Tough living for war-displaced and their hosts

In any poor neighbourhood of Abidjan, at any time of day, it takes only a couple of minutes to find some of the almost one million people who have fled their homes in the rebel-held north of Cote d’Ivoire to start a new life in this sprawling port city. Take Mossikro, an overcrowded and underdeveloped neighbourhood built in a hillside abutting Abidjan’s quiet lagoon. Two decades ago, most of the area was covered in orange groves. Today, scores of minibuses rumble down the asphalt roads. Rubbish heaps and wooden shacks compete for space among mosques and muddy marketplaces. Marius Djebibotty arrived in Mossikro looking for a new home, a new job, or an education in the south after rebels launched an insurgency to topple President Laurent Gbagbo on 19 September 2002. More than three years and a string of peace deals later, the country remains divided, the rebels holding the relatively poor north and the government controlling the industrialised south. Like all able-bodied men in his village near the western town of Vavoua, some 450 km north of Abidjan, Marius left before the rebels arrived for fear of forced enlistment or death, he said. After walking many kilometres through the bush, he hopped on a bus bound for Abidjan. Although he didn’t know it at the time, with one last look at the fledgling chicken farm he had put all his savings into, a chapter was closed. Marius has never been back, and he has been unemployed ever since. “I’ve lost contact with most people I knew -- I don’t know what is happening in the village anymore,” said Marius, who like many has resigned himself to the political stalemate and settled into a new life in Abidjan. Abidjan, the economic capital of the world’s top cocoa producer, has grown by some 933,000 war-displaced to an estimated population of four million, according to a new survey financed by the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA). UNFPA, together with the national economics school, ENSEA, interviewed thousands of displaced in five areas ranging from Abidjan to the western rebel-held town of Danane. That survey put the national number of war-displaced higher than previous estimates, at 1,204,966. Drawing on local custom, at least half of those uprooted found temporary or long-term shelter with relatives, the study found. Especially during the early chaotic months of the war, some people managed to absorb more than twenty relatives in their home. It’s a kind of hospitality most Africans consider normal, said Eugene Coulibaly of the UN humanitarian agency OCHA. “As an African,” said Coulibaly, “you can’t consider it a problem to have to host your own family.” In the early days of the crisis, government ministers and other prominent figures appeared on state television to donate food to the displaced; nongovernmental organisations such as the Red Cross came to the rescue with free medicine; and President Gbagbo distributed generous sums to war victim associations. But the gunfire has been replaced by 10,000 UN and French peacekeepers and Cote d’Ivoire has settled into a no-war no-peace standstill. Meantime, the displaced and their hosts are struggling to get by. Marius shares a two-bedroom apartment with about a dozen relatives. The apartment belongs to an elderly brother who serves as a customs officer -- the sole breadwinner of the entire household.

Mossikro is a poor suburb of Abidjan

After three years, the brother’s resources are running dry. “He hands us 3,000 CFA francs per day, which is exactly enough for one meal for everybody,” said Marius. “This was an okay arrangement, considering how it weighed on his salary. But recently, he told us he can’t meet the expense any longer. He said those who have been taught a trade must make a move and try to provide for themselves.” Although nearly all -- 92 percent -- of the displaced said they were well received by their host families, three-quarters of the displaced said living conditions had deteriorated since the war, according to the UNPFA study. Unemployment is up with nearly half of those interviewed saying they had had “an occupation” before they fled compared to 34.5 percent now. And schooling was down, with 30 percent saying they were high school students before the war, compared to less than a quarter studying now. Marius dreams of opening a brand new chicken farm on the outskirts of Abidjan and getting his life back in order. But he doesn’t have the cash. Only weeks ago, one of Marius’ neighbours, a displaced teacher, wracked with money woes and depression, hanged himself in his tiny one-bedroom apartment. A local newspaper reported that the man had committed suicide because he couldn’t face his debts. “In Abidjan, life can be rough, prices for food and transport have gone up,” said professional football player, Cisse Aboubacar, whose team broke up when rebels secured the central city of Bouake as their headquarters. “Also, poverty is growing, so you have more insecurity in this neighbourhood,” he added, his shy eight-month pregnant wife sitting next to him. Looking for a new team when he left Bouake in 2003, Aboubacar was taken in by a man he called his “tutor”, but his luck ended there. Aboubacar still hasn’t found a team and survives on one meal a day. Like Marius, he hasn’t seen his parents since the day he left his hometown. But Aboubacar said he refused to loose hope. “What’s really essential is health, everything else comes after.” Asked how he provided for himself and his wife, he answered with the typical: “On se debrouille,” an Ivorian way of saying ‘we make do’. Four sisters had a similar story, although none of them had ever had a real job. Eliane Kouake left Beoumi, in central Cote d’Ivoire, three months after it was captured by rebels.

The Kouake sisters fled to Abidjan soon after war broke out

“There was nothing left for us to do,” she said. “As girls, we didn’t feel safe among the rebels.” Eliane and her three sisters found a roof over their heads in an apartment owned by a relative who serves in the military. But when the man was sent to a different region, he left the girls to pay the rent. “We are out of money,” said Eliane, who makes some cash braiding hair. “Water and electricity were cut months ago already.” But water was easy to come by, she said, pointing to a leaking water pipe nearby around which women were gathering to fill empty tomato cans. “Life is difficult here, so you have to be very self-reliant,” she laughed. “In the village, at least we always had food.”