In early December 2013, I arrived in La’ayoune, the capital of the Western Sahara. The issues that frame the Sahrawi people’s ongoing struggle for independence had led me to the refugee camps of Smara, Dakhla and Tindouf.
The legal status of the Western Sahara and the question of sovereignty remain unresolved. The territory is contested between Morocco and the Polisario Front. It is considered a non-self governed occupied territory by the United Nations. In Morocco, meanwhile, there is no debate as to whom the region belongs to; “it is Morocco’s land, it has always been part of our country” my taxi driver tells me quite confidently.
Speaking about the issue over dinner raised a few eyebrows too. As for those directly suffering, the Sahrawi people, the outlook for the ongoing colonisation of their land can be best described as a political stalemate.
The Saharawi people want to be granted the dignity of being met on their own terms, the recognition that they are equal to others in the land and a place they can call home.
As you travel through La’ayoune you will probably notice a lot of well polished UN vehicles and convoys guarded by security personnel. Many of the Sahrawi people I spoke to have described the situation as ‘nothing happens here, nobody comes or goes anymore’. Perhaps that is because visits by UN members usually involve spending days in a luxurious hotel in the heart of La’ayoune and partaking in tourist-like activities (visiting beaches and camel riding). As you head towards the refugee camps you will notice there are no UN vehicles heading in that direction.
My journey took me further towards Algeria, right up to the border, into the Tindouf Refugee Camp. Our rusty vehicle passed through minefields, and as sunrise approached you can see the white canisters littering the side of the road for hundreds of miles.
My translator continuously provided with background facts as we passed milestones on our journey; for instance tales of Sahrawi women gone missing, kidnapped from their children for protesting.
I soon started to realise the reaction my reporting and presence could elicit from the Moroccan authorities. My camera holds two memory cards. The first one, which always remained inside the camera, had a variety of images of Sahrawi food and tea making that I could show at certain checkpoints.
One night, I was visited by a policeman and driven to the nearest checkpoint to be detained for some time whilst they noted down my “information”. He asked to look at what I had been doing in the Sahara, and my “official” memory card holding picturesque images came in handy. With silent piercing looks he sent me away. His parting instruction: ‘next time, let us know where you are going’.
As any photojournalist knows, keeping the authorities posted on my every move was not only incredibly time-consuming but restrains one’s abilities to report freely, so I just disappeared one night to spend time among Sahrawi refugees and document the hardships of their daily life in the region.
The limited opportunities for self-reliance in the harsh desert environment have forced the refugees to rely on international humanitarian assistance for their survival. Most affairs and camp life organisation is run by the refugees themselves, with little outside interference.
There is lack of clean water, canvas tents propped up in endless rows, and harsh sandstorm conditions that are almost insufferable especially for many children. Your throat seems always parched because of the dry conditions, the eyes constantly under assault by the sandy gusts.
An outbuilding catering for orphaned children drew my attention, babies under the age of 2 sleep in rusty cots and are tied with ropes. There were looks of despair as I left the building, eyes spoke words ‘take me’ and ‘help us’. I witnessed the slow death of a baby girl who had been suffering immensely, nobody spoke of what happened to her, just that she had been ill.
When a photojournalist arrives in such a situation they assume that they can somehow steal the pain of these people. One continually suffers the shame of the memory and the helplessness. You have to sleep with the images embedded into your mind. Still, the responsibility must be faced and acknowledged. By picturing such harsh realities one must vow that something must come of out the time stolen from these people’s lives.
The plight of these forgotten people and the images you see before you must be a call to justice; pressure must be placed on the UN in ending the deadlock in talks to create the prospects of a peaceful resolution for the Sahrawi people.
Not long after I left the region, the President of the Polisario, the Movement for the Liberation of the Western Sahara said the people will arm themselves against Morocco if the UN does not organise the long promised referendum on self-determination.
An oppressed people who have mostly bottled all their frustrations for over 38 years, with no land or country, and who have kept their resistance largely peaceful, will eventually resort to armed struggle, as they are well within their rights to do.
Despite it being one of the most inhospitable places on Earth, they are making up a powerful force in their daily struggle and women are being empowered to take a lead in making that change. As one Sahrawi woman told me “Don’t try to confine me to some tiny part of the world you can give to fit me in. These camps will never be our home, we want to return to our homeland”.
There is a sandstorm brewing in the Western Sahara and it is not the one created by the Saharan winds, but within the souls of its people crying out for a place to call home.
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