Kakuma Girls - Their Stories

Kakuma Refugee Camp, meet  Havergal College.

They say the world is really just a small village. And it is, thanks to technology, the internet, mobile phones and all that jazz. People around the world connect instantly at the click of a button. Or a screen. And this is how two seemingly different groups of girls from schools in different parts of the world got connected. Students from the Morneau Shepell School in Kakuma Refugee Camp in Northwestern Kenya forged a connection with girls from Havergal College in Toronto, Canada.

It first started with curiosity. 

I always say that curiosity is a good thing. For Grade 11 student Clare Morneau, her curiosity about the project that her father Bill Morneau was sponsoring in a refugee camp is what led to this connection. The project was a school for refugee girls thousands of miles away from Canada. Girls just like her. And she wanted to know more about them and their lives.

Clare Morneau (holding book) with her friends from havergal College

So Clare started a penpal style system; a Kakuma - Toronto girls partnership where she and her friends from Havergal would send letters to the Kakuma girls. They were your typical teenage exchanges - questions about clothes, books, home, taste in music, the weather and so on. They shared photos of themselves doing chores, at school, at home, of the environment around them. They would later on have Skype calls as well. Seeing each others' faces was a joy! To have regular conversation between friends from halfway across the world was unlike anything she had ever experienced before.Their friendships blossomed. 

It was a beautiful thing.

It was also the beginning of what would turn out to be a book of stories.

Clare realised so much about herself, her friends and the Kakuma Girls. She wanted to help motivate the girls in the camp by connecting with them and creating friendships. She wanted to share this experience with others and was inspired to share the girls' stories about the lives in her new book, "Kakuma Girls."  

The front cover of Kakuma Girls.

"Kakuma Girls" is about the contemporary issues, hopes and dreams of refugee girls. It is also about their experiences and the contrasting yet similar lives of their friends across the seas. What they share. What they aspire to be.

But most importantly, it is a book about life. How closely lives can be connected and intertwined. How similar we all are despite our different circumstances. 

In Clare's words, "The Morneau Shepell girls [and us] are equals. We have different lives, geography, and social conditions, but we are all young women living in this world today with hopes, fears, and dreams."

The best thing about this book is that all the proceeds from it will support the Kakuma Girls university education.

"...to everyone who picks up a copy of this book. You are supporting the education of refugee girls and making dreams

come true." —Clare Morneau

That is the power of friendship. And curiosity.

An Afternoon With Sarah

I am interested in people. I am the type that can be seated in a noisy crowded place but not hear the noise.  Instead, I focus on faces and pick out personalities and characters. Like a playwright, I create different personas and try to figure out if they fit the person. Sometimes I wonder about an individual’s personality, what makes them tick, why they are the way they are. I guess that is why I got into writing. But my mother always says that I should probably have done psychology. I don’t know about that but I guess perhaps in another life…

Anyway, my interest in people is what makes my work practical. I meet all sorts of characters and their various personalities give me lots to think and write about. Sometimes though, I meet people who make my imagination screech to a halt. No wondering or imagining or conceptualizing imaginary personas – just the person’s true character. Connecting.  Getting to really know them without having my own preconceived ideas to contend with.  

 I have met such people over the period that I have been working in the camp but there is this one particular girl I met a few months back.  I shall call her Sarah to respect her privacy. Sarah is 12 years old. She is not your regular 12 year old though.  

Sarah is not your regular 12 year old girl.

I met her by chance. I was actually working on a different story about a primary school girl who had done extremely well in her final examination. As I was chatting with the girl, I kept being distracted by yelps of laughter coming from the next compound. Being the curious cat I am, I strolled over to see what was going on there. 

These kids had a lot of fun, playing with a small ball.

There were a bunch of kids jostling on the ground with a small ball. Shrieks of joy would emanate from the group when the ball would be wrestled from someone. They would then take turns at throwing the ball around before it disappeared under a cloud of dust and the jostling would resume.

I was quite tickled by their game; I almost wished I could join in! They were having the time of their lives. There was an elderly lady in a wheelchair seated under a tree smiling at the boisterous bunch. She looked like the owner of the homestead.  I smiled at her and she waved, inviting me into her yard. 

As I said my hellos, I noticed a young girl bent over a big rock, grinding some flour on its flat top with a small stone. I slowly sat down as I stared at how intensely she went about her chore.

