Concert in Oslo!

Having spent 3 months in a refugee camp changes you as a person. And I do hope that is for the better. Not a single day passes by without me thinking about my host family, our coordinator Abba or my students. I am certainly not the only one, I know Eivind and Sunniva do the same, and not to forget the volunteers before us- Hanne, Marta and Anne Kristine. 

The only way we can show our host families as well as the project how thankful we all are, is to inform other Norwegians about the current situation in the camps. We all know that without international pressure, nothing will change and my host family will continue to live in their tent and little brick house. As a consequence of this, we came up with the idea of organising a concert in Oslo with the title 'Have you heard about Western Sahara?'. 
 
The event will take place at Månefisken 30th August 2012. Doors open at 19.00. 
 
FREE ENTRY!

Richard Skretteberg from the Norwegian Refugee Aid will speak, as well as Ingrid Aas Borge, president of Changemaker, og Senia Bashir, a Saharawi refugee now currently living in Norway. 

We are so lucky to have the most exciting band in Norway, 'Disaster In the Universe', playing. http://www.nrk.no/urort/Artist/DisasterInTheUniverse/default.aspx#top

'Making Marks', a well-known indie-band (previously known as My Little Pony) will also entertain this evening. http://makingmarksofficial.tumblr.com/

'Bård Watn' will catch peoples’ attention with his guitar and distinct voice.http://www.bardwatn.com/

In addition to this will Sarah Ramin Osmundsen, Norwegian champion in poetry from 2011, entertain, Kosti Kühler will show his films from the refugee camp and Elisabeth Stubberud will hold a photo exhibition from the same place.

We want the place to be filled up with people interested in having a good night and learning more about the Saharawi refugee camps in Algeria. After having followed this blog for such a long time- we you assume you over normal interested in the refugee camps- and there are no excuses for not showing up at the concert! 

We promise an excellent night, with good music, politics and art- all for free.

The last blogpost

We are going home soon. In 9 days we will sleep in our soft beds and smell the fresh air of Norway. There will be no sand between our toes and our tan we are so proud of, will be washed off with soap and clean hot water. 

Things we never thought we would do

• Camel slaughter
• Drive an old German military vehicle
• Do housework for a man
• Spend 45 minutes on the toilet
• Drink 712 cups of tea

Things we have learned

• Don't touch the Quran
• Don't greet the opposite sex by shaking their hand
• Tampons is only for married women
• A bride should be sad
• Hola means “hi” in the European language

Things we have experienced

• Not smile unnecessarily to men
• Licking our hands clean after a meal
• Always bring toilet paper and antibac wherever you go

• Not all children are nice
• Don't talk about Israel

Teacher for 3 months?

Teaching in the refugee camp is awarding, the students are inspiring and and the teacher role has given us the possibility to get to know people we elsewhere wouldn't have met. However, being a teacher in the refugee camp has also proven to be very challenging and sometimes on the brink to frustrating. I keep reminding myself that I don't have gone though the same teacher education as others, in order to justify all my wrong-doings. I spend hours trying to explain a rule, only to find the students making the same mistakes the next day, leading me to question the sanity of my old teachers... There are days where I simply wish I didn't have to make my way down to the community centre, and lack of motivation, freezing classrooms, or a badly planned lessons have all been contributing reasons. Nevertheless, most days are excellent, and my little classroom has turned into a little sauna in the hot sun. On good days I have up to four people per desk, twelve women in total in addition to one one man. Add all the smell and you have a room filled of cooking oil, chalk and sweat.

I was surprised to find dictation the class' favorite activity, in addition to tests and competitions. I have some very competitive students, however they might have misunderstood the concept as they believe it is all about being the loudest.. Yet, when Bruno Mars, Michael Jackson or Tom Gee are played the class turn quiet. After all, it is important to understand the lyrics of 'when you smile, the whole world stops for a while' or 'heal the world, make it a better place'.

The end of this week was celebrated with homemade cake made by two of my students. It is strange to imagine that we only have one full week on teaching left and that my students will be left to themselves after that. Perhaps some of them will be picked up by the next years Norwegian volunteers. Others will perhaps start their studies in Algeria, the not so lucky ones (depending on how you look at it) might spend more time in the kitchen. The only thing I know is that I for sure will miss every individual student that I have spent three hours with, every day, for the last three months.

What is a place without its people?

Now as our stay is coming to an end I am thinking more and more about the people and the place where we are. This is not a permanent home. Not for me, not for them. Still when I look around, this has really felt like a home the last few months.

My uncle and my cousin left a few days ago. And I miss them very much, I always had interesting discussions with one of them, and the other taught me how to drive a motorbike in the desert. When they left it made me think about this place without these people. What makes an area and a territory to a place? If it is just the people couldn't you then make a home out of anything? How different would this territory be if someone else lived here?

People all around the world create places by building a life around the resources available. Sometimes there are more and sometimes there are less. People use what they have, and after a while the stories and the memories will be attached to a piece of land. Still this place in the desert isn't any ones home. I hope that the Saharawis' will get their country back. At the same time I must say how much I admire them and their accomplishments in making these refugee camps a home. When we leave in two weeks I will not only miss the people, and my family but I will miss my home. 

Women rights in Islam

I have had the great opportunity to learn a lot about Islam since I got here. At least, some Saharwis view om their own religion. This week I asked our Arabic teacher to write about her perspective. She works in the the women's union. I wanted her to write with her own words how she sees the women's rights in Islam. Women in the camps are in charge of many important institutions and many Saharawi women are involved in both politics and in family life. However most women in Sahara just make food and stay home with their children. But that is because the want to. It is not better or worse. Just different. And in the end women who choose a different path are not looked down on, as long as a warm lunch and dinner is prepared for the family.

