The lives of Darfur refugees in Egypt are harsh and, as Yasmine Fathi finds out, they feel at once grateful and guilty just to be alive Millions in Egypt and the world over watched as heart-rending images of the horrors taking place in Darfur were broadcast. But perhaps those who are most keen to follow events are the refugees who managed to escape from Darfur, thousands of whom are now in Egypt. For them, what continues to happen in Sudan is a reality experienced first hand, one which will be forever engraved in their minds and hearts. "I remember when I was 10. I was watching two of our women bring water from the wells with their babies strapped to their back, as is the norm in Darfur. All of a sudden three Janjaweed militias dragged the women away. First they raped the women and slit their throats. Then they beheaded the babies, cut off their genitals and put them into the mothers' mouths. Then sharp spears were jammed into the stomachs of the dead babies, who were left there to rot," Maki Maki, a 24-year-old Darfurian who has been living in Egypt for three years, told Al- Ahram Weekly. Life in Darfur, highlighted Maki, was dominated by the constant fear of Janjaweed attacks. They would come early in the morning. Together they would clap and chant songs. "Then they would start burning, looting, and raping. The villagers would then flee to the mountains," he remembers. Maki was a primary school teacher before being charged with conspiring against the government and being arrested in Khartoum. However, he managed to escape the authorities and paid to get a visa into Egypt. Indeed, it is a misconception that the havoc in Darfur is relatively new. The clashes between the government-armed Janjaweed militias and the African tribes have been taking place for decades. And through it all, thousands have been fleeing to Egypt. "Egypt provides an evident escape route for Sudanese refugees, because of liberal entry regulations, and easy access," explained Mohamed El-Ganzoury, who has been in Egypt for two years. Once in Egypt, Darfurians find themselves facing a new world alone. "Most of us come with two things in our pockets: our meagre savings, and the phone numbers of fellow Darfurians who have moved here," El-Ganzoury told the Weekly. Fellow natives of the blighted Sudanese province help the newcomers find a place to live and their way around their new and alien surroundings. In a foreign country and with limited resources, most refugees find themselves forced to share an apartment with other refugees. "Usually an apartment is shared by 20 to 30 people," explained Maki. "We just throw mattresses around the house and sleep on them. What else can we do?" Refugees interviewed by the Weekly described the harshness of their lives in Egypt. "If one of us gets a cold or the flue, everybody gets it, because we are cramped in these small places," said Idris Mohamed. "We don't even have money to buy medicine. We look at our brothers lying there sick, without being able to do anything to help them because the little money we have barely covers food and rent," he continued. To make matters worse, refugees face the constant threat of being kicked out of their cramped homes at the end of every month. "If we are lucky enough one of our flatmates will have relatives living abroad who send money to pay the rent and feed the rest of us," explained El-Ganzoury. It was these harsh living conditions that led to the creation of the Fur Social Cultural Association, in an attempt to provide assistance and services to Darfurians residing in Egypt. "Life as a refugee is difficult. We are on our own here. We needed to be strong and create unity in order to safeguard our traditions, and try to make our lives a little easier," explained Hassan Haroun, founding member of the association and a resident of Egypt for 15 years. After settling down most refugees would find themselves facing the next big hurdle: finding a job. "This is not easy to do since the visa stipulations often do not allow Sudanese refugees to work in Egypt," said Maki. Further, Sudanese qualifications are not recognised in Egypt, thus forcing most refugees to seek work as vendors in informal markets. "Some of those who work as vendors now had very good jobs in Sudan," explained Haroun. "But when you have kids and mouths to feed you have to forget what you were, and accept this new reality, however difficult it may be," he continued. But the refugees still find themselves facing obstacles. Maki sold watches in Cairo's Ramses Square, but the local government confiscated his ware three times, "until all my savings were gone", he said bitterly. Further, refugees who come with their families find it difficult to provide their children with an education. As a rule, Egyptian schools do not accept non-Egyptian children unless they are registered with the appropriate authorities. For the Sudanese refugees, this would mean being registered at their embassy in Cairo. Given that most of them left Sudan illegally, according to Ibrahim Mohamed, father of three, this is a step they are not willing to undertake, through fear of deportation. As a result, when the refugees' papers expire, they are more often than not left with nothing, for neither their government nor the Egyptian authorities can come to their assistance. Unlike other migrant communities in Egypt, the education on