The confusion of escaping civil war and not knowing where your country ends and another begins.
The confusion of escaping civil war and not knowing where your country ends and another begins.
Hamza, in his mid-40s, took us back 30 years to when he moved with his family to the Somali region of Ethiopia. In the volatile 1990s, the boundary between Ethiopia and Somalia was vague and shifting. As the borders shifted, so too did the currencies. Hamza switched his money from Somali shillings to Ethiopian birr. For him, the switch meant he was no longer living in Somalia but Ethiopia instead. Slowly, by using a local system of rotating savings clubs while working and studying, he became a schoolteacher and a businessman.
We visited his shop in the early morning. Hamza took us through the back of the shop, which opened onto the front yard of his house. The roof of his home was made of hay, cloth, and tarpaulin. Kids, covered in dust, played in the front yard. The shop, constructed from metal sheets, stocked different vegetables, like tomatoes, chilies, onions, potatoes, and staples like oil and wheat. A neighbor’s Bajaj (a three-wheeler) was parked in Hamza’s front yard. As we started the interview, Hamza’s wife was standing in the background and hurled out a jibe, “Donald Trump does not want us to go to America. He is bad.” Everyone laughs.
Hamza emptied a glass of water and cleared his throat as he began telling his story. “Back in Somalia, my father was a porter and my mother managed a butcher shop. As the civil war broke out, we faced a lot of different problems: we were tortured; my mother was raped; a gunman broke into our house and looted it. That was when we decided to leave my village. My father was killed before leaving the village.
“I was still a child and came here with my mother. We entered from Shedder [traveling via Somaliland]. I was taken from Shedder to Kebri Beyah by ARRA [Agency for Refugees and Returnees Affairs]. When I was a child, we were told that even this camp is Somalia. People here spoke our language,” Hamza smiled and paused.
I asked how he started his financial journey, and he responded, “I started by selling plastics and polishing shoes in Kebri Beyah. The Ethiopians would also buy my things. No one discriminated against me in the market. Everyone welcomed me. At that time, Somali shillings used to work in this region. In fact, this entire region used Somali shillings, even in Awbare and Shedder. Even the Ethiopian people used to give me Somali shillings. We never felt like we were out of Somalia. People here belonged to our clan. By selling plastics, I used to get around 1,000 Somali shillings ($1.73) each day at that time [in the ’90s].”
Had things ever become difficult, I asked. “It was only two years after the EPRDF Party [Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front Party] came to power that Somali shillings were canceled. It was a difficult time. We had people who would come to the market and exchange the currency for us. It was almost like a business. They would take our Somali shillings and give us Ethiopian birr (ETB). However, some of the money was never exchanged. The money changers, responding to government instructions, stopped taking Somali shillings after a certain point. I didn’t have much money, just daily savings, but even they were gone. That was when I realized that I am not in Somalia anymore. I am in a foreign land,” Hamza paused, and his wife left to wash clothes.
“After that, we were given ration cards and ID cards, through which we could get wheat. But it was not enough. We passed through a life so hard that I can’t even narrate that journey. Sometimes I felt like going back to my country because here, we were always starving. There was no one here who had enough money to give us loans, and by then, I had lost connections with my friends and relatives back in Somalia.” Despair was evident in his voice. “There were no fees for school. So, through all our troubles, I still continued studying. At the time, there was no kindergarten. I just went to elementary school, then secondary school, then college. I started selling charcoal. I used to buy it from the countryside and then sell it in Kebri Beyah. The countryside was 50 km from Kebri Beyah. I used to buy it wholesale there and retail it here. I would bring coal on a cart pulled by a donkey. I had built the cart myself. I would sell charcoal to everyone — anyone who wanted to buy it. Even the Ethiopians who would stay in town would come to buy it. I was making 500 ETB ($17.18) per load. In a single trip, I would fetch a load, which I would sell in 15–30 days. I would save part of this money.” There was an excitement in his tone.
“I was a part of a traditional savings circle, where twenty families would come together. All of us would do different businesses. Someone would be a wood-seller, someone would be a coal merchant, and so on. I used to save 200 ETB ($7) from my 500 ETB ($17.18) earnings and put it in the savings circle. Everyone contributed 200 ETB, and one person would take home 4,000 ETB each month. This system is called ‘hacbeth’ in Somali. It can be per day or per month. I used to do it per month. However, my hacbeth circle is broken now, as my family is the only one left here. The rest have all gone to the United States. UNHCR took them. Even I had an opportunity, but then my visa was denied. When I applied, I did not know the difference between Kenya and Ethiopia. I had filled my country of residence as Kenya instead of Ethiopia.
Going back to the time that I saved hacbeth-style, I started selling certain groceries. I did not have a shop then. I used to buy vegetables and fruits from town. I used to make 200 ETB ($7) per day as profit and would store some of it in a can. I put some of the profits toward stocking and selling gum, biscuits, and other items. Some refugees say that there are no wholesalers, but in town, there are many wholesalers from our clan, and they are eager to help. Gradually, my profits grew to 600 ETB ($20) per month. I used to use 300 ETB ($10) each month and save the rest for opening my shop.”
“I had eight children by then and was determined to open a shop. A few friends who had gone to the US sent me $1,000 through Kaah, a money transfer service with an agent in Kebri Beyah. I used $500 for opening the shop and $500 for my child’s treatment [his child was paralyzed]. I also have a bank account in the Commercial Bank of Ethiopia. I opened this account recently and had not used a bank before. The IRC [International Rescue Committee] sent us to school, which was upgraded from the Teacher Training Institute in Jijiga to a Teacher Training College. I studied and was rewarded with a diploma.
“Life started getting better after I became a teacher, when I began instructing Somali children from Kindergarten through 5th grade. I started teaching thirteen years back and now teach in two institutions. One of them is the IRC school, and the other is an Ethiopian school. I consider it to be my greatest achievement. I have been through different stages in life, but thanks to Allah, I was able to feed my family,” he said with pride. “I don’t have an Ethiopian ID card because I am still a refugee. The Ethiopian school, which is private, still hired me because they don’t differentiate. They just needed skills. I get 4,500 ETB ($154.19) per month from the Ethiopian school and 800 ETB ($27.48) per month from the IRC school.
“I also received a ration card that affords me both food items, as well as a cash grant of 200 ETB ($7) per month for each member of my household. These sums are in addition to my teaching job and earnings from the shop.”
Hamza concluded, “I believe I have a great future. Should I receive more funds, then I would start different businesses in the market, like a small shopping mall or an electric shop, or a cosmetic shop. I want to start a different business.”