Do women long for more rights? I asked my students why a man could marry a non Muslim while a women could not. And both the girls and the boys in my class explained to me that men are more reasonable and more responsible then women. Women are controlled by their feelings. One of the girls in my class admitted that she didn't like this. She added that even though she didn't like it, she respected the it since it is the words from the Quran. It is the words from Allah.

Lehedie's perspective:

Islam is based on the fact that the men and the women complete each other and their relationship should be based on cooperation and not on fighting and conflict. In Islam women are not treated differently in general believing, reward and punishment. However the two genders are different physical and psychological so it is normal to have different responsibilities and roles in the society.

The family in Islam is the foundation to build the society on and the strength of this family create a good and strong society. The women have a huge role in this family. The women have a right to marriage, motherhood and to have a house. In Islam the woman has the right to choose her husband and also she has the right to divorce if life is not good enough to stay together.

The man in Islam is financially responsible for the woman. It is his obligation to do this. This right for women doesn't mean that she can't own her money and spend it as she likes. She has the same financial independence as the man. The woman has the right to work, if she needs or wants to. But what she earn is her own property and she can spend it as she likes. The man doesn't have any right to ask questions, and he still have the responsibility to support the family without her money.

Hijab in Islam is one of the main things that achieve integrity, shelter from lustful looks, and modesty in the society and it stops public indecency. This hijab clothing is something Muslims are proud of, and it discourages premarital sexual relationships.

What do I want to change?

Many people have asked me if I now appreciate what I have in Norway more, after I have experienced the refugee camp in Sahara. But the truth is that there are few things I really miss from my good life in Norway. Some nights when I wake up with back pain I miss my mattress at home, but I have never felt that my life in Norway is any better then life here. Saharawis have so much that I rarely experienced at home. For instance, in Norway I have a fantastic family but we live far away from each other and I don't see them very often. In stark contrast to this, life in Sahara is concentrated around the family and the extended family is a part of every moment of every day. They live together, they help their family and their neighbors to their very best and they always share what they have. I even got one of my family's two baby goats. As my project manager said; the family is the most important institution in the Saharawi society, and the loyalty a Saharawi has toward his/her family is absolute.

Now, this is not to say that I don't miss my family at home and that I don't struggle with parts of the culture here. For example when we got henna and we couldn't wash our hands for 4 days in order to preserve the marks. This would not be a problem had we eaten with cutlery and not with our hands. After going two days without my daily hand wash I felt I had two options. One, embrace the Saharawi culture and face whatever consequences the lack of hygiene would lead to. Or two, stick to my own habits and reason and wash my hands anyway. I must admit that I tried my very best to avoid water. However after having participated in the slaughtering of the camel I washed my hands.

How much should you care? How much should you try to change the society around you and how much should you adapt to their culture? Personally I want to adapt as much as possible. That is why I happily sleep on the floor, eat with my hands and wear the melheffa. The Saharawis inspire me in many ways, and one day I saw my father, Bishiri, brushing his teeth. Apparently I have some influence as well. But we all take one step at the time.

21 Days

Not counting today, that’s how much time we have left here in the camps. Because of previous problems with Algerian officials and the kidnapping last October, the local government in the camps does not allow any applications for visa extention. So we leave for Norway the 14th of April. This leaves us with about 500 hours left in Western Sahara, and they’re not exactly trickling away slower for our sake. In fact, right now it’s more like we’re moving towards a horrible, yet inevitable end, and it feels kind of like watching that ignorant guy in horror movies walk slowly into the darkest room of the evil lair. Pretty annoying really. And here I sit, behind this laptop, writing for a blog on the internet. I think I’ll just head outside for a while! See you next week enshallah!

Marriage

Marriage is a prominent part of the Saharawi culture, and it takes up a large chunk of people's time, whether it is participating in one or helping out with the preparations. It is celebrated for 2 to 3 days in a row and it often feeds over a hundred people. The picture is taken of Sunniva's uncle's wedding, which we all participated in, and you can 'see' the beautiful bride and and her proud husband.

We have spent a considerable time at different weddings, eaten lot of camel meat (some of us would even insist on' too much') and attempted to dance Saharawi dances.  As a result of our wedding- craziness I also started talking about marriage at home with my family. It turns out that my oldest sister who is a very conservative Muslim, only wants to see her husband after she is engaged. To me, it sounds like a silly idea, however she insists on the fact that beauty only comes from the inside. Before the engagement, they instead talk on the phone but only to discuss each others demands such as where they want to live and the type of house. I carefully asked how she could be so sure about her future husband's income, as her list over items includes a trip to Mecca and a house with a big bathroom, but it turned out to be a unnecessary question. To my sister, a man that is ready for marriage is also able to take care of his wife and all her needs. Whatever that must be.

I must say, I started questioning why people marry. Are we crazy in Europe to believe in 'love', whatever that is? How important is money? I constantly question why Saharawis marry when  contact between the couple before a wedding is so limited. Many couples don't even know each other before they move in together in their new home. On the other hand, Allah has told people to marry, and I know that is the reason my sister is looking for a husband.

All I am sure of is that marriage has a different meaning for the people here in the refugee camp in contrast to what we believe in Norway. And perhaps are Norwegians native when we believe in love. Or are we?

Lunch in a refugee camp?

I have yet to encounter a family who does not tell me- 'I want to make you fat'. Food is an important part of the culture in the camp and women ought to be big -it is seen as a sign of beauty and good health. Families get offended if you don't eat enough as a guest, and if there is a type of food you don't touch you can be certain they think you don't like it and not because you don't have room for another banana.