 She barely noticed me or the commotion a few yards away. She was so engrossed in what she was doing; she might as well have been in a different world altogether. I was completely taken by her dedication; her slender arms moved back and forth against that rock with such ease; she went about it like it was the most natural thing in the world.  And she was humming some nondescript tune under her breath which coupled with the swish swoosh motion of the rock on the grinder made the whole scenario almost hypnotic. I felt like time had stood still.

Sarah grinds flour on the rock as her siblings watch in the background. 

Almost suddenly, she stopped and looked up into my eyes. That fluid movement was so abrupt, I was completely taken aback. I smiled at her hesitantly and she gave me a shy little smile.

“Hello.”

She smiled again, this time white teeth flashing.

“What’s your name?”

“Sarah,” she replied softly.

Her voice was so soft, barely above a whisper; I had to move closer to hear what she was saying. As I settled on the sun soaked hard ground beside her, she swipe at some flies that were buzzing around her face.

It was then that I really got a good look at her. She had such beautiful, soulful eyes. The kind that bring to life the saying “eyes are the windows to the soul.” I couldn’t help but smile at her. She was such a beautiful girl. I could also see wariness in her eyes, like she wasn’t really sure what I was up to. She watched me as one would watch a stray cat renown for taking off with food from cooking pots.

 I decided to break the ice further.

I introduced myself and showed her my staff badge so she could see my name. She smiled and this time looked at me curiously.

“How do you say that?” she asked, pointing with a flour covered finger at my second name.

I laughed. She was warming up to me.

As we chatted, I noticed her initial hesitation thaw. My curiosity was piqued further. I wanted to know more about her. I was interested in what she was doing though - this grinding process was all new to me. I have never actually seen it in person; I have only seen it depicted in African movies and heard women from my rural village talk about it. My grandmother actually has an old, moss covered grinder somewhere in her old kitchen – it is apparently older than me.

This is no task for the fainthearted - it is tedious work. By the time the grain has been ground into flour so fine that it feels like silk between the fingers, you can barely feel your palms. I was both amazed and disheartened. Amazed because she did it with such ease and yet, disheartened because she was in a corner by herself, grinding away while her peers and siblings played the afternoon away. She would occasionally throw cursory glances at them and I wondered at that point what was going through her mind.

At one point, she paused to wipe some beads of sweat off her furrowed brow then continued grinding away.  I watched her until my curiosity (as always) couldn’t let me stay quiet any longer. So I asked her to tell me her story.

Sarah is an Unaccompanied Minor (UAM). A UAM is a child who has been separated from her family and is by him/herself in the camp. The separation causes untold trauma to the child as one can only imagine. Most UAMS are lucky to be reunited with a relative and are then classified as a Separated Child. UAMs and Separated children (UASC) are considered vulnerable persons of concern and require immediate assistance to safeguard their well-being. Those who are not reunited are placed in either foster care arrangements or child headed households. The child headed households are linked to a family or families that assist in monitoring their progress in the community.

Sarah is one such child; she came to the camp at the height of the South Sudan influx. She didn’t have any family member with her. She was part of a group of other children that were clustered together by aid workers in South Sudan and put in a bus that was transporting asylum seekers to the camp. Months later, she was reunited with her two younger brothers. She and her brothers are now staying with a foster mother. She does not know where her parents are or whether they are still alive.

She stares down the entire time, her flour covered hands clasped in her lap.

I feel at a loss. I am not sure what to say next. I am almost annoyed with myself for making her relive such a time in her life that she has probably been trying to put behind her.

“You want to do?” she asks me suddenly.

“Do what?” I ask curiously.

She points at the rock.

I shake my head furiously. I can imagine what a mess of everything I will make if she entrusts me with what is clearly a feat beyond my capability.

She laughs. “No you can’t. Too hard. Your hands too soft.”

As I laugh with her, I can’t help but think about what she has just said. Yes, it is hard work. Yes my hands are too soft. But so are hers! This is hard work especially for her.

I wish I could take this burden off her. Yes, burden.  Because she would probably be doing something else if circumstances were different. She seems  like such an intelligent girl and a deep thinker. I got the sense that she seemed to have been pulled from something bigger. Something more meaningful and ideal. She wasn’t living the life of a 12 year old girl and thousands of kids just like her have been robbed of their childhood. So many have been forced to grow up so fast and take on responsibilities that are beyond their young lives.

