>HOPE AND DESPAIR: DADAAB PROFILES

The refugees of Dadaab have tragic pasts but big dreams.

The Student

Ali Aden Hassan (centre) can barely talk about June 18 without crying. “I worked so hard. It was a sad day.” Hassan, 20, has grown up here, arriving from Baidoa, Somalia, when he was 2 years old. Hassan, a good student, heard about a scholarship that could have been his ticket to Canada. The World University Service of Canada scholarships are spoken about in near mythical terms. About 20 recipients are accepted each year. On that Thursday, Hassan gathered with other students in the market to look at his marks. He had received a B. Only graduates with a B+ or higher were invited to write the WUSC exams. “My dreams died that day.”

The Teacher

Khalif Abdul Hussein arrived as a small boy holding his mother’s hand, fleeing violence in the Somali town of Kismayo. Hussein, now 29, is one of the camp’s bestknown teachers and has taught primary school students for nine years. He once held out hope of leaving. In 2008, he applied, with this wife’s family, for settlement in the U.S. His application was rejected; he was never certain of the reasons but believes the form was filled out incorrectly. “It was very painful. I switched off my phone because all my friends were calling. They all knew I would find out that day and wanted to know.” In the years since, he has found peace teaching. “I feel I’ve made a difference.”

The Journalist

Kowsar Warsame had one goal growing up: to become a journalist. Often the camp radio stations were the only link to the outside. Warsame, 21, escaped the clan warfare in Somalia 15 years ago. She was one of the lucky few who attended the camp’s secondary school and then took a journalism course managed by the Norwegian Refugee Council. She recently became an intern at Radio Gargaar, a camp station. “I’ve been dreaming about being a journalist or on the radio since I was a little girl,” she says as her 3-year-old niece Fartun Barud sits at her feet in their meticulously clean home with packed mud walls, covered in fabric. “Now everyone knows my voice.”

The Singer

Sarah Abdullahi Farah, 37, started singing professionally with a camp group in 2011, “but I have always loved music.” She cries when she talks about her journey from Mogadishu in 2006. The salon she owned was attacked and she was shot in the leg. Her father and brother were killed. She initially found safety in Dadaab but two years ago she fended off a rape. A scar on her elbow is from where she was hit with a machete. Singing with PET group, a camp band, is all that brings her solace. Their songs are of hardship and survival — while preaching safe sex. She would like to open a salon in the camp one day. “I have the skills and the knowledge, but no money to do it.”