Sexual violence is sadly a reality in most insecure settings. It is no surprise to anyone who understands the dynamics of forced migration where women carry their infants for hundreds of kilometres into another country hoping they will find some food water and safety. And what will the story bring to light that hasn’t already been addressed?

Other stories

There are so many other tragic stories to be told. The 60 year old disabled woman who has been unable to walk for two years, her legs brittle with decay, carried in a rusty wheelbarrow for weeks before arriving in Ifo. The 16 year old girl caring for her two brothers after her parents were killed in Somalia, afraid of the crowds and not sure how to begin a new life in this environment. An eighty year old man with a gaunt angular face, blue rimed eyes and hollow cheeks tearing up because he had to leave his family behind since they were not fit enough to walk the distance.

And worst of all, yesterday I sat beside an old women too fragile to move, who lay on the ground, her eyes closed and her hands resting over the blanket that had been placed on her to keep her warm. The smell of urine and human waste was potent yet her countenance so soft and fearful that I could not leave her side until the health care workers drove in and scooped her up into their vehicle. There are so many other genuine and painful stories to tell the world to show that these people need all the help they can get. But I guess this is the flip side to being at the center of attention.

I have been here three weeks today and although the abnormal is becoming more normal by the day, the nerves are heightened and I find myself oscillating between a sense of elation of the work I am trying to do and despair and the scoop or propaganda surrounding this emergency.

Jesus syndrome

An acquaintance of mine, a budding journalist, reminded me that we can’t be in this line of work if we harbour what he termed as ‘jesus syndrome’ — the need to do the right thing and solve all problems all the time. It’s just not possible, we’d all burn out in no time. Instead you have to pick your battles, find some remedies and sit at home in the evenings writing about the way that this experience is teaching you a thing or two about life, humanity and humanitarian aid.