Sarah’s yells as she pauses to chase off her younger siblings who are playing too close to the bucket of fine flour bring me back to the present.  I assume that whatever she yelled is an insult or threat but it seems harmless enough as her siblings dart off giggling uncontrollably.

I stand up to leave and she says a quick goodbye. Before I leave though I ask her one last question.

“What do you want to be when you finish school?”

She pauses and looks at me for a long while. I wonder whether my question was too vague or perhaps I should repeat it again.

She eventually shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe a teacher or a nurse. I want to do something good.”

She then gives me a quizzical look. “What do you do?”

I wasn’t expecting the spotlight to be swung at me. I hesitate slightly before explaining that I am a writer and what my work entails. Her eyes light up.

“I like to write too! I like English! Can you bring me a book to write in?”

I smile at her. Her face is glowing and those big soulful eyes are brimming with hope. I cannot believe that this seemingly glum child has so much passion for something. And it happens to be writing!

I feel my heart expand; I want greatness for Sarah. I want her and all the other kids who feel lost and confused to find the right path that will lead them to a bright and better future. I simply nod because I am afraid my voice will reveal how emotional I am at this point.

I wave goodbye to Sarah and her foster mother. 

I am going to find a book or two for Sarah. And a pen. Yes, I bet she would love that too.

I’m loving – Eva by Angelique Kidjo ft. Asa 

The Real Charm of a Hip-Hop Star – Part 2

I love music – I literally need music in my life otherwise I’d probably have a headache so bad that horns would sprout off the sides of my head and then I would explode into a bloody mushy mess. Okay, maybe that’s a stretch but yes, you get my point.

Anyway, I love music, especially hip-hop, neo soul and afrofusion. For the longest time I was obsessed with alternative rock but my taste in rock gradually shifted to the classics.  I consider myself an ardent fan of a couple of bands and artistes but with Kenyan music, I have never been able to really identify with any particular musicians. I am very picky when it comes to Kenyan music – there are only a handful of artistes that I would pay to watch perform live. So it took me some time to really gel with Octopizzo’s music but having interacted with him and having an understanding of what inspires his music, I was quickly sold.

It was exciting to see how he had such a hold on the youths he was mentoring – and not the star struck kind of hold. No, they were really tapping into his street wisdom and gleaning every piece of advice he had to offer. Often times I would sit in the car long after official work hours (6pm) and watch glumly as he stood surrounded by youths who still had a million questions for him. It was a real task dragging him away from the camp so that we could head back to the compound before it got dark. Four months ago, I would never have understood this hold he had on them but now I did. It was actually starting to rub off on me!

He was like a big brother to them. They well and truly believed in his ability to open doors for them. And open doors he did. Come World Refugee Day on 20 June 2015, Octopizzo literally gave up his slot to perform before all the dignitaries and spectators who had assembled in Kakuma to these kids. This is something he had never done before. And for over half an hour those kids gave it their all – the performance was a fantastic mash up of cultural dances and contemporary music. And he didn’t just involve the kids – there were grown men, probably in their fifties who also took part in the performance. Those old men brought the house down with their amazing dancing skills! The audience was thrilled.

Afterwards, he would return to Nairobi to prepare for the launch of his hugely anticipated album. And this time he had an even bigger surprise for the youth he was working with. Through UNHCR, he brought 8 kids (including one from the local Turkana community) to Nairobi for a week to attend his show and curtain raise for him. This was a HUGE opportunity for them – most of them had never been to Nairobi before so they were over the moon. I was so excited for them; I thought my head would explode. (Okay, again with the exploding head – something has to give).

Octopizzo not only had them come to Nairobi but he also took the time to organize interviews for them with top national radio and TV stations. And they were great at the interviews. They had the opportunity to meet media personalities, watch Octopizzo rehearse with his band and even perform with him on live TV! And on the D Day, they performed on the biggest stage of their lives. The crowd showed them love like the superstars that they were.

I was on cloud nine – for me, this gesture was so big it deserved an accolade. I kept thinking, “Why would this man do this for these kids if he isn’t truly a bighearted human being?” I had the audacity to ask him the question out loud and his answer was so bare in its simplicity and honesty. “Because no one ever did this for me. I want the best for them. I want them to see what they are working for. I want them to have the opportunities that I never had when I was a struggling artist.”

