After 20 years, I finally returned to the Kenyan refugee camp I’d left for a new life

I arrived in Melbourne with my mum and siblings on a cold night in March 2005. We landed at Tullamarine airport with just a few clothes in almost empty bags.

In the two decades since, things have changed. I’ve become a clichéd Melburnian. I went from knowing nothing about Aussie Rules football to being a mad, passionate supporter of the game. I went from being a 17-year-old who appreciated a glass of water to a coffee snob who needs three cups a day. I went from sitting in a hot and overcrowded classroom in a refugee camp to graduating with a law degree from one of Australia’s top universities.

Nyadol Nyuon addressing students at Kakuma Secondary School in Kenya.

After years of being stateless refugees, my family now enjoys the privileges and protections of citizenship. I hold an Australian passport, the only passport I have ever had.

Recently, I returned to the place that first formed me: Kakuma refugee camp, home to almost 300,000 people in northwest Kenya. I travelled with Australia for UNHCR – the national partner of the United Nations Refugee Agency – in a voluntary capacity. I did this because I want to use my story to help raise funds for refugee education programs.

I landed in Kakuma on a bright blue Monday morning – my first visit since leaving almost 19 years ago. I went looking for familiar landmarks. I vividly recalled a small hill that looked towards the basketball court near my old home. I had spent many hours on that court, sometimes playing without shoes until the tarmac cut my feet. It was a small price to pay, as the basketball court was a place to escape the harsh realities of refugee life. I played until sunset forced me home. There was no electricity in Kakuma, and the dark came with dangers.

When I found the basketball court again, the small bare hill that I had once stood on was different. It was covered with refugee homes that stretched towards the dry riverbed. There were so many more houses in my old neighbourhood that the little pathways I used to weave around had disappeared.

Our house was gone, but a big tree stood in the middle of the compound. We had planted that tree and left when it was small and fragile.

NYADOL NYUON

I could not find my way back to where we had lived. I knew the house would not be there; it was not built with materials to last, but I could not even determine where it had been located. Eventually, an old lady who recognised me, held my hand and showed me the way. Our house was gone, but a big tree stood in the middle of the compound. We had planted that tree and left when it was small and fragile. I hadn’t expected it to survive. It stood there, casting a shadow.

I met people I had known since I was a child. Their lives remained the same. They lived in the same mud houses with no electricity and no running water. It didn’t feel like so many years had passed, it felt more like I’d popped out to the shops to get some milk before returning.

But the basketball court spoke the truth about time. It was broken. The scoreboards were cracked, the paint was peeling and the whole frame stooped, as if bent by 19 years of bad luck. It broke my heart to see the court in that state. I had taken it for granted when I lived in Kakuma. Regardless of its shabby state, young people still came to play. I joined them.

We visited my secondary school the following day, where I first dreamed of becoming a lawyer. Time collapsed as I stepped back into my old school. I had studied with three brilliant Kenyan teachers at Kakuma Secondary School. They had expected the best of me and my fellow students, and their belief in our abilities helped us to believe in ourselves. Our status as refugees was irrelevant.

But then, like now, there were significant challenges. I walked five kilometres every day just to get to school. There weren’t enough textbooks or teachers or toilets. I was always hungry.

Today, kids studying at Kakuma Secondary School face the same challenges. I sat in one of my old classrooms observing Swahili and science lessons. There were 70 students jammed-in and the teacher didn’t have the resources he needed. But the children were marvellous; they were hungry for knowledge and asked wonderful questions.

Unlike in my day, refugees in Kakuma are now asked to pay a small amount to send their children to school. No child is turned away if they can’t pay, but anyone who can contribute is encouraged to do so. More money means more teachers and more textbooks.

I was pleased to see some positive changes. Many more girls are attending and finishing high school compared to my time. It was heartening to meet bright young students, like Ayor from South Sudan, who’s the dux of her year. She told me she wanted to be a lawyer to help girls. We talked about the many challenges that girls face, particularly the domestic responsibilities that devour their time.

I talked to many girls during my visit and noticed their attitudes were different from my cohort. These girls were openly ambitious, wanting to be doctors, lawyers and writers. These girls were ready to learn and lead. These girls had the same talents, dreams and drive that I once had, but it is exceedingly difficult for them to fulfil their potential because of their status as refugees. Some of the challenges they face should be so simple to address. Many teenage girls in Kakuma miss a week of school each month simply because they don’t have sanitary napkins.

There are 98,000 students in the camp studying at dozens of different schools. The schools do not receive any government resources, which means UNHCR and its partners are dependent on the international community for donations to ensure these young people get an education.

My life demonstrates what many refugee stories have shown before, which is that given a small window of opportunity, many people will thrive. No one is self-made. It takes people to make people.

Nyadol Nyuon’s goal is to raise money to support UNHCR’s education programs.