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.