I would later ruminate on this and all I could do was smile. Octopizzo is really just a regular guy with the biggest heart you could ever imagine. And he truly cares about these kids. He opened up his world – both professional and personal to them. He brought them into his home and dined with them. He took them to Kibera where he was born and bred and showed them what it really means to grow up with nothing but dreams.

Octopizzo poses with the eight stars in his old neighbourhood (from left)Nyakuma, Denton, Mr.Jay, Mau Mau, King Moses, Queen Lisa, Young Courageous & Spyda.

“I couldn’t live here,” Queen Lisa, one of the kids from the camp said as we walked through the slum. “Kakuma isn’t so bad after all. Young Courageous, the 15 year old Turkana kid with more talent than you could fit into a stadium nodded solemnly in agreement.

That visit to Kibera really opened their eyes and mine. If at any one point they never really understood Octopizzo and what he stands for and why he work so hard, then now they did. And they were grateful for that.

I now understand the true meaning of selflessness. One doesn’t have to work for an aid agency to be a humanitarian. It is a state of mind - a sense of awareness that is within oneself. And for Octopizzo, the charming and extremely enigmatic hip hop star, this is a true calling. And the refugee youth of Kakuma will always treasure him for that.

I'm loving: Blackstar - Octopizzo

The Real Charm of a Hip-Hop Star – Part 1

The past month was a great month. My best month is actually May (hello May babies!) but for once August took the cake. Why? Because for one, I took a long and much deserved break (5 weeks) from work to go and spend time with family and friends. I was bitten by the wanderlust bug and so I travelled quite a bit (Kisumu, Turkey, Dubai, Diani) and last but definitely not least, I went to the eagerly anticipated album launch of hip hop star Octopizzo

Yes, it was a great month.

But maybe I should start from a different point.

First selfie ever - a star was among us.

Like I always say, working with refugees has enabled me to meet a host of various personalities from different walks of life. When I first started working in the camp, I didn’t think that I would at one point interact with a hip hop star. The idea would have seemed extremely farfetched and ludicrous. What would a hip hop artist be doing in a refugee camp anyway? So it was a shocker when I first met Octopizzo in June 2014.

I didn’t really have any first impression of him – he was just another Kenyan artist. But I noticed that the people were very excited to see him – especially the kids and the youth. That left me bewildered. “How do they even know him?” I kept wondering to myself.

I couldn’t even name two of his songs if a gun was pointed to my head – I was that unaware of this artist and his music. I just knew that he was born and bred in Kibera slums – arguably the largest informal settlement in the world, having pushed Soweto out of that position a few years back.

Anyway, Octopizzo would go on to perform at World Refugee Day to a raucous applause. I was surprised – here was a Kenyan musician who was rapping in sheng (Swahili slang) and half of the audience in their thousands was singing along like they understood exactly what he was on about. I couldn’t make the connection. I was befuddled. Befuddlement doesn’t sit well with me – it puts me on edge and I have to figure out what’s going on ASAP if I am to function at all. So I asked around and what I found out made me understand what Archimedes must have felt centuries ago when he yelled “Eureka!” as he leaped out of the bathtub naked.

See, Octopizzo first came to the camp in 2013 through Filmaid International – an NGO that he was working with as a Youth Ambassador on some youth projects. He initially came to perform at an event where he interacted with refugees from various countries. The level of talent that he witnessed at that event and the personal accounts he heard would change his perspective on refugees forever.

“I was amazed by all the talent that I saw – there were rappers, singers, dancers, models. It was insane!” he would later say. “I never expected to find such a sea of talent in a refugee camp. I felt like I needed to do something as an artiste to help these young people who had the talent but lacked the resources and capacity to do more.”

I was amazed that he would take time off his crazy schedule and come up with a project for mentoring and training refugee youth to maximize on their potential. He would then partner with UNHCR to pilot this project in the camp. This led to my second interaction with him in early 2015. This time, I looked at him through different eyes. This time, he wasn’t just any other Kenyan artiste. He was a humanitarian, an advocate for the refugee cause and he was lending his voice (a very deep baritone if I may add) to the conversation on how refugees can contribute greatly to the countries that host them. He was out to quash the negative preconceived notions that existed about refugees.