Last week I went over to Sunniva's house to pick up a book. Sunniva's mother Shidi noticed my arrival and without saying a word, she pured more food onto Sunniva's plate and told us both to come for lunch. Now, I had not told my family that I was eating out and I knew my family was waiting for me at home. After a little discussion, Sunniva and I came to an agreement we later regretted very much. In order to not offend any of our families I would first eat at Sunniva's place and then together walk over to to my family for our second lunch. Little did we know about the amount of food that we would have to force down.

Having eaten couscous, beans, bread, yogurt, soup and salad we could barely walk. Still, my family was quite offended as none of us ate very much and continuously asked why we didn't like the food. Report's from Sunniva's house were quite similar, and the half-finished plate at Shidi's house was the topic for many days after.

Now, I agree with you that this sounds like crazy Westerners eating all the food meant for the refugees. I must add that the project pays our host-families and thus there is always money enough for food. Secondly, Saharawi families don't cook less even though you insist on smaller portions. My sister Lala even said once when I asked her for less food 'I don't know how to cook little'. However, and perhaps more to the point, is the Saharawi generosity. They only want the very best for their guests and whether that means they have to eat dry bread the next day is not any problem. Whenever a family has money they share with everyone, and their sense of solidarity is greater than anywhere else I have seen.

Yet, as a result of their generous hospitality, we are simply gaining weight in the Saharawi refugee camp.

What's up?

So what’s hip and what’s happening with the current participants at the moment? What’s hot and what’s not? Keep reading and get the truth about the marathon, the Germans, the visa dilemma and their epic journeys to places with strange names like Dakhla and Smara. In the first episode of this new series, the truth about the marathon is revealed:

The marathon
The Sahara Marathon is an annual happening here in the camps, where participants from all over the world come to run a distance to show solidarity with and experience some of the life in the camps. It is organized by Saharawis and a Spanish NGO. They also collect a fee from the runners that goes to sponsoring selected projects like a center for youth in Smara which offers jobs and education for youth in the area. Here they have a.o. a bakery where the popular French loafs are baked, welding and carpenting workshops and a high speed public internet connection.

The distances offered are 5, 10, 21 and 42 kilometers. When our three Norwegians happened to chance by the organizers’ office on a trip to Rabouni, the executive camp, they boldly signed up for the marathon. Sunniva and Marianne for the 10 k and Eivind for the full marathon. At the time they had 10 days to prepare for the race, and it didn’t take long for that feeling of being damned, that is reserved for those who are soon about to die, kicked in.

It wasn’t easy for them to prepare when the rules for foreigners denied them to run alone, but they did their best and found running mates in children on bikes, elderly standing on hills watching them and young people in cars. Eivind even found a cousin of his who liked to run and did a few trips with him. Like one epic journey all around the camp, from his house to the Saharawi control post at the exit of the camp and from here through the camp to the Norwegian Church Aid’s failed water treatment plant on top a hill. At this point the cousin, Omar, wanted to turn back, but Eivind pushed onwards and they continued to the other end of the camp where they encountered an Algerian border patrol. Thankfully they seemed content by explanation about crazy foreigners just wanting to run the marathon. Omar and Eivind continued along the border, climbed a hill, and just as the sun was setting they stopped for some time while Omar prayed his afternoon prayer. From here they traveled homewards in dusk, and by the time they made it home it was pitch black. Needless to say, they were not too popular with the elders of the family, despite their apologies. Because of their long absence, the alarm had sounded and lots of people were worrying and phoning each other and more people to figure out what had happened to Eivind.

The Norwegians, too resilient to give up because of some minor scandal like this, kept preparing for the soon approaching marathon. Edmund and Henrik, their bosses who came to stay for a week to check on their work and the project in general, encouraged them and Henrik even told them that he would be disappointed if they did not run. So, all charged up, our heroes went into the last few days of preparation.

When Abba, the Saharawi boss and the Norwegians’ best friend, came to collect the 20 euros for the run three days before the run, he expressed some concerns regarding the Spanish NGO and an unexpected increase in the price, to 50 euros for Eivind and 30 for Sunniva and Marianne. He told them that if he was not able to get the price lowered to the previously agreed upon 20, he would not let them run. The mood was low as he left our dear vikings not knowing if their hard won exercise was for naught.

A day later he called them back with good news, the Saharawi organizer promised that the price would be lowered. The run was back on!

But the happiness didn’t last long. A few hours before Sunniva and Marianne should have been picked up for their starting point 10 km from the finish, Abba called again. When the officials had arrived to pick up their money, and drop off the start numbers and complementary t-shirts, they had asked for 50 and 2x30 euros. No run. No fun.

As a conciliation Abba brought our friends to Smara for a day and a night. Here they experienced dead animal water containers, and got to see really sweaty Spanish people. But this story will have to wait until next week.

Mehebbes!

Why we wear melheffas

Why do you wear the melhefa?’ asked my aunt me a couple of days ago. Before I managed to come up with a sensible answer in Hassaneya my sister extensively explained my desire to become a Saharawi and thus also my stubborn attitude to eat with my hands, cover my face and sleep on the floor. Indeed I want to experience the Saharawi culture yet the reason for my perhaps determined behaviour is closer related to my own notion of respect. If someone visits my family I would expect them to eat with cutlery, and consequently when all women cover their body why should I be an exception?

