By Matthew Pflaum and Charis Li
Camp Senou is one of the many displacement camps that emerged in Mali following the 2012 civil war and the consequent insecurity. Opened in 2019 in the southern fringes of Bamako, the camp shows no fences, legitimate signage, security guards, or any other official accoutrements of an internally displaced persons (IDP) camp. Its very existence is driven by the burden of survivors of the conflict along with the government’s antagonism of camps in the Bamako region. In a country that has struggled to contend with long-term issues like inequality, extremism, climate change, and poverty alongside rapidly accelerating violence and insecurity, it has inevitably been the most vulnerable, such as refugees and displaced people, who suffer the most from these problems.
Of the 310,000 IDP’s in Mali, over half are in the two central regions of Mopti and Ségou, where the violence has been the most severe and intractable. Although approximately 5,000 of the total Malian IDP population have re-located to the capital region, the government has strongly discouraged any official camps for various reasons such as land ownership, costs, and complex international and domestic policies and legislation. Another 100,000 are in the northern regions of Gao and Timbuktu, which remains a hot spot of conflict.
Reaching Camp Senou
The route to the Senou Camp reflects the complex and often opaque political and economic barriers for IDP camps in Bamako. One passes the airport before driving through smaller roads and communities outside Bamako for many kilometers. The roads get progressively dilapidated, punctuated by deep potholes, fissures and mud as the villages start to resemble rural areas rather than the bustling and populous capital. As we jostled along the ochre road, freshly sodden from the latest rain, the taxi driver grew increasingly unhappy, perhaps regretting ever taking such an unusual destination. It never seemed that we were approaching anything remotely official or sanctioned, but rather a clandestine place, hidden away from the public and government. The capital Bamako couldn’t have felt further away.
Our first impression of the camp is that it is not as large or chaotic as some of the major international refugee and IDP camps around the world; though sizeable and populous, it also seemed well-maintained and organized. Photos of displacement or refugee camps in Syria, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Sudan often depict hordes of crowded people, more suffering prisoners than vulnerable victims, with trash piles, ashen residue of extinguished fires, barbed wire, and crying children. This one felt different at first glimpse and, despite the absence of any official designation, looked to be more communal. We see a calm village scene where the residents run their morning chores, feed livestock, bathe infants, prepare meals, and chat with their neighbors and friends.
The politics of displacement camps in Mali
Later, we would be told explicitly that the government hardly supports the camp at all, given its unendorsed status, forcing the directors of the camp to turn to international organizations, non-governmental organizations, and private donors, including foreign Christian and Catholic groups. The Senou camp currently hosts 1,257 individuals, making it likely the largest of the camps in the Bamako region. By global standards, it is nowhere near the size of famous camps like Kakuma Camp in Kenya, with its 150,000 people. Last year, another major camp in Bamako called Faladié suffered a devastating fire that burned down shelters and killed much of its precious livestock. Both Senou and Faladié camps host predominantly Peul (or Fulani), one of Africa’s largest ethnic groups.
The Peul have unfortunately developed an infamous reputation across many parts of West Africa, often linked to communal violence, tensions with states and governments, and extremism. Factors related to this Fulani joining or supporting extremist groups include human rights violations against them by the government and military, movement of armed actors from the north to the center of Mali, and desires to revitalize the former Macina Empire of the 19th century. The links between Fulani and violence have become increasingly challenged, given the vast expansion of Peul that makes it difficult to consider localized events as linked to the larger or wider diaspora, the frequent attacks against Peul, and the fact that the vast majority of Peul have never been violent. Yet, despite the obvious dearth of logic or evidence to support claims of violence, there remain widespread stereotypes, marginalization, and outright hostility and violence against Peul. In the past two decades, communal violence has erupted as one of the major forms of violence in the region.
Mr. Sanusi
As we finally emerge from the taxi in the middle of the camp, we are warmly greeted and welcomed by Mr. Sanusi (a pseudonym), who has the unenviable duty of managing this unsanctioned camp in this isolated periphery of Bamako. He smiles vividly, extends his elbows (for posterity in the era of COVID), and kindly asks us to wait in one of the tents used for meetings and discussions. We are grateful for a momentary respite from a pounding heat. There are books and logs on the desk in the hut. Lacking any official office or uniformed staff, the place indeed looks like a shadow operation, existing on the fringes of legality, conducted in whispers and handshakes.
Across the dusty path from our meeting tent is a larger tent with an alabaster plastic cover and “UNICEF” in large black text. It is empty. Mr. Sanusi asks us why we are here, and I again explain that I am a doctoral student in the United States studying insecurity in Mali, particularly as it relates to pastoralists and their responses to insecurity. He excitedly reacts, says he understands, and asks us to patiently wait in the tent while he attends to some pressing matters. The morning has just started, and he is burdened with duties.
As we record our initial impressions, timid children start to appear outside the tent’s semicircular entrance: first with a trickle, then more and more following. One of the first to brave into the tent – his tiny body swallowed by a massive yellow t-shirt – warily tiptoes into the tent, stares at us, but remains completely silent. He has the innocence and curiosity of children around the world, a soft smile on his lips barely creasing his plump cheeks. We speak soft words to him in French and English, yet he merely stands next to us, reaching out his miniature hand to touch our leg or arm.
