Kasulu

People prepared me for my journey to Kasulu. ‘Oooh, it is very dusty there!’ they warned, as though I was mad for making the journey. But this particular destination has been calling me since I first met Burundian families at the IRC (International Rescue Committee) who described the settlements where Grandmothers raised two generations before leaving. Those camps are closed now, the 1972 Burundians have repatriated, resettled or been integrated as citizens throughout Tanzania. Only two camps remain in the region that once hosted ten. Slowly slowly the government is closing asylum space, ceasing almost all services in one of the camps and urging for voluntary repatriation. Yet, between the two camps there are almost 100,000 Congolese and Burundians that linger still amidst two worlds.

I get on the dala dala after an hour of waiting while young hustlers fill the small van to its utmost. Once we finally set off I realize that there are at least (that I can see from my spot in the back) 25 people in the van; 5 infants, 6 school children, 4 young women (including myself) 4 mothers, 3 grandmothers, one boy, one man and one driver. We speed along a dirt road with dust as fine as flour and red as blood, it enters the windows like smoke. Luckily, the women have warned me and I have covered my face and hair in a wrap, only my sunglasses exposed. I can hardly see the landscape through the dust, but every so often we stop to let someone out – they are returning home to a place that seems like nowhere.

Three hours later we are in Kasulu and I get a motorcycle lift to the UNHCR (United Nations High Commission for Refugees) where my host greets me. Susan is an Iranian/Dutch lawyer who loves her job. I only met her last weekend and already she has taught me a great deal about Refugee Rights and the politics, joys and trials of working in the field. That night we have a late dinner with a woman from the IRC and I am all ears, and questions.

I am awestruck by the ubiquitous nature of the IRC woman’s beauty. She was raised in India, by her English mother and Japanese-American father – I begin to notice a theme concerning place, or placelessness amidst people here. When she finds out that I am interested in education at the camps she exclaims with passion,
– Well have you Heard the situation? !
I have heard so many different things in the past week that I am not sure what situation she is referring to.
– There haven’t been any education programs in Mtabila camp for over a year!
I have heard this and I’m very glad she is bringing it up. Mtabila is the Burundian camp. In hope to accelerate ‘voluntary’ repatriation, the government of Tanzania has been nonchalantly bringing services to a close. Approximately 35,000 people live in the Mtabila camp and it is probable that nearly half of them are children. First they closed the Secondary schools, not long after they closed all primary schools. What happens when children have nowhere to be? Let your imagination go wild.

The NGOs that work in Kasulu cannot dissent the government, but can only deliberate until some resolution is made. Only now, a year later have the education responsibilities been handed over to the IRC – who is permitted to facilitate informal education – that is, games. Yes, organized play will at least gather the children together, accounting for them, providing a basic need, their right to protection. The hope is to integrate informal education and empowerment through the games, and soon injecting numeracy and basic literacy.

This is all happening now. As well as a hand over from one NGO to another of the responsibilities related to education. Unfortunately the politics and pedantic bureaucracy in place will prevent me from visiting the camps themselves. I do not feel downcast, as there are some local volunteers and UNHCR family members who have been here for months without ever entering. Instead I meet with and talk to people who have committed their lives to the situation, people who have found their place amidst the placeless. Instead I walk around and talk to children in the area, their faces and hair reddened with the dust of Kasulu.