The IDP Camp in Eldoret (or the Eldoret Show Grounds)

The following post was written by UUSC President Charlie Clements. Clements writes from Kenya, where he is leading an emergency delegation to assess the political and humanitarian crisis that has engulfed the country in the wake of the flawed presidential elections of December 2007.

In Eldoret, we were met by two individuals associated with UUSC program partner KENASVIT (Kenya Association of Vendors and Independent Traders), an alliance of market vendors from around the country. Our first stop was the Eldoret Show Grounds, which included a large and very rickety appearing wooden grandstand. We could smell smoke from hundreds of wood-burning fires in this tent-city of at least 25,000 Kikuyus.

Sarah Elliott, a freelance photojournalist, and I wanted to climb to the top of the grandstand to get a vista and perhaps a photo. Our guides cautioned, “No photos without permission. There is a lot of anger here that can quickly be misdirected.” We knew that everyone here had fled for their lives when their houses or farms were ransacked or burned. The grandstand turned out to be much more rickety than it appeared, and we were quickly joined by a smiling boy of about ten named Walter, who guided our ascent. On top, the view reminded me of photos of civil-war army camps. Instead of canvas, though, these tents are made of heavy, white plastic. They are now home to Kikuyus.

This sea of white tents stretches right and left many football fields wide and probably two hundred yards deep to the distant tree line. As a public-health physician, my first thought was about how many latrines and water points were required to provide for minimal sanitation needs. My second thought was the staggering number of trees being cut down to feed these fires and the logistics of getting the wood to the camps. This tent-city had grown quickly, and soon we learned that another 300-plus internally displaced persons (IDPs) arrived yesterday as the violence has slowed, but still continues.

As we descended from the grandstand and headed for the camp offices, people began to cluster around us. We didn’t have to ask them any questions; they were all too eager to tell us their stories. The first man I spoke to was in his early forties. He was born in Eldoret, after his father bought land here in the 1960s, just after independence, when Jomo Kenyatta was president. He and his father are farmers. He said his farm was set on fire by individuals I referred to in yesterday’s blog as “hooligans.” He said it didn’t matter that he voted for Raila. The mob assumed he was a Kibaki supporter because he is Kikuyu. He’s living in the camp with one son, and his wife is somewhere near Nakuru with their two other children.

Within an hour, someone called me from Nairobi to warn us to avoid Nakuru, the provincial capital of Kenya's Rift Valley province, which we hadn’t intended to visit. We were told that buses are being burned there, and a dozen people had already died. This man would have learned about the unrest at about the same time I did. I suspected his feelings of helplessness (because it’s dangerous to leave the camp) were compounded by anger about what’s already happened and fear for the rest of his family. I explained to him that one of the functions of the Kenyan Red Cross was to trace and help reunite families. But I’m sure that addressing the basic needs of these IDPs and stabilizing the situation in the camps were greater priorities at the moment and that family reunification would come later.

For the last three days, Kibaki has been urging IDPs like this man to vacate camps and return to their homes. He’s been saying that the government will provide security. I asked what he thought about that notion. He looked at me like I was crazy and said with some emotion, “I cannot ever return to that place. Even though I’ve never had problems with my neighbors…until now. How could I ever place my family in this kind of danger again? There’s another election in five years, and it will be the same thing.”

It took thirty minutes to make our way to a second-story, kind-of-open-air office, which I later figured out was probably a “grandstand box,” where the privileged watched races or events in the shade, protected from the elements. There I was introduced to an elderly man whom everyone referred to as “M’zee” or ”old man,” which is a very respectful title. He and about a half dozen of his colleagues, men and women, who are the board of directors of the camp, asked me questions, and then I probed for their stories. They wanted to know who I was, why I came, what I intended to do with the information I gathered, and where else I had been.

I would estimate that we ended up speaking to 20 people, and not a single one either wanted to or felt like they could return to their homes – ever. This is a very different situation from most “refugee” camps, where people long to go home (…in the case of Palestinians, fifty years and three generations later). Their answers, as well as the certainty of their responses, caught me by surprise.

When we regather to leave the Eldoret Show grounds, I find that Walter has accompanied Sarah and become her photographer’s assistant, even taking some photos of her. He is here unaccompanied. Before the violence broke out, his mother had gone to her hometown over the Christmas holiday, leaving him with his father, who is a “casual worker,” meaning a seasonal worker who was hired to dry corn. During the first outburst of violence, he was separated from this father, whom some fear could have been injured or killed. Though he’s never been to his mother’s hometown, he does know its name. It could be weeks or months before he’s reunited with her. Already the IDPs have set up a make shift school and he’s in the fourth form. He likes school and clearly likes us. We hate to say goodbye.

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