I recall I brought a small pack of dried mangoes; shuffling through my bag, I find it and hand it to him. A confused look forms on his face, and he scuttles off to show off his prize. Instantly, other children appear, wanting the same or better prizes, and I realize I’ve set them up for disappointment. The mother of the yellow-shirted boy returns to the tent, boy in tow, perhaps to ensure the gift is safe and intended. I nod my head, and while I don’t speak Bambara or Peul, as she points around, I realize she is perhaps asking for whom the snack is intended. I make a circle with my fingers, say “partager” (to share), and hope they understand. It is a pitiful bag of mangoes and I curse myself for neglecting to come more prepared.
Getting to know the residents
When Mr. Sanusi returns, it is time to visit the camp. For over an hour, we meander through hundreds of tents of all sizes, many occupied by women with multiple children. Everywhere we go there are children playing, laughing, helping their parents. Adult men are visibly scarce in the camp, with articles suggesting they are tending to livestock, finding informal work, or perhaps victims of the conflict. Most huts are constructed with thatched roofs of timber and thin branches interlaced with strips or squares of cardboard. Above the branches and secured with stones or other heavy objects are blue tarps emblazoned with names and logos of some of the donor and sponsoring agencies. Nearly every person we pass shakes our hands, greets us in French, Peul, or traditional Arabic greetings, while others stop Sanusi in his tracks to exchange pleasantries, remind him of something, or inform him of one problem or another.
Most of the Peul in Senou Camp are here for one reason: Ogossagou. For those of us studying violence in the Sahel, the name evokes hellish and brutal consequences of conflict. In the crepuscular dawn of March 23rd, dozens of armed Dogon arrived at the Peul side of the village by motorbike and massacred men, women, and even children and pregnant women. They tied up many of the men before executing them. The Dogon mostly used machetes and small firearms. The Malian government has supported and even funded various ethnic and self-defense militias within the country as part of its strategies to contain and eradicate extremism, with heavily armed militias called Dozo hunters one of the principal recipients.
Ogossagou is in Mopti province, a region that is predominantly Peul, Dogon, and Bozo. Traditionally, the Peul practice herding (pastoralism), the Dogon farming, and the Bozo fishing. For many decades, ethnic groups in Mopti got along reasonably well, yet relations between groups have decayed following the 2012 civil war, by diverse reasons like competition over land, extremist group proliferation, general distrust, and various government policies and neglect. The village of Ogossagou is really two villages basically bifurcated along ethnic and livelihood lines between Dogon and Peul. In speaking to several Peul during my trip to Bamako, they believe this attack, like many others throughout the country, have been provoked by associations Dozo and many Malians make between Peul and extremism. Although there are a number of Fulani who have joined various extremist groups, their presence in such groups belies certain realities.
Mr. Sanusi demonstrated the tensions and issues in Ogossagou, Mopti, and beyond through poignant yet heart-rending stories, often accompanied by photos, videos, and statements of witnesses. Mali is not a desperate failed state, yet recent tensions have escalated in the aftermath of the 2012 MNLA rebellion, and violence has become pervasive in certain regions of the nation. Bamako, which suffered one severe terrorist attack at the Radisson Blu hotel back in 2015, has mostly been spared the worst violence, yet was also the epicenter of two coups over the past year and its fair share of violence, protests, and shootings. Again, numerous Peul have conveyed to me that even in Bamako they can experience prejudice-provoked threats, outright violence, and attacks.
Life in the camp
As we walk through the camp with Sanusi and see women furiously pounding at starches and vegetables to prepare meals, we realize there is a dearth of men, mostly listlessly gathering under the scarce trees sipping hot tea and inquire about the composition of the camp. Out of the over 1,000 residents, just over 100 are adult men. As Mr. Sanusi greets camp residents by their names, he wistfully tells us the stories of them: A woman nursing her baby in a tent lost her husband, a toddler now being taken care of by its grandmother lost both its parents in a massacre. Although the camp now resamples resembles the life of a peaceful community, we asked Sanusi what the camp residents most want for their future. To return to their original villages, to a homeland, he says. Yet, despite the apparent calm of the camp, we must remind ourselves that it is not an ideal life.
Services like schools, clinics, doctors, and shops are largely absent at the camp. The doctors arrive sporadically and infrequently, according to Mr. Sanusi. As IDP camps are not officially permitted in Bamako, hardly any of the current equipment at the camp was funded by the government, according to people at the camp. Large international organizations are also advised to give minimal support or completely avoid these informal camps due to political reasons. An unmarked, likely private truck comes during our visit, bringing a few goats in its trunk – valuable sources of meaningful work for the pastoral Peul and nutrition for the young at the camp. A UNICEF car arrives toward the end of our visit, drops off a few bags of rice or millet and buckets of war, takes some photos, and speaks to a few people under a large tent, before leaving.
In meeting the residents of the camp during our brief tour, the perspicuous scars of violence, conflict, and injuries were apparent. Many men had open wounds or other injuries and there are several orphans among the children at the camp. There are not enough staff to manage all of the problems, particularly teachers, nurses, doctors, and others. Malnutrition is always an issue. It is by no means easy to manage a displaced camp, particularly one that is informal, yet it appears that donors can do more. Given the severe extent of insecurity in Mali, with hundreds of different camps and hundreds of thousands of people impoverished and displaced, there are so many people in need of supplies and resources. They have mustered the courage and fortitude to overcome truly inexplicable tragedies. It is likely the hope of all of them that the conflict will gradually recede, and they can return to a relatively normal life, in which children attend school, parents work, and they can all live without fear of attacks, hatred, and violence.