Now when this is said, and as previous participants have noted, every day is not  ‘melhefa-day’. There are days when I wake up and simply wish I could use my time-worn jeans and a big jumper, however as soon as I go outside I’m happy I’m wrapped in my meter long, colourful piece of fabric. In the melhefa I am able to disappear in the mass of women, people don’t stir because I’m a foreigner and I am sometimes mistakenly taken for being a Saharawi. Indeed, having worn the melhefa every day since our arrival, both Sunniva and I feel naked without it.I’m not comfortable walking outside showing the contours of my body and Sunnva even covered her hair with her hands once when she lost the head piece while a car passed by once.

Sunniva and I have obviously our favourite melhefas and consequently also some not so nice ones. My pink gown look more like a brides mate outfit from the 80s than anything else and we all had a good laugh first time Sunniva entered the room looking like an Easter bunny in her yellow outfit.Yet, nothing beats the white malhefa I was given the other day. Firstly, the fabric in itself is considered very nice, where the textile is so stiff that is ‘stands out’ from my body. Yes, I do look like a balloon. Secondly, the white see-through fabric is decorated with yellow, blue and yes, pink dots, exactly like the stereotypical clown outfit from any European circus group.

In order to prove my point, Sunniva and I descided to take pictures of

our wonderful melhefa collection. The picture might be a bit small,

but you do at least get a sense of our colourful outfits all in one.

Written by Marianne 

A home or a refugeecamp?

A refugee camp is a place where a people, who have fled from their country, live until their return. It is a people waiting to return to their home land and their own territory. But if you can’t return, and have waited for change for 37 years, how do you adjust? How are a people shaped by the long wait?

Many people in the Sahara refugee camp have never experienced their home country and have never been on the run. How long can a people wait before they choose to make the refugee camp their home? They live their lives in insecurity about the future, and Inshallah (if God wants to) they will return. For that reason people don’t build beautiful houses to live in. And why should they? If they do settle down, wouldn’t that be the same as giving up?

An individual have to do make the best out of it. Live every day as best as he/she can, but at the same time never give up hope to return to their real home. My uncle says that this is how it is supposed to be right now. That this is Gods will, and that they will get their award in heaven. Nevertheless many young people grow more and more impatient. They want change.

My father here is one of the few people who have spent all his money, and some of his neighbors’ money, on a solid house. And when I asked him why, he answered that he wanted to see his son grow up with shelter from the harsh weather and a nice place to come home to. He has spent his whole life here in the refugee camp and he is now 36 years old. He was born here right after his family fled from the occupied territory. My father has never seen Western Sahara, but that does not mean that he feels that he belongs here. He is born with the stories, the longing and the waiting.

I don’t know what the long hours, days, months, years, and decades of waiting will do to a people, but I am sure the waiting will not make them less eager to get back to their real homes in Western-Sahara.

What is a refugee?

We have now spent five weeks in the camp and all three of us now better grasp the meaning of the ‘very cold nights’. The houses and tents are obviously not insulated and thus the temperature is the same inside and outside- around 10 degrees at night. We are very thankful for our woollen jumper and the warm sleeping bags we brought from Norway however the sleeping bag has also created a source of discussion in my family. In a good way that is.

One especially cold night when I decided to crawl up in my sleeping bag, my host-sisters started questioning the bag in itself. Why did I bring it when sleeping bags are ‘only’ used for mountaineering and remote cabin trips?  I tried to explain in a mix of Hassaneya, Arabic, Spanish, English and body language that I prepared for a refugee camp, not the castle I live in. I my mind I packed for ‘a worst-case-scenario’, a cold place where blankets would be a luxury, where toilets would be located behind sand dunes, where good food would be a treat and soap only placed the big supermarket in Algeria- 300 kilometres away.

As you probably have understood, my family enjoys a big house with washing facilities, a large kitchen and enough batteries to light up the house at night. The standard of living varies from family to family, and as my host-sister neatly put it when I asked what the next volunteers should bring: ‘if you live with a good family, you don’t need anything’. Our little discussion, which ended up with two giggling Saharawi girls and a very confused Norwegian made me start thinking. What is really a refugee?

News reports from Somalia and aid commercials with starving children with big eyes have contributed to my perhaps very ‘Westernised’ image of a refugee camp. However, to my experience, being a refugee doesn’t necessarily equal dirt and poverty. India has for many years hosted refugees from Tibet, and despite the fact many of them have settled in their new home country, they still hold a refugee status. Consequently, the debate of removing someone’s refugee titles emerges. When do we stop calling a people or individuals a refugee? Does it depend on time, wealth or the political situation? And perhaps more importantly, who has the right to give and to remove such titles? Now, it is important to notice that I am not referring to the situation in the Sahara Desert and I do not imply anywhere that the humanitarian aid to the camps has to be stopped. It is rather a mix of thoughts which have come to my mind after spending time with my family and students.

I personally find the refugee debate difficult to address and even more so after having developed close connections with my host-family and friends.  If we are to give titles and thus rights to a certain people, do we then classify them? Do we have ‘super-refugees’ on the Horn of Africa and lower class refugees from conflicts more than 40 years old? Or are all refugees entitled to the same rights and aid, no matter their economic income or time constraints?

I am not convinced that these questions can ever be answered. In the Saharawi case, the people will never stop calling themselves refugees until they have moved back to their country of Western Sahara, free from Morocco’s occupation and human rights abuses. Until then, the Sahara desert will always be scattered with tents and sand houses, filled with tolerant Saharawis, patiently waiting for their day of freedom. And they will continue to encounter odd Norwegian habits and their sleeping bags. 