Because I wanted to – no, I needed to understand how and why he wanted to do this, I asked him what his story was. As he took me through his life story, I couldn’t help but keep thinking about how well he articulated himself. He was passionate about what he was saying. He had a fire in his eye and a lot of conviction. I tell you, I was charmed. I was won over by how humble he actually was, contrary to popular belief. Here was a guy who could have been anywhere in the country or world for that matter, making his music and going on tours and making money off it. But here he was, in the vast desert reaches of Turkana, wanting to do his bit to elevate refugees to a level where they could be self-reliant.

“I identify that hunger in them,” he explained. “That same hunger is what inspired me to struggle hard and sweat my way out of the harsh conditions of the slum. If I wasn’t hungry enough, I would probably be a different person not contributing positively to my community.”

This was where his world and the refugees’ world coalesced. He may not have been forced to flee any conflict or run for his life, but he sure did know and understand what it meant to live a life that was faced daily with harsh conditions that could make a grown man cry. He understood the frustration and pain of having to deal with a seemingly hopeless situation where society has relegated you to the margins and you seem destined for failure and nothingness. He understood how negative perceptions could force one into the dark recesses of vice and crime just to eke a living. He understood because he was born and bred in that environment where he was seen as just another statistic. 

“Despite living in this environment of deep-rooted hopelessness and inadequacy, I found my saving grace through music. I am a living testament that it is possible to brave the harsh realities of life and rise above the odds to make it.” Octopizzo felt that he could use his story to inspire the youth to work hard to achieve their dreams.

The one thing that struck me was how easily he blended in with the youths. It didn’t matter that not all of them could speak his brand of sheng - they all tapped into what he said and they communicated. They came to him with their issues and he answered them as best as he could. Where he could provide no answer he would swivel around and yell out to me so that I could scurry over and deal with the questions. I soon came to realize that it was quite the adrenaline rush hanging out with him. Each of his almost quarterly visits would last about a week and they were the most intense, exciting and out of this world experiences.

Octo, as he casually refers to himself during a workshop session with his protégés at Kakuma Refugee Camp.

He would usually come with a photographer, a journalist or blogger and a music producer. He would hold intense workshops with over 150 youth and discussions would range from basic writing skills, song composition to how to market oneself on social media. He would admonish the bigheaded types who felt like stars and remind them that it took him 23 songs to finally get a hit.  “This is not a one day race! You cannot write a song today and expect to make it on radio and become a hit. It takes a lot of work and marketing. You have to learn all these and you need to work as a team as well.”

He never tired of reminding them about three key things – being humble, being a team player and being hungry. “Always stay hungry people - always stay hungry. That’s the only way you will be motivated to be the best.”

I took in everything he said with much fervor. I couldn’t believe how easily he relayed key messages. I was an immediate fan. I realized that this was not just another platform for a musician to make fans – no he was not even talking about himself! He was sincerely passionate about helping these young kids and he would even get frustrated sometimes as he realized the realities on the ground. To him, their situation reminded him of his. He was one of them. I now saw in true HD the real charismatic personality that he was.  Hook, line and sinker – the kids, including me were all reeled in.

I'm loving: Something For You - Octopizzo

Of Australian football stars and worthy causes

As I continue to rack up interesting experiences and memories in this ever fresh environment that I work in, I need to mention that part of my work involves dealing with a kaleidoscope of visitors to the camp. These include the media (local and international), filmmakers, photographers, researchers, government officials and donors. And not to forget, celebrities! Yes…again, story for another day.

These visits are usually referred to as missions and at any given time, I can be dealing with as little as one mission per fortnight or as many as three per week. It can be quite daunting to juggle all these visits from varying calibers of people and entities especially if you are rather wet behind the ears as I was when I first got here. But with time I got the hang of it. Forget the fact that sometimes I would find myself completely awestruck by some of the people I had to work with; other times I would want to just curl up in a ball and forget everything because of the sheer exhaustion that would follow a day of running up and down like a headless chicken.

Needless to say, it’s always interesting meeting all these people and getting to interact with them; some I would get on with like a house on fire and of course there have been the expected ones that are just...well... 

But in all honesty, if I was to rank my top favorite missions over the past year and a half, the visit by the Awer brothers would be high up on that list.

See, it isn't often that refugees who are resettled to other countries come back to revisit their past and give back to their fellow refugees. Of course there are those who will send remittances to support those who they left behind in the camp. But majority leave and start their lives afresh and then...life just happens. Despite all good intentions, somehow they don't all get that opportunity to return.

