Cairo Magazine - Portraits from the edge

A Darfur refugee scavenges for scrap metal on the outskirts of 6th of October city. This backbreaking work may earn him as little as LE10 a day.

Halima Aroond Mouktar keeps pulling her yellow and turquoise headscarf over her face, in a gesture both shy and coquettish. She smiles and ducks her head, embarrassed to be the center of the room's attention. From the way she acts, you wouldn't know she's about to tell the harrowing story of how she and her daughter barely survived their escape from Sudan's war-torn Darfur region to Cairo.

Upon hearing that a reporter and photographer want to interview refugees from Darfur, many Darfuri families have converged on a small apartment in the Barageel neighborhood on the outskirts of Cairo. Women in colorful headscarves, their fingers tinted with henna, sit with their children on the beds, sofas and floor of the modest living room. Many of the men stand and chat in the hallway. Fifty to sixty people have congregated in the small apartment, and every one of them has a story to tell. But having arrived in Cairo from Darfur only 17 days before, it is Halima who has been singled out by her relatives and neighbors as the first person who should speak to Cairo.

The latest arrival

Halima is 24, from a village called Bornio in northern Darfur, a place she left only four months ago. She speaks the dialect of Darfur's largest tribe, the Fur, and not a word of Arabic. Nour Eddin Babkir, a male relative she is staying with in Cairo, translates–seeming at times to add copious detail to the short statements that Halima delivers with a nervous shrug. Halima says airplanes bombed her village. The villagers escaped to the nearby Jawla mountains, where they built small huts. But the janjaweed (Arab militias, see sidebar page 21) and government forces pursued them, says Halima, attacked them and set their new encampment on fire. "When they came to burn the village, they shot first," she says. "When people ran, they ran after them and shot. Those who ran quickly survived." Her grandmother died in the attack. Carrying her three-year-old daughter Shadia and "a little water," Halima and five other women and their children walked for two days until they reached the city of Kutum.

Halima spent 10 days on the edges of the Kasab Refugee Camp. Hawa Abdullah Adam, 25, was with Halima at the camp and also eventually made her way to Cairo, separately. Now the two women sit together on the bed in the Barageel house. Hawa says she and Halima "ran away" from the camp because it was not safe. She describes a camp that was under attack every night, where you could hear gunfire all night long. A relative of Halima's, a young man named Abdullah Haroun, was shot dead one morning at dawn.

Halima eventually followed the classic migration trail from Darfur to Cairo. She made it to Khartmoum, where her uncle helped her find the money to make the trip by microbus and boat to Cairo.

While Halima lives with her relatives in Barageel, her husband is in Sixth of October City, where many refugees go to try to pick up work as day laborers. Halima says she is "shocked" by the difficult life she has found in Egypt, where she lives with 10 other people in two rooms. The relative she is staying with, Nour, has no job. He used to sell merchandise on the street, but the police confiscated his wares. He has tried but has never been successful in finding day labor in Sixth of October City. The family depends on the help of their equally poor neighbors for survival. "We are struggling to eat one meal a day," says Nour. "It is a kind of death what we suffer here. I wish we would die."

Halima barely ever leaves the apartment, because she feels helpless and is afraid of how Egyptians will treat her. Some have thrown stones at her, she says, and called her names she can't understand.

Her situation is typical of many Darfuri women, says Hathem Helal, a lawyer who works with AMERA (Africa and Middle East Refugee Assistance). "There is a huge number of women who came with their children and without their husbands and they're very vulnerable," says Helal. "They didn't have education, they lived in a very rural area, they only did housework. They find themselves lost, financially and linguistically vulnerable. They cannot do domestic work, because [people from Darfur] are not open to the idea. Their understanding of Egyptian society and the situation here is not good and they are afraid of going outside."

The family man

Halima's husband may have worked alongside Abu Ghazy out in Sixth of October City. Until a short while ago, Abu Ghazy, along with many other Darfuri men, would wake up early in the morning to walk out to the bare expanses around the industrial part of the suburb and pay a few pounds for access to industrial garbage dumps. There–surrounded by the desert and baked by the sun–he and others would spend hours looking for scraps of iron among the trash. When their plastic sacks were full, they pay for a ride back to town from one of many trucks manned by Egyptian drivers and sell their scrap metal at various collection sites. It's backbreaking work.

"Sometimes if you are lucky and you find something good you can make LE50," says Abu Ghazy, "but normally it is LE10 or less."

Abu Ghazy, 34, came to Cairo in January 2001 from the village of Fatima Qaran in the Zalinga area in Western Darfur. Like many young men from Darfur who left at that time, he was trying to escape being drafted to fight in Sudan's civil war in the South. "They [the Sudanese authorities] took us from our houses by force to the war in the South," he says. "They'd take your brother and he wouldn't come back, they'd take another and he wouldn't come back. Many of my relatives went to war, four of my cousins didn't come back... because of this we struggled to leave the country."

