Refugees Daily - Internal Global Press Review

The first time Amina Abukar tried to escape drought in Somalia, extremist militants linked to al-Qaeda turned her back by force.

"They told me you cannot leave here, you die in your land," she says, standing beside a makeshift home of bent sticks and stretched cloth.

Instead, the 45-year-old doubled back and around the veiled men carrying Kalashnikovs, walking 20 excruciating days through twisting bush routes to evade checkpoints. She eventually made it to Dadaab, home to the world's largest refugee camp, in Kenya's eastern scrubland.

"We got out by hiding ourselves," she says of her party of 15. "There was constant fear; no food and conflict. I ran away because of these politics."

Nearly 300,000 Somalis have left their homes this year, bound for camps in Mogadishu, the capital, where the "Mogadishu IDP community" has recently been named an official famine area by the UN, or Kenya and Ethiopia. In July alone, 40,000 refugees arrived in Dadaab; 25 per cent of the children are malnourished when they get there.

Some of the refugees are fleeing drought, some a regime, but most are probably fleeing both.

Already the Kenyan camp hosts 374,609 Somalis, who began arriving during the 1991 civil war. For 20 years, international military intervention, aid deliveries and diplomacy have failed to stem the crisis, which has twice degenerated into famine. The Islamist extremist group al-Shabaab, which professes allegiance to al-Qaeda and has conducted terror attacks in the region, controls much of south-central Somalia.

Among the hardline group's many restrictions is a limitation on how freely people may move, which constrains herders' efforts to seek green pastures outside the worst affected areas. The UN last month declared famine in two al-Shabaab-controlled regions, and says it will probably spread to the rest of their territory next month.

In a further indication that al-Shabaab may be deliberately stemming the exodus, arrivals at Ethiopia's Dolo Ado camp, which reports higher malnutrition rates than the Kenyan camp and is nearer two of the famine regions – southern Bakool and Lower Shabelle – have dropped from a high of 2,275 a day earlier in the summer to a low of 240 in recent days.

Yet few aid agencies are willing to discuss the political factors underlying the crisis. In part, this reflects a belief that natural disaster elicits higher donations than crisis brought about by long-term political strife. Tens of thousands have already died and agencies face a $1.4bn aid shortfall across the drought-afflicted region.

Raising the ire of al-Shabaab also risks losing access to communities needing aid – and the lives of aid workers. Al-Shabaab refutes the existence of famine, operates a ban on some western aid and has previously murdered and kidnapped aid workers. Some NGOs forbid journalists from mentioning "al-Shabaab" in any pieces that mention their name.

Others say the political problems are a symptom of larger issues, namely climate change, rather than a root cause. "This is meteorological and demographic," Jeffrey Sachs, a special adviser to the UN secretary-general, told the Financial Times, arguing that political problems arise because of climatic vulnerability and overstressed, arid lands. "Pastoralists are the poorest and most marginalised people in the world, and then there seems to be some surprise that they suffer from conflict."

One livestock owner in Kenya has sent his dwindling herd, which was halved because of the lack of grass in Dadaab, to graze in some of the lesser effected areas in Somalia. "The remaining 20 I have taken to Somalia. That place is a bit better in terms of grass, but my herder tells me al-Shabaab sometimes takes the cows by force," says Ali Bare, 46.

The Kenyan government is among those keen to blame drought and downplay political problems, hoping that, once fed, some of the 116,000 Somalis who have arrived at Dadaab refugee camp this year will return home. It also fears a deterioration of security.

Nelson Taliti, deputy district police commander, told the FT that the Kenyan authorities have arrested 10 suspected al-Shabaab members allegedly trying to spy and recruit from inside the camps since March, and another 10 at the border. "They just come as refugees and they start their work to recruit. We are worried about it," he says.

For many, drought has combined with conflict and politics to make their already difficult lives unbearable.

"They [al-Shabaab] are against any development, they do not want people to get jobs, or move away even to fetch firewood," says Abdi Abdullah, 26, who started walking when the last of his 20 cows died last month.

He says he regularly evaded attempts by al-Shabaab to turn him back, passing six cars riddled with bullets, beheaded corpses and several other dead bodies during his 20-day trek out with his wife and child. "They don't want freedom of life, and by the end there was no food."