So it was a refreshing experience to meet A and his brother Awer Bul as they returned to Kakuma to launch a powerful initiative called “Barefoot to Boots”

Check out my personal encounter with the brothers and their inspiring story here:

http://www.unhcr.org/559f9ddb6.html

http://unhcr-regional.or.ke/blog/star-footballer-kakuma-getting-together-motley-crew

 I'm loving: Hey Brother - Avicii

In Retrospect: 1.5 Years of Humanitarian Work

My year and a half of humanitarian work in one of the world's most recognizable refugee camps, Kakuma Refugee Camp, has come with experiences beyond my hitherto pedestrian realm of thought.

I have never been so shell-shocked, amazed, dazed, amused, excited, homesick, emotional, awestruck, dismayed and giddy all at once. I think I have been going through an outer body experience and only realized that hey, I'm not dreaming so I need to pinch myself and WAKE UP!

Truth be told, my work here started on an extremely strenuous note - at the height of South Sudan's emergency and the ensuing influx into Kenya. Hundreds of refugees and asylum seekers crossed Kenya's border with South Sudan and the result was that every waking hour of my life was transformed. 

I came face to face with the realities of what it looks like (for one can never understand how it FEELS like unless you are a refugee yourself) to escape conflict and war. To have under a minute to grab what matters and run for your life. To crouch through bushes under the cover of darkness surrounded by a cacophony of gunfire, explosives and war cries. To see your loved ones die right before you. To not know where your children, spouse, parents and siblings are. To be an unaccompanied child, separated from safety and comfort, shivering in the cold night, crying for your mother...

It is an inexplicable feeling. 

It left me numb. I couldn't feel, couldn't breath properly; I felt like Hazel Grace Lancaster in The Fault in Our Stars. 

And yet I had to function. 

I had to document all these events through words, pictures and sentiments. I had to let the world know that what was happening in South Sudan was a huge stain on the world's conscience. I am not sure how I was able to do it.

20-hour days and hardly any sleep. Unacceptably copious amounts of caffeine and sugar in my system. Phone calls back home every evening to keep me sane. I was numb. I couldn't feel any more. But I needed to. It was the one thing I HAD to do to feel like I was doing SOMETHING. I couldn't break down because it was my duty to contribute to the organization's appeals for both material and financial support for this emergency. 

I was reporting on the situation hourly, daily, bi-weekly, weekly, monthly. There were donor missions to the camp every other day. Teleconferences every day. Ten different versions of reports and requests for these reports from ten different departments. The Kakuma office, the Kenya office, the regional hub, the headquarters; I felt like I was living in a parallel universe.

Those first six months really did me in. I was going at 100 miles per hour and I obviously crashed head first into the ground. Yes - literally. Crumpled in a heap on the floor when my body couldn't take it anymore. The elements - all of Kakuma's harsh 35 degree heat, dust storms and vast array of bugs (some were suspiciously pre-Jurassic critters) finally sunk their clutches in me and dragged me down. And like the Titanic I sunk.

I woke up in a hospital bed with an IV tube down my arm and a fever that would put the devil's toes to shame. My body was racked with sickness. Interestingly, I was not even aware of just how ill I was. All I kept thinking was how much work I had pending and oh my God did I send my report?? Good grief there are donors from Australia around; who will handle them? Christ, I didn't share their itinerary with my boss!!!

I was eventually sedated and out of it.

Next thing I knew I was being med-evaced to Nairobi. It was quite a curious affair to me; I felt like an extra in an episode of Grey's Anatomy or something. It was surreal. Hmm...I have just remembered that when I was aboard the plane, my phone was on the entire time. Does that mean that the 'switch off your mobiles' narrative that has been conveyed to passengers all these years is one big lie? I shall ruminate on that later.

Being med-evaced to Nairobi after collapsing on the job.

Anyway, I spent five listless days in a hospital bed having to contend with nurses poking and prodding my body, tasteless hospital food and INJECTIONS!!! God I hate needles! Shiver shiver...

When I was finally discharged I remember it was a clear sunny day with azure skies stretching out for miles. I felt like I had emerged from an ancient Egyptian crypt. Home was a dream; everyone fussing around me. I had not felt so pampered in years.

Returning to Kakuma after a month away was like starting afresh - but with a new set of eyes. Everything was in clear focus and I was back with a renewed energy. I was armed with my camera and pen and ready to do what needed to be done. I had initially worried that I would break down again but as one of my colleagues who comes from the area told me, "my sickness was Kakuma's way of welcoming me to her bosom."

