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.
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.
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.
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.
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