A Day in the Life

I think the best way to illustrate what a normal day looks like for us is by song. And what better song to show a normal day in our lives than the Beatles' "A Day in the Life". You'll notice that the wording has been adapted a bit to fit our situation. I recommend you read it with the music (if you don't have the song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P-Q9D4dcYng):

‘A day in the life’ in refugee camps in the Sahara

I tried to run today o boy,
It wasn’t popular - I went alone,
And though the run was rather short,
Well they just had to join
It wasn’t really all bad
The guy they sent was pretty nice,
He spoke Spanish and that broke the ice,
Lots of people stared at us,
They’d not seen my face,
Nobody was really sure that I was not kiiiiidnaaapped


I tried to teach today o boy,
The English language is on floor and door,
All my students turned away,
But I just had to teach,
Thinking it’s OK


I’d love to show you


Woke up,
Got off the floor,
Feeling frozen to the core,
Found the way to the tent and drank 3 cups,
And sitting in the sun I started heating up,
ha ha ha ha
Found my da’raa and grabbed my turban,
Made the walk in minutes flat,
Found my way inside and had a blast 
And somebody spoke [English] and I went into a dream.


I went to Arabic o boy
28 characters you have to know
And though there aren’t very many,
We had to know them all,
Now we know the characters of the entire Arabic alphabet.


I’d love to show you.

Boy meets girl

Love is as exciting, disappointing and confusing here as in all countries. However the traditions here are quite different from what I am used to. As I am writing this, I sit a mere meter away from a typical stage before getting married, and I have first-hand information of how you get married. My aunt has talked on the phone with a man for 6 months, and this week she finally met him for the first time. At the moment I am witness to their third date, which beats even Napoleon Dynamite in awkwardness. I wonder if it is as embarrassing to them as it is to me…

Last time he brought his friend. One could imagine it an improvement, however it simply meant I could enjoy the company of not only one sad bachelor, but two. They looked miserably down at the floor, ignoring my small talk. The only answer I got, after a lot of frustrated looks at my family, was their names. (And confusingly enough they were called the same!) And no one else in the family talked to them either. The young men didn’t even smile. They looked as is if they wanted to be anywhere else but here. I couldn’t believe how this young man actually wanted to marry my aunt. Where were the longing eyes or the secret smiles? The best part was the fact that my aunt was faced the other way. Not looking in his direction. I asked myself if they were both terribly shy or if this was a part of the culture I did not understand.

I quickly learned that, in order to respect potential fiancés family, you don’t look at any family members and you don’t talk if the family is present. A more religious way of falling in love is to not meet your fiancé at all. Your families talk, but you don’t. Before the wedding that is.

Respect is the reason why husbands don’t talk to his father-in-law and the reason why you are shy in the presence of older people. In order to avoid shameful situations a husband could (potentially) jump out the window or cover their face if the father-in-law enters the room.

Getting married

Step one: meet a girl/boy or a cousin
Step two: Get persons phone number
Step three: When you feel like you know this person you can meet the family
Step four: Eat dinner with her family
Step five: Ask her to marry
Step six: Make your family ask her family if you can get married
Step seven: Bring a goat to her family
Step eight: Marry (if you can afford it)

Cars!

Having been in the Sahara Desert for over a month, we are now used to the sand, the sun and the children with stones. Communicating with only body language is not a problem anymore, and the dark nights are now our friend with its big moon and bright stars.

Yet, we are all still dependent on cars when going further than our little community of Buccra. Finding a car is can sometimes be difficult, and having to depend on someone to drive you to the internet place makes you feel like a teenager again. On the other hand, our mothers are just as dependent on these timeworn vehicles, and whenever a big shop needs to be done, the family jump into one of the old Landrovers.

Most cars need an extra push by the strongest men in the neighbourhood in order to start, and despite me being very strong; the masculine sort is never a girl. If the difficulties with starting the car weren’t more than enough, I have yet to experience a door which will open by using the door handle only. Every car has its own trick, whether it is pulling a string or kicking the door. However, and perhaps by luck or magic, we always end up where we were destined for.

Now, the roads in the desert aren’t necessarily the best. To speak frankly, the highway in the desert is nothing more than tracks from previous cars and its’ comfort level can be discussed in length. A car ride is simply not only a journey; it is better described as an up-side-down roller coaster and the inside of a washing machine at the same time. First time I entered my uncle’s car, my host-sister carefully showed me the handle which I could hold on to. You would think that driving in the desert is straight forward- literally- however avoiding all the big rocks makes the Sahara Desert more like the west coast of Norway. So, if you ever wonder a about how Rally Dakar with Petter Solberg would feel like, have a go in the Sahara Desert first.

The pink melhefa

After 20 days with the fantastic family of Shidie and Bisheri, I have moved to a new family in a different neighbourhood. Having gone though the feelings with my class the same day as the move, I had to admit to my students that I indeed was a bit nervous. A new family means new habits, new people and a new place, and it again mean leaving my comfort zone. However, I was also very excited to meet a new Saharawi family. Having ridden through the unexplored territory of neighbourhood 3 in a proper Saharawi car, we finally arrived my new home. It turned out that my family was out shopping and I therefore had to spend the first hour with my half-asleep aunt. Attempting small-talk, I started chitchatting about the TV programme the two children were watching; however as soon as my aunt realized I was interested in the show, she turned up the volume. This killed our simple conversation and I was left by myself with a British TV magical tricks show for children under 7 years. My family arrived an hour later and I was brought my house. I was treated like a (qu)king and told that ‘mi casa es tu casa’ which, with my horrible Spanish, I have translated to my castle is your castle. To be correct- I know casa in Spanish is house, I did learn some Spanish before I left, but I don’t live in a house- indeed it is a castle. Based on my own research, which consist of visiting a couple of families, I think I live in the biggest house in Laayoune. My welcome present turned out to be a new melhefa. A pink melhefa. With golden decoration. I feel like a little brides mate when I wear it, yet this newly acquired piece of fabric so now my teaching gown. Now, in the midst of the fantastic treatment I received, I forgot to ask for the family’s last name. This would not have been a problem had I not gotten lost in neighbourhood 3 the day after, while walking home from school. I strolled around in circles, looking at every sand-based house hoping my sister would pop out of a front door somewhere. Being lost is no fun, the cute kids suddenly turn to small devils and I could not ask for help with no name to ask for. But at this time, when I was lost and had nobody to turn to, one of my students appeared. I must admit that I have never been so happy to hear ‘teacher teacher’ - out in the desert.

