The Forgotten Plight of the Sahrawi
Published: Wed Feb 11, 2009
Entrepreneur Jacqui Rosshandler shares an intimate account of a harrowing trip she took accompanying her husband, Dean Bialek, the New York-based UN representative for 'Independent Diplomat,' a diplomatic advisory group that advises small countries and governments-in-exile on diplomatic and negotiation strategy in the world of international relations. The client this time was the POLISARIO Front, the ex-freedom-fighter leadership of the indigenous people of Western Sahara, aka the 'Sahrawi.'
Background
The story of the Sahrawi is a complicated one. To be brief, the territory of Western Sahara was a Spanish colony until around 1975. When the Spanish left, both Mauritania and Morocco tried to assume control over the territory. War broke out, and many Sahrawi women and children fled to Algeria seeking refuge. Mauritania soon bowed out; however, the Moroccans continued to fight. The UN finally intervened and a cease-fire occurred on the proviso that a referendum of the people would be held so they could choose to become a part of Morocco or an independent state. Thirty-three years later, due to the obstruction of the Moroccans, a referendum is still yet to take place and the Sahrawi continue to live in the hostile, barren desert of Algeria.
Day 1
We touch down in Tindouf, Algeria at 3am. Flights from Algeria to Tindouf land only at night, I discover, because the sand storms during daylight make landing impossible. A bumpy drive through the pitch-black night takes us to the official Polisario guest house where we try and get some sleep before our real journey begins.
After a quick breakfast, we set off to S'mara, one of four camps in southwestern Algeria, each named after a region in Western Sahara. The camps are home to an estimated 140,000 Sahrawi refugees. The land is bone-dry and the sand unruly, flung around by the harsh desert winds.
We visit S'mara's small local hospital, where we learn about the common problems of diarrhea, lung infections (caused by the sand) and diabetes (caused by the high-sugar foods they receive from food programs). Bashir, our master translator, interprets the nurses plea: "Don't just come here and see. Convey to the world the plight of the Sahrawi."
The homes in the camp consist of tents and extremely basic mud and concrete buildings. Middle Eastern rugs line the inside of the tents, which get very hot in summer and very cool in the winter.
Next we meet some 900 students in their school, studiously learning basic skills in both Spanish and Arabic. The children are glued to the blackboard and it breaks my heart when I'm shown the high-fructose energy cake (provided by the UNHCR) that they must split amongst one another for the day.
The Centre for Mental Disabilities is run by a devoted and inspiring man who tells us with great Spanish gusto about how his school affords children with mental and physical disabilities an education, autonomy and integration. It's amazing to see these young people thrive in this hostile environment, due primarily to the love and dedication of their teachers and aids. The children pose as we take photographs and bask in the attention.
We are then whisked off quickly to the English School, where we meet the Cuban-educated director and his American teachers, tending to classes of 16-year-old-plus pupils who want to learn English as a means to travel abroad and broaden their horizons and opportunities. Seeing these Americans out here, in the dust, makes me feel that my mere three-day visit is not enough and I find their practical help truly humbling.
The Landmine Victims Centre is our next very disturbing stop. A disgusting consequence of war, landmines left over from battles between the Polisario and Moroccans have caused horrific injuries to innocent people of all ages. Only a few weeks earlier, two children aged 12 and 13 had been injured by a landmine and would live in the centre to recuperate following their medical treatment. The centre also functions as a home for the elderly who can no longer live on their own. I find it astounding that, even in these hostile conditions, the strength of community has led these people to look after others despite their own difficult circumstances.
The final stop of the day is the Military Museum, where we pass over old Moroccan tanks and artillery confiscated from the Moroccans during the 17-year civil war. I start to wonder nervously whether any of these shells could possibly go off, and I look forward to a little time back at the house to digest what we have already seen.
Day 2
Up early after a strong Sahrawi coffee and fresh boiled eggs from the chickens in the yard, we head to the camps' central hospital in Rabuni, which takes in the more serious and emergency patients from the region. The Director tells us about the difficulties of treating people in the desert, including the shortage of drugs, irregularity of their arrival and insufficient equipment to treat most medical complications. The children in the pediatric area are cold and their mothers worried. On the one hand, I am relieved to see the basic medical care and facilities, provided mostly by the generosity of European NGOs. On the other hand, I wonder how many pass away while awaiting medicines or due to infections and unhygienic conditions. How many actually leave here well?
The Sahrawi women are a fierce and proud bunch. Unlike many other Arab women, they play a very visible role in the community, running the camps, managing schools and building institutions, none more impressive than the local Ladies School. The women here are taught how to sew, weave, bake, drive and use computers, amongst other things. I'm glad to see that, despite being in the middle of nowhere, they have the ability to use a few computer terminals and search the web. It also makes me realise that, in doing so, they see how others in the world live — this must give them hope but also frustration.
After lunch, we visit the office of the President of Western Sahara, Mohamed Abdelaziz. My husband and the President discuss the political situation and ways in which they can work together to try and establish independence in their own land. My job is to take photos and notes, yet all the while I think how unreal this seems, and hope that the next time I meet this man, he will no longer be an outsider in Algeria, but a President in his own country.
The Red Crescent is similar in nature to the Red Cross, and its Sahrawi subsidiary was created in 1975 to address the civil war-driven humanitarian disaster on their hands. The Director here is frustrated: the Sahrawi are neither dying nor at war, but they attract little to no attention from the outside world. This, he says, is why they have been forgotten in the desert for the last 33 years. If the World Food Program gets food to them, they eat. If there are hold-ups, they go hungry, relying on emergency stores that deteriorate quickly in the harsh desert conditions. Here there is no war and there is no peace — just a forgotten people living on supplies provided by NGOs and the UN, unable to become self-sufficient in the barren land they are forced to endure. In short, they live on food that is deemed sufficient for people suffering as temporary refugees, yet their troubling situation has persisted for 33 long years.
That night, we eat a traditional meal of couscous and stew in the Presidential adviser Mhamed Khadad's tent. His wife paints Henna on my feet and they dress us in gifts of Sahrawi clothing and turbans. We sit covered in blankets and share stories. Khadad explains that, while it's romantic to sit in a cold tent for a night, it becomes less so when days turn into months, months into generations.
Day 3
We wake early for our drive out to the Berm, the sand and dirt wall built by the Moroccan army to exclude the Sahrawi from the more hospitable regions of their homeland. Our car cannot approach too close to the wall for fear of landmines. We sit back in the car, peering through our zoom lenses to make out the soldiers' faces. The soldiers peer back, but with guns over their shoulders. The ride back to camp is bumpy and long, but made easier by a refreshing stop mid-desert for a pot of steaming Sahrawi tea. Broken-down cars and decomposed goats provide the scene as we streak through the rippled desert sands.
That evening, our return flight to Algiers departs at 2am. We board the plane, rubbing shoulders with teams of Spanish and Italian NGOs — they have done their duties, dropped off their supplies and are heading home, covered in henna and sporting new turbans.
I look at all the effort and money that goes towards helping these people who so wish to be self-sufficient in their own land. I can't help but wonder why the governments who must provide aid and assistance to the Sahrawi have not done more to help them exercise their democratic right to decide on independence. A complex situation seems quite simple after all.
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