offer to Sudanese children is often limited. The case of Mohamed is telling. The two Sudanese schools, that are available in Maadi -- the area in which he and his family reside -- are mainly for Christian Sudanese, and by default exclude Muslim children by virtue of the religious focus given to the curricula. "So now my three children stay home with me or attend courses in the association, but they won't get any educational certificates for that," said Mohamed. Further, Darfurian refugees who come to Egypt find it very difficult to blend into Egyptian society and create real and lasting social ties. On one level, according to El-Ganzoury, Sudanese nationals are well versed in Egyptian culture: they watch Egyptian movies, listen to Egyptian music, and read Egyptian literature. Authors such as Youssef El- Sebaai, Naguib Mahfouz, Ihsan Abdel- Qodous, and Mohamed Hassanein Heikal, are well known in Sudan, and their books are part of school curricula. "Before I came here I knew the different Egyptian cities," said El-Ganzoury. "I even knew the names of different districts of Cairo, such as Zamalek and Mohandessin." However, when the refugees arrive in Egypt, they are shocked by how little Egyptians know about Sudan, and Sudanese culture. El-Ganzouri says he has come across Egyptians who expressed their surprise that he spoke Arabic, and others who have asked him whether his darker skin colour was because the sun was closer to the ground in Sudan. "These are such naïve questions. Especially since Egypt is so close to Sudan, and since the two countries have had political and cultural ties for ages. I don't know whether to feel insulted or amused," El-Ganzoury said. But what refugees find most painful of all are the racial slurs that are often thrown at them by the locals. Sudanese walking around Cairo find themselves being called soda and samara -- degratory words for black -- by both adults and children in the street. Additionally, both Egyptian locals and authorities show a lack of trust towards the Sudanese refugees. "Any crime that takes place in a street on which we live is usually blamed on us," lamented Maki. He recounted one incident in which a resident in their apartment building threw a bucket of water over the coffee shop at the ground floor. "Immediately all the customers at the coffee shop raced to the apartment with the Darfur refugees carrying huge knives." In another incident, when a local was robbed on a highway in Qatamiya, the police immediately arrested a group of Darfurian refugees who happened to be working there. "These incidents leave a very bitter taste in our mouth," said Maki. Yet with all the harshness of their conditions of life here, many Darfurian refugees are beset with guilt. They, at least, are alive, while so many of their kin have been killed, often in the most horrifying of ways. "Every single member of our association has had his or her village burned down," said Ahmed Degal, head of the Fur Social and Cultural Association. As they watched their homes go up in flames all they could do was hope that their families were not hurt or killed. "You watch a child wail in terror and it breaks your heart," said Abdel-Karim Rabab, the association's secretary. Moreover, Darfurians interviewed by the Weekly were deeply embitted by the Arab media's portrayal of the events in their home province. Ibrahim Ishaq, a newcomer, who has been in Egypt for only a month, described his shock at the coverage of Darfur. "I couldn't believe that after all the atrocities that have taken place they are still wondering whether this is genocide!" he exclaimed. "We presented the Arab League with documents and videotapes that captured the atrocities, but did not get the reaction we hoped for," Mohamed Adam, a member of the association, told the Weekly. Further, they find the media's constant comparison between the crisis in Darfur and other Arab problem areas very frustrating. "Whenever we say the Sudanese are dying they just tell us that the Palestinians are dying too," said Abdel-Karim. "It definitely weakens our attachment to the Arab world," he continued. Some Darfurians try to reach out to Egyptians by writing reports about the crisis in Sudan and posting them on Web sites, hoping to raise awareness. Often such reports result in death threats. "We just get anonymous letters saying: If you don't stop writing we will kill you," explained Maki. In spite of all the trials and tribulations faced by the Darfur refugees day in, day out, most of them are grateful just for being here. Compared with life in Darfur, life in Egypt is more than bearable. If their children are not accepted in school, "it doesn't matter because education in Darfur is a luxury anyway," said Mohamed, father of three. If they are cramped together in apartments, "at least we are free to move around. Walking from street to street is dangerous in Darfur," pointed out Maki. If they can't see their families, things are "not much different: I couldn't see my family for 20 years because I lived in Khartoum and they were in Darfur. It was too dangerous to go," said Degal. But still, they fear for the future, and especially that of their children. "We're jobless, displaced, and lost," said Idris Mohamed, member of the association. "We work 12 to 14 hours a day to barely make the rent. We want our children to have more purpose, more hope."