A Fresh Start

Last Sunday Sunniva, Marianne and I had to break up our fabulous trio into three solos. That is, Marianne and I have moved away from our first family in neighborhood 4 of Bucraa. I left for neighborhood 1, and Marianne for neighborhood 3. I suspect you most likely are not very familiar with Bucraa, so simply put this means that we are about 500 meters from each other. And that to get to Sunniva’s family, I now have to take a left upon leaving my house, walk a few meters along a narrow pathway between some houses, take a right between a house and a heima (the big Saharawi tents) and then pass a broken Landrover from the last world war. If I at this point am walking towards a house with Arabic writing in white letters on it, I’m on the right way.
Before I reach this house I have to take another left, and I should now be able to see the Bucraa center where we teach. From there I know the way like the back of my djelabia (the male melheffa). I just go past the Taxi donkey, take a right, and I’m already welcomed by kids yelling “Ahmed!” or “Mohamed!” (the Hassania equivalents to Eivind) at me. Hardly any problem at all.

Marianne on the other hand I have no idea how to get to, other than that she lives somewhere quite close to our Arabic teacher, who lives somewhat in that (I’m indicating towards what I think is the south-west) direction. I’ll get to visit her with time though. She tells fantastic tales of a bed, a sink and something like a shower - tales that sound so incredible that they can only be verified by going there to see for myself.

Being put so suddenly into a completely new family brought back all the challenges we experienced together the first few days. You know, that awkward feeling when you’re so far from your comfort zone that you have absolutely no idea what to do or how to act, and you end up just sitting there. Sort of watching the family while feebly attempting to use your limited Hassania vocab. Not to mention the anticipation just before I arrived! I regret to say that I’m not exaggerating when I say it scared the shit out of me. In fact, the past few days I’ve been having some quite autonomous bowel movements, manifesting themselves rather aggressively in the lavatory. Thankfully, the family bears over with me, much thanks to my host brother and room mate, Dädäh, who speaks well Spanish, but also some English. We have decided to only use Spanish when it is strictly necessary, and otherwise speak Hassania and English so that we might both improve our language. It makes communicating more difficult, but it also relieves the pressure to have an actual conversation about something beyond the most basic - a pressure one often feels when one has a language in common with the other. Instead we are able to treat each other as toddlers who utter a word now and then, so that anyone in their presence with a somewhat developed command of the language in question cheer the little one on by reacting with happiness far beyond proportion to his deed.

Beauty

Beauty in the refugee camp is, not surprisingly, a very different consept compared to the European fashion industry. The colourful 'melhefa' for women and the brown 'jelebie' for men are used on a daily basis, and we dramatically wrap scarfs around our faces whenever we go outside. Yet, we are greeted with 'hola' instead of the normal 'salam ailekum' while walking to the market. Now, it remains a mystery to us how the Saharawis are able to differentiate between us and a 'real' Saharawi when the only human feature we show are our eyes. We started questioning whether the smurfs could have something to do with this. Who can possible forget the smurfs? This happy, blue creature with white hats have indeed left many children with a smile on their faces before heading to bed at night. But what do the Saharawis and the smurfs have in common? We were all shocked when we encountered the first woman with make-up, which we by mistake took as dirt. I even tried to help my aunt removing some of this dirt, believing it came from the house-cleaning that day. She wildly objected and physically pushed me away and I then realised that what I had tried to brush off was face paint, not dust and filth. The problem with the Saharawi make-up, which is supposed to be white, is that in real life-it is blue! Indeed, most Saharawi women look like smurfs when attempting to promote their beauty. I do recognise that 'the gras is always greener on the other side' but painting your face blue is perhaps fashion streaching a bit too far.. When this is said, blue face- paint is perhaps no better than Norwegian girls with organge faces... So I guess the moral of the story is, be happy with what you have got. Stop applying and re-applying make-up on your face. You are beautiful. Enough said:P

How to...

I have been longing for becoming a real Saharawi and I assume that there are many more of you out there. So I have written down some guidelines including food and hygiene you ought to know before embarking on your potential refugee career.
Become a Saharawi:
It is not the easiest plan in the world to become like someone else, especially when the life here in so many ways diametrically opposes what I would do in Norway. But there are some ground rules:
1. Don't rush!
2. Make tea at least three times a day.
3. Know how to greet other people.
4. Don't try to get a tan. Try to look as white as possible. If you live in the desert and get exposed by the sun, put on some white cream in your face even if you look more blue then white.