When he left his village, Abu Ghazy first went to Khartoum, where he tried to eke out a living. He worked as a shoe-shiner, in a restaurant, and–outside of Khartoum–as a sesame harvester. But life was hard, and he and other Darfuri refugees felt they were being targeted and harassed by the authorities in Khartoum, forced to pay bribes and get extra permits that made it impossible to live.

Finally, in December 2000, Abu Ghazy decided to make the trip to the Egyptian capital–after all, he says, "the closest place to Khartoum is Cairo."

In fact, the number of Darfuris that have taken refuge in Egypt so far is very small–only a few thousand people (many more have fled to neighboring Chad). The great majority of Darfur refugees in Cairo come through Khartoum, where they stay with relatives as they acquire the documents and savings required for the trip. The voyage by microbus to the border, then across Lake Nasser by boat, then by microbus again through Aswan and on to Cairo is a much better alternative than coming directly from Darfur. That route–known as Tariq Arbaeen is a grueling overland trek that few attempt.

Halima Aroond Mouktar (left) and Hawa Abdullah Adam found themselves in the same refugee camp in Darfur after their villages were razed. After loosing touch, they both made their way to Cairo where they met again.

Abu Ghazy arrived one morning at the terminal line of the microbus in Midan Sakakini with a handful of names in his head. He was able, as are most of his fellow refugees, to track down someone from his village who might be able to host and help him out initially. Abu Ghazy applied for refugee status at the UNHCR office in Cairo but was denied. In 2002 he called home to talk with his family in Zalinga, who told him that "the village had been burnt." He says "the government itself, the army and the janjaweed" attacked his village.

Abu Ghazy became so depressed that he didn't contact his wife (who was pregnant when he left) back in Darfur for three years. He finally called just as his wife's father was on the point of making her divorce him. Now she has joined Abu Ghazy in Cairo, along with their five-year-old son Ghazy, a quiet, confident child whom his father obviously dotes on.

In order to raise the additional money Abu Ghazy would need when his family joined him, he supplemented his work as a house cleaner with the job collecting scrap metal in Sixth of October City. Since then, he has been able to find more domestic work and to avoid the scrap yard.

He lives in Barageel in a building at the end of a dirt-paved road. The windows of his small apartment overlook a lush green field and rows of other windowless red brick buildings. In the distance, traffic roars by on the Cairo Ring Road. Naked children run up and down the street.

In his living room, above the flickering black and white TV and the flowered bedspread, a small hand-written note tacked to the wall reads (in Arabic and English), "We'll never sleep until we liberate Darfur." Most Darfur refugees don't hide their sympathy for the rebels and in Abu Ghazy's living room that day there are several men who say they've fought government forces back in Darfur. "The government failed to destroy the rebels because the fighters are the people of Darfur," says Abu Ghazy. "So the government took the opportunity to destroy the villages."

"The rebels are popular," he explains, "because the people feel injustice." The rebels are "the sons of Darfur."

Abu Ghazy says that if he returned to Sudan now, he would be arrested "on any charge."

"If I go back, there will be a problem," he says. "They will say: you came to join the resistance in Darfur or you are a spy." Only "if the regime in Khartoum changes, I can go back," he says.

Because of their grievances against the government and the good relations between Khartoum and Cairo, many Darfuris are suspicious of Egyptian authorities. "There are relations between the Sudanese and Egyptian governments, there are good relations," says Abu Ghazy. "It's difficult when I come to a new place and they consider me a rebel or something like that. I'm afraid of the Egyptian authorities."

The do-gooder

With his ironed shirts and pants, his clean black shoes and his mild manner, Abbas is the stereotypical intellectual–a man of education and good faith who's well respected in the community. After studying literature at university in Khartoum, Abbas came to Cairo about 10 years ago, fleeing the harassment of Khartoum security forces.

Along with a colleague, Abbas, 35, was heading a cultural association in Khartoum whose aim was to "reflect the culture of Sudan and in particular of Darfur... our language, our culture, our historical background." But, he says, the Khartoum government "doesn't like our culture and identity."

After organizing a cultural week attended by thousands of visitors, says Abbas, "the government sent security men and they started an investigation. Security men called my house. They asked me: 'Why don't you mention and praise Islam?' I said: 'We are Muslims already.' They followed and harassed me. My friend was arrested for a week. My relatives advised me to leave." It all happened, he says, "because I refused to join the Islamic party and attitude."

Abbas' brothers and sisters are in Sudan, but he is only occasionally in touch with his eldest brother. His village in the Kabkabia area was "completely destroyed" several years ago. "It was burnt down in 1998 and then bombed by planes in 2003."

In Cairo, Abbas is a member of the committee of the Darfur Cultural and Social Association. He seems to spend his days meeting with people and discussing their problems. "I'm in contact with our community, and not just our area," he says. "I help and support and understand them... I teach. I don't discriminate in anyway–I help all Sudanese people."