"They told me you cannot leave here, you die in your land," she says, standing beside a makeshift home of bent sticks and stretched cloth.

Instead, the 45-year-old doubled back and around the veiled men carrying Kalashnikovs, walking 20 excruciating days through twisting bush routes to evade checkpoints. She eventually made it to Dadaab, home to the world's largest refugee camp, in Kenya's eastern scrubland.

"We got out by hiding ourselves," she says of her party of 15. "There was constant fear; no food and conflict. I ran away because of these politics."

Nearly 300,000 Somalis have left their homes this year, bound for camps in Mogadishu, the capital, where the "Mogadishu IDP community" has recently been named an official famine area by the UN, or Kenya and Ethiopia. In July alone, 40,000 refugees arrived in Dadaab; 25 per cent of the children are malnourished when they get there.

Some of the refugees are fleeing drought, some a regime, but most are probably fleeing both.

Already the Kenyan camp hosts 374,609 Somalis, who began arriving during the 1991 civil war. For 20 years, international military intervention, aid deliveries and diplomacy have failed to stem the crisis, which has twice degenerated into famine. The Islamist extremist group al-Shabaab, who profess allegiance to al-Qaeda and have conducted terror attacks in the region, control much of south-central Somalia.

Among the hardline group's many restrictions is a limitation on how freely people may move, which constrains herders' efforts to seek green pastures outside the worst affected areas. The UN last month declared famine in two rebel-controlled regions, and says it will probably spread to the rest of their territory next month.

In a further indication that al-Shabaab may be deliberately stemming the exodus, arrivals at Ethiopia's Dolo Ado camp, which reports higher malnutrition rates than the Kenyan camp and is nearer two of the famine regions – southern Bakool and Lower Shabelle – have dropped from a high of 2,275 a day earlier in the summer to a low of 240 in recent days.

Yet few aid agencies are willing to discuss the political factors underlying the crisis. In part, this reflects a belief that natural disaster elicits higher donations than crisis brought about by long-term political strife. Tens of thousands have already died and agencies face a $1.4bn aid shortfall across the drought-afflicted region.

Raising the ire of al-Shabaab also risks losing access to routes crucial to delivering aid – and the lives of aid workers. Al-Shabaab refutes the existence of famine, operates a ban on some western aid and has previously murdered and kidnapped aid workers. Some NGOs forbid journalists from mentioning "al-Shabaab" in any pieces that mention their name.

Others say the political problems are a symptom of larger issues, namely climate change, rather than a root cause. "This is meteorological and demographic," Jeffrey Sachs, a special adviser to the UN secretary-general, told the Financial Times, arguing that political problems arise because of climatic vulnerability and overstressed, arid lands. "Pastoralists are the poorest and most marginalised people in the world, and then there seems to be some surprise that they suffer from conflict."

One livestock owner in Kenya has sent his dwindling herd, which was halved because of the lack of grass in Dadaab, to graze in some of the lesser effected areas in Somalia. "The remaining 20 I have taken to Somalia. That place is a bit better in terms of grass, but my herder tells me al-Shabaab sometimes takes the cows by force," says Ali Bare, 46.

The Kenyan government is among those keen to blame drought and downplay political problems, hoping that, once fed, some of the 116,000 Somalis who have arrived at Dadaab refugee camp this year will return home. It also fears a deterioration of security.

Nelson Taliti, deputy district police commander, told the FT that the Kenyan authorities have arrested 10 suspected al-Shabaab members allegedly trying to spy and recruit from inside the camps since March, and another 10 at the border. "They just come as refugees and they start their work to recruit. We are worried about it," he says.

For many, drought has combined with conflict and politics to make their already difficult lives unbearable.

"They [al-Shabaab] are against any development, they do not want people to get jobs, or move away even to fetch firewood," says Abdi Abdullah, 26, who started walking when the last of his 20 cows died last month.

He says he regularly evaded attempts by al-Shabaab to turn him back, passing six cars riddled with bullets, beheaded corpses and several other dead bodies during his 20-day trek out with his wife and child. "They don't want freedom of life, and by the end there was no food."