Photographic artwork by Kris Saknussemm
I felt a sense of embarrassment when I had to introduce myself as a "Somali refugee living in Kenya" to a group of Kenyan students visiting for a cultural exchange in my second year of high school. Despite no longer being in Somalia, I am also not a Kenyan citizen, which often makes me question where I truly belong. Will I remain a refugee indefinitely? I feel lost in this state of uncertainty, but I have sworn to never let my circumstances strip me of my identity as a son, brother, friend, and muhsin.
My journey to Dadaab began in late 2011 when I was eight years old. My family had not fled Somalia when the civil war broke out in 1991, but when our once beautiful town of Baladweyne was transformed into a battlefield, we had no choice but to escape. We witnessed distressing scenes that filled our journey with horror. Families were left behind on the roadside, too exhausted to continue. These memories continue to haunt me.
After weeks of traveling, we finally reached Dadaab, where we registered with the UN Refugee Agency and received a ration card entitling us to food, water, shelter, and healthcare. Dadaab became our new home, but it was far from ideal. The camp was overcrowded, with over 300 thousand refugees living in makeshift tents and huts. The camp was isolated, with no access to the outside world except for occasional visits by aid workers or journalists. We could not leave the camp without permission, which was rarely granted.
My childhood in Dadaab was full of hardships and difficulties. We were a family of ten: my parents, myself, and seven siblings. Chronic food shortages were common. We were among the hundreds of thousands refugees who relied on irregular handouts from UNHCR.They gave us 30 kilograms of maize, wheat, beans, and ten kilograms of cooking oil for a whole month. It was not a balanced diet. My siblings and I suffered from malnutrition. We dreamt of having just one good meal again. The limited water supply made life in the camp unbearable. Every day, we had to line up at 6:00 AM to get our share of a hundred liters from a borehole, then carry it in jerrycans. That was barely enough to meet our basic needs of bathing, washing, drinking, and cooking.The inadequacy of healthcare services was another grave challenge. These conditions led to preventable deaths that could have been avoided with proper medical care. Last year I saw a young boy die from cholera at a health post, and I found out 23 more kids died from cholera the same year. Both my parents were unemployed at first. One year after we arrived in Dadaab, my father found work as a watchman in a school, while my mother became a cleaner at the camp hospital.
Education became my sanctuary. I enrolled in one of the few primary schools. Classes were held under a tree. If it rained, school was cancelled. It rains 82 days each year here. I was the youngest in my class, and while the majority of my classmates were children, we also had two adults attending part-time. I could only speak my mother tongue (Somali), did not know how to write my name, and could not even count to ten. Our school followed the Kenyan curriculum from grade one to eight. All our lessons were conducted in English, except for Kiswahili, which followed the Kenyan curriculum. Understanding the Kenyan teachers in my school was difficult, so I decided to attend extra classes in the evening to improve my English. Limited resources meant no access to books or paper, but I persevered.
In the camp, education was a luxury. The public high schools were under-resourced, overcrowded, and lacked qualified teachers, while the private ones, though crowded, were better but charged $400 US dollars a year—a fortune for us. My father, who barely made ends meet with his small shop, took on debts to enroll me in a private school. I was grateful for his sacrifice and worked hard to excel in my studies. Eventually, my school recognized my efforts and awarded me a scholarship that covered my tuition fees. This was a huge relief for my family and a great motivation for me. My first year in high school was especially challenging when some of my teachers fled after gunmen kidnapped their colleagues from nearby schools, leaving us to find alternatives for covering subjects. I spent evenings in tutoring sessions, praying for safety.
In my second year, I faced a double blow of malaria and chickenpox that kept me away from school for a whole term. I fell behind and had to rely on classmates' notes and books to catch up. Outside of class, I volunteered in various programs such as tutoring groups, environmental cleanups, and a food distribution center. I also joined school clubs. I completed high school with a "B" average in 2022—for me, a triumph, a stepping stone.
But now, the door to further studies is shut for refugees. There are no colleges or universities in the camp. There are no mentors or guides; we are cut off from the rest of the world. There are few alternatives. My family looks forward to being resettled, but the war in Somalia continues. For my father at 62, and my mother at 47, those hopes may never materialize. I am now 21 years old and cannot go back because I am afraid Al-Shabaab militants might forcefully recruit me.
Spending 12 years in a refugee center has deeply influenced my aspirations and outlook on life. Throughout this time, the constant struggle and uncertainty have fueled my determination to create a better future not just for myself but for other refugees as well. The experience has instilled in me a profound empathy and a sense of responsibility towards those who find themselves in similar situations. My dream is to establish reliable Internet access for all in the camp, as well as mentors and qualified tutors. This way I can offer educational opportunities to fellow refugees and create a space where we can learn and grow together. I want to use my skills and knowledge to find solutions for the challenges we face in the camp, such as health and security. I want to use my voice and platform to raise awareness and advocate for the rights and needs of refugees, especially for education and protection. Although my volunteer work in the camp has brought me considerable satisfaction, a university education will allow me to do even more.
At this point, Many may have given up, but the magnitude of my dreams and the hopes of those relying on me— family, friends, other refugees—must never be abandoned. Although achieving these goals seems impossible within the limited resources and opportunities of the Dadaab refugee camp, my spirit remains alive, and I hold onto the belief that one day, my dreams will become a reality.