I now have a new found sense of respect for Kakuma and her formidable bosom. It is this place, with its harsh environment that is paradoxically gentle and nurturing of refugees and asylum seekers. For over two decades, it has been home to over 185,000 refugees who have fled all manner of atrocities to seek refuge. And Kakuma has opened her arms and held all these vulnerable people to her bosom.

Like her landscape, her people - the Turkana, are tenacious and resilient. Her beauty lies in her sunrises, her sunsets, her vista of shaded hills dotted with camels and donkeys, her willowy women adorned in beads bursting with colour, her weathered men in their feathered caps and omnipresent wooden stools (ekicholong) and sticks (aburo). 

It is in these vast arid lands which I previously couldn't point out on a map that I have finally found myself; found my purpose in life. 

I work with wonderful people - true humanitarians with eons of experience and hearts that bleed for the refugee cause. It is so inspiring to wake up to this everyday; to FEEL and to WANT and to BELIEVE and to SEE what happens around me. 

I have made friends with refugees; I have come to see myself in so many of them. I am constantly taken aback by our similarities and the fact that this term REFUGEE is NOT an appropriate descriptive term. It does NOT define any of these amazing men and women, boys and girls, young and old. They are mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, grandparents, sons and daughters.

These precious Somali girls are the future. They make my job worthwhile.

They are students, teachers, doctors, architects, security guards, laboratory technicians, models, singers, actors, trainers, community health promoters. 

They have dreams, aspirations, feelings, desires.

Above all, they are hopeful. 

Hopeful that every new day will bring them closer to realizing their dreams.

Hopeful that the senseless and pervasive effects of politics and war will cease and people will learn to look at each other as God desires us to.

I am a humanitarian. And it is because of my brothers and sisters in the camp that I do what I do. They are just like you and me.

I would love to think that my work will one day be considered as powerful in the way that one of my favorite writers, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie described as "...the ability not just to tell the story of another person, but to make it the definitive story of that person.”

Here's to another 1.5 (multiplied by 20) years of getting to know refugees and learning from them how to be a better person.

I'm loving: We Fall - Emmanuel Jal ft. McKenzie Eddy

There's More To Life

It has been a while since I was last seen on this hallways...time has flown by so fast and I am amazed at everything that has happened in the past one and a half years.

My last blog post was in 2013. That is incredible! For someone who's fingers are always twitching, it hardly makes any sense that I have not written anything for this entire time.

Writers block is real people, it is real.

On the upside, I think I have enough material now to write an entire book. I HAVE written an entire book as a matter of fact (well, two actually but that a story for another day) so I should be good to go from here on.

What's happened in the past year and a half?

I learnt that there's more to life. Much much more.

See, people usually go through life like its a dress rehearsal for something bigger. People go through the motions like they don't really want to be here. Most of the time, we are on autopilot for the better part of our lives. Or we rush through life like it is one grand race that we just have to win, sometimes at the detriment of others.

I have been one of those people. 

For the longest time I think I have gone through life without really understanding what my purpose is. I have been on autopilot for so long that at one point nothing made any sense any more. I was going through a boring, droning routine that I could spell backwards - wake up, shower, dress, go to work, come home, eat, sleep. 

Wake up, shower, dress, go to work, come home, eat, sleep. 

Wake up, shower, dress, go to work, come home, eat, sleep. 

Until I left the corporate world and joined the humanitarian one.

Everything that I ever thought mattered didn't matter anymore. I was so far flung from my comfort zone that my nerve endings were tingling. Everyone thought I had lost it. 

I wasn't shattered though; I felt like there was a purpose after all - I had been a hamster on a wheel for so long until I couldn't take it anymore. So i jumped ship.

And now I finally have the opportunity to make a difference - even if it is just an iota. But a difference all the same.

It feels good looking back almost two years down the line.

I have met incredible people who have inspired me beyond words. I have realized that all the material things we hold dear are so transitory and so facile.  

Acting silly with kids in a refugee camp. 

All that matters at the end of the day is to do good. Do whatever makes you feel good about yourself. 

More importantly, do what makes a difference in someone else's life.

I have been so inspired by my work and the interactions I have had. It really puts everything in clear, HD perspective. 

And I am all the more grateful for each dawn of a new day.

Here's to getting more out of life!

I'm loving: More to Life  - Stacie Orrico