Our Dance

Jigjiga, Somali Region, Ethiopia

The utility vehicle bumped along the road, avoiding the larger potholes to hit the smaller ones. My head was wrapped tightly in hijab, and my body, covered from wrists to ankles in the desert heat, jostled about. Along the sides of the street, shops constructed of sheet metal, U.N. food ration bags woven together, and whatever other materials could be conjured up, sold products of all kinds.

Nearly every street corner had a man or woman with a large vessel and a ladle, selling the liquid by the jug. As a whiff of the milky mixture hit my nostrils amidst the myriad of other scents along the way, it had a sweet flavor to it. “Camel’s milk,” our driver pointed, “We use it in our tea.” 

The vehicle continued its bumpy ride until coming to a stop in front of the multi-story cement building that was to be our home for the next several days. The large guns slung across the chest of the guards were carried with ease and normality; they greeted our host with gleeful laughter and brotherly hugs. As we checked in, the front desk followed the typical international protocol of holding our passports. 

After washing the dust from our faces and feet, we headed back out through the streets of Jigjiga, Ethiopia, with children staring at our white faces and green eyes with clear inquiry. A few of the more boisterous ones shouted, “China! China!” and giggled. Our guide explained, “Light-skinned people do not come here often. Most of these children have only ever seen Chinese businessmen.” 

As our guide left us for the day, we twisted and turned throughout the signless streets, attempting to speak the local language to ask restaurant owners if they had any food left. The sun was setting, and the kitchens were running dry, so our pace quickened. Some elementary-aged boys had taken up the task of being our impromptu guides, enjoying the chance to put their little bit of English into use. About every ten yards an older man would sternly chide them for their presence with the foreigners, but they simply ignored the chastisement. 

The sun sank to being completely set, and we walked throughout the town without electricity or flashlights; I realized I had absolutely no idea where I was. The recent look from the man we had passed gave me the clear sense that women were not supposed to be on these streets after sunset, especially foreigners. 

The boys jutted out, asking various inhabitants of small structures made of sticks, soil, and piecemeal fabric if they had any food left. My growling stomach had a growing volume which wondered if it was going to be fed for the night. Apparently, all of the food for the day was gone. 

Moments later, our impromptu guides came back jumping with glee, motioning us to one of the small structures. We ducked down through the single entrance and exit point to sit on the pillows and mats atop the dirt floor. A steaming pot of something edible boiled over the fire. The woman stirring it prepared a bowl for each of us, and I took an excited spoonful of my very first taste of U.N. food ration corn. (Lest one thinks it tastes like corn on the cob at your summer bar-b-que, think again.)

As the sun rose the next morning, we went to the camel market, were invited into a jam fest with one of the area’s most notorious musicians, and toured the local news station. This colorful world of khat chewing rooms, music that made you want to dance, camel milk, camel meat, and camels walking around was filled with a sense of active living, rich tradition, and dreams of tomorrow. Place after place that we visited, we were met with a familiar rendition of their traditional dance. “Do you know our dance?” our host would ask, showing us live or by video over and over again. 

The residents of the region we were in were almost all ethnic Somalis, however, due to national borders of the modern era, their citizenship varied. Those born and raised on the side of the border where we were in Ethiopia were citizens of that nation and were seen by the international community as being able to avail themselves of their own nation’s protection. The same is true of their kinsman born in Kenya and Djibouti. However, their uncles, cousins, and kinsman born on the other side of the border in Somalia, who now moved into Ethiopia and other nations, were considered to be refugees.

Pulling up between the section of the city where those who were considered to be refugees resided, our vehicle was surrounded by women and children, peering in our windows and quick to welcome us into their homes. Delicious tea was brewed and served, and the children used their cell phones to show us photos of their loved ones. There were clear aspects of relationship, ethnic and cultural ties between the refugees and the Ethiopian Somalis, however there were some very evident differences as well. Most especially was this sense that life was not as much being lived as it was being waited on, as if it were on perpetual hold. 

The village word-of-mouth messenger went about, collecting even more curious eyes to meet the foreigners, including one young man whom we were told was about to make the move to America. While nearly all refugees I have ever met long to return to their homeland, when such dreams seem impossible or eternally delayed, their desire moves to having a new nation to call home. Sometimes, such a permanent home can be the nation to which they fled, but often their greatest chance is third-country resettlement, being moved from the camp to a nation that has invited them as permanent residents on special visas. 

The young boy who had the perceived good fortune of realizing this dream of resettlement shared where he had been told he was to move. “Fargo, do you know it?” he asked. Sitting in a desert refugee enclave a world away from Fargo, North Dakota, where it would have been snowing a good deal, we smiled. “Why yes, we know Fargo.” “Can you tell me about it?” he asked. Trying to describe snow as sand that is made of ice, and other nearly unimaginable things, our growing crowd of curious people listened with intrigue.

As we took our last sip of tea and the conversation waned, we turned to the ever-popular segue of the JigJiga region. “Do you like to dance?” The strongest English speaker translated, and a murmured whisper went across the crowd, returning to the nominated translator. Yards away from the town where people were doing their dance everywhere we went, we heard the surprising reply, “Miss, we forgot our dance.” His young eyes reflected the sense of shame and sadness that had spread across the crowd. This life of waiting and perpetual hold had stripped down the celebrations and traditions that they had once held dear.

Then suddenly, emerging from that solemn moment, a woman perked up. She motioned to me and started moving her hands, followed by her hips. Another woman joined the circle filling in the blanks as we watched memory literally surging back into their bones. The motion became more and more fluid, the movement reflective of the dance we had now seen dozens of times. Absolute delight replaced the looks of shame, and the other women joined in, grabbing their children to teach them. One of the youth found a drum and began to beat along with the rhythm of the clapping. They grabbed my hands, thrusting me into what had now become an all-out dance party. 

As every part of my body tingled watching this spectacle of hope and remembrance spring forth, dancing alongside of them, I wanted to shout. This, this is the gift of hope and remembrance held hand in hand! 

--

Author Nicole Watts spent fifteen years living in a community where approximately 50%+ of her neighbors were resettled through the U.S. State Department's refugee resettlement visa program, welcoming those who have been uprooted by conflict and war to start a new home for their families. Fueled by a love for culture and learning, Nicole has traveled around the nation and the globe to better understand the story of those she shares life with and her own generational heritage.