He has worked as a UN volunteer, helping people prepare their cases. He also teaches other refugees English and tutors students of all nationalities. He earns LE150-200 a month from his teaching. The rent on the apartment in Sixth of October City that he shares with a dozen other people is LE300.

"Egypt as a host country is not bad," he says, ï¿½but we need protection. We're afraid of being deported back because we are illegal. I know some people who were walking in Sixth of October City and the police captured and deported them and we don't know what happened to them. If you are outside your country of origin and you don't have protection, shelter or work, you'll suffer. This is our situation."

What Abbas and many other Darfuris don't seem to know is that they do indeed have the right to greater protection. In June 2001, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (which handles refugees in Egypt on behalf of the government) stopped interviewing Sudanese to ascertain if they were refugees or not and started granting all of them temporary asylum instead. The thinking behind this was twofold: refugees from Southern Sudan were expected to eventually go home, now that a peace had been reached in the region. On the other hand, says Damtew Dessalegne, the UNHCR's assistant regional representative in Cairo, the situation in Darfur is obvious, "it's clear why people have to flee."

"[It makes] no sense to interview people to determine whether or not they are in need of international protection," Dessalegne says. "Based on objective facts, these people are definitely in need of protection."

Yet, he continues, the international interest in the Darfur conflict is "so great" that there is reason to believe "this will be a temporary need. The situation will change and they may be able to go back home quickly."

Even Darfuris whose applications for refugee status have been denied in the past can theoretically re-apply for asylum, although Dessalegne argues that if they've lived in Egypt for many years without refugee status, then they have "no need," and that the UNHCR's limited financial and human resources mean that it must focus on helping new arrivals from Darfur. The so-called "yellow card" that comes with temporary asylum contains a six-month renewable residency visa; the card does not give permission to work and the promise of access to education it suggests is largely theoretical. Regardless of whether one has the card or not, says Dessalegne, the Egyptian authorities wonï¿½t arrest or deport anyone to Darfur. "We have made it very clear to the Egyptian authorities... everyone from Darfur should enjoy temporary residence."

Dark memories and uncertain future

AMERA estimates that there are anywhere between 1,000 and 5,000 Darfur refugees in Cairo. They live in Agouza, Sixth of October, Arba wa Noss and other low-income neighborhoods. They stick together according to tribal affiliations; in addition to the Fur, the largest tribe, there are also Messalit, Zagawa and Tama. Each tribe has a leader–a well-respected man who may have been a village elder back home–who settles disputes. According to Helal of AMERA, such close-knit tribal links are "a matter of survival." People help each other and no one is allowed to fall entirely through the cracksï¿½although the price to pay is a certain level of loyalty and obedience.

The fact that Darfuris are Muslims rather than Christians like the Southern Sudanese may be their worst handicap, "a very serious problem" as Helal puts it.

Churches often offer schooling, support and help finding jobs to Sudanese refugees. Local mosques don't offer similar services. Although Darfuris are cut off from public education and the formal job market, "most of them donï¿½t identify the church as a service provider," says Helal. "They find it difficult to send their children for a Christian education, to go ask assistance from a church." And many churches, some refugee experts say, don't reach out to non-Christian refugees.

When Cairo met with refugees at the house in Barageel, the room was full of clean-scrubbed children, dignified men, and women wearing their best and brightest clothes. It was also a reservoir of quiet desperation. At the mere mention of refugee status papers, a pile of documents accumulates next to this Cairo reporter–as if this magazine had the power to petition the UNHCR. In humble, matter-of-fact tones, people take turns sharing their misery. A man who was shot in the foot during a raid on his village is handicapped for life and can't find work. While he shows his scars, his wife tells how she will give birth soon yet can't afford the Caesarian she knows she needs. Another woman gets tears in her eyes as she recounts how her husband has left home to look for work; he'll come back if he finds the money for the rent, which is due in a few days. Otherwise, she and her children will find themselves on the street. An elderly father of a family also starts to cry as he explains how an injury has rendered him incapable of working and has saddled him with hospital bills he can't pay. A woman tells of how, back in Darfur, soldiers looking for her husband beat her to get her to tell them his whereabouts. She was six months pregnant and miscarried.

Unfortunately, there is nothing unusual about these terrible stories. Darfuris find themselves in the painful circumstances of all refugees from war-torn regions. But in their case, they are stranded in limbo, with the international community recognizing that they are indeed refugees, yet waiting to help them re-settle out of hope that the Darfur crisis will be solved quickly. According to Dessalegne of the UNHCR, the European Union benchmark for temporary asylum is "maximum two years"–meaning that within a year the status and options of Darfuri refugees in Egypt should be clarified. In the meantime, those living in Cairo are ekeing out what can barely be called a living on the edges of the city.