Vincent Dupin, who runs the refugee camp for Ivorian refugees in Zedru, Liberia (background). He is employed by the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) and is something like a mayor.

By Chris Melzer

 
Africa is red. The soil glows crimson amid the lush dark green of the forests. Especially in West Africa. It is the iron that gives the soil its colour. But it could also be blood. For centuries there has been tribal and colonial conflict, and more people have been driven out by fighting than have been killed.
Along the border between Liberia and the Ivory Coast, it has led to a curious situation in which on both sides of the border there are camps with refugees from each other’s country.
Liberia was one of Africa’s first independent states, an artificial creation going back over 150 years when it was populated by freed slaves from the United States. But 23 years of dictatorship and civil war up through 2003 have resulted in hundreds of thousands of Liberians being driven out and becoming refugees.
The Ivory Coast, by contrast, was long considered to be a model state. France took good care of its former colony, and up till a few years ago tens of thousands of French nationals lived there.
But the country sank into turmoil in the autumn of 2010 when President Laurent Gbagbo lost his bid for re-election and then refused to leave. Election winner Alassane Ouattara had to fight his way into office — with the support of UN troops, above all French elite soldiers.
The children in the refugee camp at Guiglo in western Ivory Coast can scarcely imagine a life beyond the barbed wire fence a few metres away. They have been born in the camp and only rarely get to leave it.
“When we go out, they beat us,” says Francis Wallow. She does not say who “they” are, but her eyes are looking at the police.
Guiglo’s refugees have been in the Ivory Coast since 1995. “The civil war drove us away. The only thing that we could rescue was our own life,” Wallow says.
The camp has neither a school nor a hospital, the refugees say. The children are out playing all day long and so the entire camp quickly gathers around when a stranger arrives. Some of the kids are only in underwear, others wearing an old T-shirt or shorts.
Guiglo is actually a genuine city and with 60,000 inhabitants a large one by African standards. But infrastructure is virtually non-existent. The roads are broad, muddy ruts. A sign “Restaurant-Bar” stands atop a hut which consists merely of three plywood walls and a roof. All around, there are soldiers armed with Kalashnikovs.
“I have seen so many dead people,” a young woman says. “Some had starved, others died from diseases. But most were shot or beaten to death.” She smiles at her daughter Sara who is clinging tightly to her skirt.
Despite such testimony, Abdelaziz, a Jordanian serving in the UN police force, defends the situation. “The mood is actually pretty good now,” he says. “I believe the United Nations is doing a good job. Until not too long ago the atmosphere was a lot more heated.” But nonetheless he has his worries: “There are still incredibly too many weapons in circulation.”
About an hour’s flying time distant, Zedru is another refugee camp, but in Liberia. Zedru was once a village of seven huts. But when fighting broke out in the Ivory Coast, one family after the other from across the border settled in.
Now Zedru has 7,500 people. Hardly anybody in this Liberian town is a Liberian national — almost everyone is a refugee from the Ivory Coast. And more are expected — possibly 25,000.
“By African standards this is already a big city,” says Vincent Dupin. The Frenchman is working for the UN High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) and is something like a mayor. “We are grouping several camps here together and so this camp will soon be so large,” he explains.
“Basically, of course, they are refugees and we would prefer that they would be back home again. And the prospects for this aren’t bad — provided that you are ready to think in terms of years.”
Zedru is a kind of model camp. Each family, mostly with five or six members, has 21 square metres and two rooms. There is also a latrine, located at a clear distance from the hut. There is a school, a hospital and a cemetery.
Dupin came with like-minded people from a few dozen other countries to Zedru almost two years ago. They built the camp together with the refugees, equipped only with machetes, axes and spades. “We didn’t have any heavy machinery. My God, what wouldn’t we have given for a bulldozer!”
The 40-year-old is currently at work building a police station. “There is hardly any violence in the camp, but of course now and then something gets stolen. But remember this — we are a genuine city. And I don’t know of any city without a police station.”
The refugees proudly wear the orange, white and green colours of the Ivorian flag. The camp is being expanded and the felled trees are being processed into charcoal. Dupin says the refugees are pitching in. “Many are farmers, but there are also tradesmen, engineers and even medical doctors among them.”
A Danish worker is groaning in the heat, but refuses to ease up a bit. “Here you can see what your efforts are for,” he says. “Even if they are only tiny steps.”
But sometimes the situation is confounding, he says. “The readiness for violence of some of the tribes is simply incredible. I had been in the Balkans, and there they sometimes had feuds going back decades for some silly reason. But at least there was a reason. Here, it sometimes simply comes down to, we have the weapons so we’re driving the others away.”
The men standing in front of their tents and watching the camp’s activities don’t see it that way. “We only want peace. Nobody wants to fight,” one of them says. He is asked if he wants to go back home. The man, a father of four, hesitates. “It’s not so bad here. And it’s safe,” he says.
And everyone here is grateful. “After all, people from the entire world come to Africa — from France, the USA and Germany.” He is especially grateful to a “nice lady from Germany” that there is more food in the camp.
Her name is Tessa Vorbohle and she works for the aid organization Oxfam. “The camp is being very well supplied with basic foodstuffs. But naturally this is not sufficient,” she says. She is standing amid vegetable patches located in the middle of the jungle.
“The people also are learning how to provide for themselves again and to co-ordinate their work,” she says. “And for those who had never farmed before, this is important experience — for later on.” — DPA