Make food:
Food has always been something I enjoy, but never a thing I prioritized in hectic daily life. Therefore I usually eat food in Norway that is either prepared by someone else or takes less than 30 minutes to make. Here, on the other hand, a wife could spend almost the entire day in the kitchen despite the fact we only eat two big meals a day. It is strange working in the kitchen, especially in the dark, with your cellphone as the only source with light (Thank God for IKEA lamps). Like a child without words, I stumbeled through every cooking step and got a decent meal at the end. Here they use a pressure cooker for all their meals. It is an airtright pot in which food can be cooked quickly under steam pressure. By using the pressure cooker we simply have to wait for the food to cook and spend time doing other things. Which suits me well since I am not very patient. While waiting I could get more water from the rusty container or feed the goats with leftovers and cardboards.

While chopping up onion I learned something I desperately longed for: how to chop onions without crying. So for all you onion-criers out there, put a piece of onion or onion peel on the top of you head. Its supposed to do the trick.

Get sick:
While in Norway we eat from clean plates, the Saharawi style is to rinse their cutlery and plates in cold (probably dirty) water mixed with detergent, before you use them. Bad hygiene is therefore the easiest way to get sick. If you have a child in the house, you can also assume that the cloth you use to dry off your now spankingly clean plates, has already been used to wipe the kid's nose.

Books and nostalgia

Norway is famouse for its beautiful nature. And while reading Per Pettersons book, Out Stealing Horses the culture differences go even more emphazised. Instead of snow we have summer, instead of rain we have sandstorms. This book was one of many books that the store Tronsmo donated to the refugee camp before I left Norway in January.

When I was packing my bags home in Norway, I wanted to bring all the books that I've always wanted to read, but never had taken the time to read. However, the day before departure I stopped by Tronsmo, a wonderful bookstore in Oslo and asked them if they wanted to donate som old English books to the refugee camp. At the end I had to put my plan aside in favour of Tronsmos books, beacuse they gave me ten new and beautiful books, everything from comic books to epic novels. I gladly gave away all the space I had saved for my own books in my suitcase. As you may have guessed I took the liberty to read some of the books before giving them to my eager students and I found the Petterson book suprisingly important in this life here. After seeing so many students enjoy the books I brought from Tronsmo, I have realized the need for more reading material. I therefor engourage everyone who has English books at different levels to contact me by mail (sunniva.skjeggestad@gmail.com) before the 9th of Feburary if you want to send some books to the camps. But for now my students love reading Tintin and Persepolis.

Out Stealing Horeses portrays beautifully the nostalgia for a simple way of life. It is easy to relate to the same nostalgia here in the camps. How to manage life without television, a toilet that flushes and using car batteries to get light in the evnings. Sometimes you just want to to know that you don't need the modern world or technology to manage. In contrast to the man in the book, who lives in an isolated part of Norway I am in the desert. Here I am surrounded by people wherever I go. Reading the book I feel somehow more connected to where I am from, something that also emphesises my impressions of the Sahara desert. I am more aware of the life around me, which I truly enjoy. This is not a place for nostalgia, but for pragmatism and durable easy-to-accomplish solutions.

A week in the rabbithole

It's weird to think that we have been here for a week already. In some ways it feels like it was only yesterday that we followed mr. Rabbit into his hole. Usually when travelling somewhere, you kind of get a grasp of stuff after having stayed there for a week. Here in this wonderland however, I just keep running into completely new things, situations and different ways of understanding the world.

Just last Sunday evening I went with our hostfather to the shop. It was quite dark out, so I'm not sure if I was asked for the company's sake, or because of my headtorch. In any case, we walked along in the dark between the mudbrick houses and large tents, and had one of those conversations you have when you barely know a word of the other's language. Quite awkward really. At some point, I pointed to his toe (he sprained it some time ago(I think)) and asked "Läbääs?" - Good? The answer sounded: "Läbääs, läbääs" - Good, good. 'Nuf said.

On account of his toe (at least I think that was why), we got a ride by his friend back home. Not in a car, but on the back of a lorry. Quite exhilarating really. It was me, Bishiri (hostdad) and a few other local boys clinging to the loading deck of this lorry, zigzagging on hardly-visible roads, littered with rocks and sand. In pitch black darkness. Must admit I was a bit scared of falling off a couple of times, especially when we made sharp turns - me not knowing the driver and all. For all I knew, he could have had horrible vision. Could have been real short-sighted or something. I've heard they don't really get glasses down here...
Luckily, faith was on our side that night, and we all made it back in one piece - just in time for tea! Not that that actually says much. You see, in Western Sahara, just like in Wonderland, tea time - is all the time. These tea crazed refugees make even the most homegrown Brit seem like an amateur. And just like Alice at the hatmaker's table in Wonderland, I'm still working on making sense of not only the tea habbits, but most of the stuff happening around here.

Just as the Saharawis think that having a toilet seat is strange, we think teaching in a dark classroom with the only source of light being the window is exotic, strange and challenging. Eivind's classroom door doesn't close, Sunniva's advanced class struggle with grasping the verb 'I have' and my class shows up thirty minutes after we supposedly have started. On a good day, that is. Yet, we find our role as teachers very interesting. Being a teacher gives us a time where we are in full control of the situation- a stark contrast to the rest of our 21 hours of the day. Being in control can be demanding and sometimes even difficult. On Tuesday, while attempting to explain personal pronouns to my students, one woman entered my class. This was about one hour into my lesson, but instead of asking if she could join she simply took over, greeted all individual students in the very long, traditional Saharawi way (how are you, how is your family, I'm fine, Mohammed is fine, Fatima is fine... inshalla) and upon finishing the once-so-nice tradition sat down on a empty chair looking at me like she had won a battle. This whole thing took five minutes at least, and believe me, I tried to get her to sit down! Now, it turned out that the woman didn't speak a word of English and after a while she left my class. I'm adapting to the new Saharawi culture, and have after a while realised to expect everything. I'm not surprised anymore if the classroom is covered in sand when entering the centre, or if my student have to go outside to chat with her friend for the 17th time the very same hour. I have at least made them go outside! All three of us, Sunniva, Eivind and I, are enjoying the time at the centre. We have become close friends with some of our students already and despite cracked black boards and lack of paper, we are slowly adapting to this new role. Right now, we simply hope that our students will show up after this weekend. Inshalla.

