In the Shadow of Injustice

A group of men sit on a hill. Their home is amongst thorns, their roof a tarpaulin sheet. They have wandered from Somalia, Kenya, into Tanzania, where the land laws allow nomadic grazing and their camels can eat freely. But they are not welcome, the local community, so close to the border, anxious about a large group of strangers; nervous of 1000 camels and what they may take from the community, already relying on so little for so much. There is a discussion: can the now-Kenyan citizens contribute to the development of the community in exchange for their camel grazing? The herders agree, donating the equivalent of $5000 to the village to build a school. A large sum of money and one that is not given lightly – the hands of the herders will feel its loss. They may live sparsely but they know how to save, their safety in moveable treasures.

The money is given to the local village government. The school it is intended for is a wooden shack with three walls, tree trunks for benches and a handmade, branch-woven tray as a teacher’s desk. It is 15 kilometres from the road and surrounded by small homes with young children who would otherwise not make the journey to school. The fence is a circle of thorns; the school gate a branch of barbs. The money, however, does not reach the school. Three years on, the voluntary teacher, seeking to give to her community, is still teaching on branches behind barriers of thorns: the village government holding the money.

Now the village is angry. They have walked round herds of camels on their land for three years. They know that the price of a fully grown camel in Kenya is $1200. They know the Kenyans are cultivating a small fortune at their expense. They wonder why, when their children sit on bent branches in the hot hut of a shaded tree, they aren’t benefiting from their village land?

The Kenyans too are angry. What hardships have they endured to reach Tanzania from their Somali homes? They have given a huge amount of money to find a home at last: it would seem they have not reached that home, after all. Unwelcome and unsettled, the law does not help them now.

The villages pick their way resentfully around the camel dung; the pungent smell of betrayal is stronger on their side of the fence. The Kenyans live quietly, the sun on their tents beating down its unforgiving rays of displacement. The stench gets stronger as the village government get quieter. There is little justice so near a border of laws: the shadow of Mount Namanga drowns it out.