We have been in the Sahara Desert for about 72 hours and have used more than a kilo of sugar. Mostly in all our cups of tea, but also in our breakfast drink which consists of soy milk, grains and.. yes you guessed it; sugar. Our Saharawi family is lovely and very patient. We have all received the mandatory tea-training and are slowly getting a grasp of all the tea terminology. While the whole process takes over an hour, with Western help it probably takes twice the amount of time. To our family's entertainment, we have all started doing the dishes, which would not have been so fun without Eivinds presence. Including a man in the kitchen is strange for most Saharawis, and consequently Eivind is sent out for more water- which is a man's job. In addition to our new family life, we have also started to teach English at the local community centre. With doors that don't close, cracked blackboards, cold class rooms and a thin lay of sand everywhere the teaching situation is challenging. The only source of light comes from a little window where we also have a view of the incredible Sahara Desert. Upon arrival, we were told that the Sahara winter was cold and harsh, yet in our experience, the sand has currently proved to be the most difficult issue. We have sand in our socks, suitcases, sleeping bags, cameras, cell phones, tooth brushes- indeed every possible cracks and crebices. However these challenges are minor and overall we are enjoying the Sahara Desert, our lovely host family, our students, the food, the language and the incredible stars at night.

Culture?

"Men and women are equals," said our uncle while helping us carry the food from the living room to the kitchen. But after putting the food down on the kitchen floor, womens rights was not a subject just a matter of culture. In Saharawi culture their are many conflicting traditions. On the one hand women have to do the dishes and men have to get water, on the other hand women are represented in the camps' councils by at least 90 %. The women are in charge of organizing the rations of food that the camps receive from humanitarian organizations. So when can you talk about equal rights and when can something be classified as culture? Are you discriminating when you say that men can't do the dishes because it is a womens job, or is that simply one's traditon?

First Impression

20 hours in the camps, 9 cups of tea, a new family, new language(s) and "very cold" weather. When we landed in the Algerian military city of Tindouf, Marianne was asked to marry one of the customs officers. Unfortunately for him, we were immediately rushed onwards to meet with the Saharawi coordinator of the project, Abba. Eivind was carrying his small Norwegian flag on the outside of his back pack, but then the Algerian police saw the flag and wanted it for themselves. And after a quite forceful persuation the flag was bequeathed.

We were escorted by the police to the Saharawi territorium in a old car while listening to the techno song Sandstorm. Watching the night turn dark we realized that there was no turning back. We had finally arrived!

We came into our new home, sat on the floor and got the traditional three cups of tea (sugger with tea). My name that usually is so hard to pronounce in English was the easiest of them all. The called me Sinia, a Saharawi name. Since I got a Saharawi name they called it out in joy, and I felt that I was a part of them already. But the language diferences made communication difficult. Abba translated what the many visitors said, but most of the time I tried to say all the Arabic words I could remember. I still have a long way to go before I become a real Saharawi.

Bon soir from the city of lights!

Today we've been to Paris. Quite simply. We saw the sights, heard the sounds and ate the croissants. As we wandered among the magnificent buildings, we started talking about the refugee camps. About how different it will be. About how this prolonged layover put us off our course. You see, we were ready for dirt, sand, and tents. Then we end up here! In Paris! And merely five hours flight from here lies the Laayounne camp, where people don't have paved roads or even clean drinking water.

Of course, it's not like we didn't enjoy the prepaid hotel and the good food, but the vast differences definitely gave us something to think about.

French engineering?

We woke up this morning believing we had taken our last shower in four moths, not knowing what the next 24 hours would entail. After having spent an hour at the airport in Norway, waiting for our delayed flight, we finally made it to Paris. However, the joy didn't last long when we realized we had missed our flight to Algeria. As Air Algeria only flies to Tindouf twice a week we are forced to spend two nights in Paris on the expense of AirFrance.

So here we are, at the hotel bar with our new friend Adam, trying to plan our day of sightseeing in Paris instead of doing what we came here for. Save the world. 

Saving the world is really hard to do when the French design airports as well, and efficient, as Napoleon invaded Russia! So instead of exploring the Sahara desert we decided to dress up like French people.

Even though Paris is not the worst place to be stranded, we are disappointed that we are no closer to the Algerian refugee camp. The new plan is to leave Monday morning. And hopefully we will meet our Algerian friends then.

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New adventure

A new adventure is about to start. Sunniva, Eivind and I are packed and ready for moving down to Laayoune refugee camp in Algeria where we will be staying for about 4 months. Excited? More than words can describe! We have heard so much about the camp, yet a bit confused and slightly worried about what these months actually will entail. Right now, we can only dream of what the place looks like. However, having tried to consider what a situation in the Sahara Desert looks like, we have packed sandals, head torches and gifts for our host families. Internet is not a priority in the camps, which we obviously understand, so we will try to update the blog whenever we are able to. For those of you who are particularly keen on following us, we have created a different communication channel, where will send text messages to the previous volunteers in Norway with short updates which they will add to our facebook page, SahaNor- http://www.facebook.com/SahaNor and a twitter account- @SahaNorUWC. So please, follow us on Facebook and/or Twitter as well! So far so good! Algeria next!