In April 2012, oil loomed
large on the Turkana horizon. Tullow Oil were prospecting at a site called
Ngamia 1 (Camel 1 in Swahili); driving back near Lokichar we stopped to
talk to some pastoralist and semi-pastoralist people living nearby.
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| Ngamia 1 - picture by East African newspaper |
We began at
Nakukulas, the nearest settlement to Ngamia 1, whose name means, ‘the place
where bitter fruits are cooked’.
These people are mainly pastoralists or semi-pastoralists, and those we
spoke to were a mix of indifferent, excited, and scared. Most
had the same two concerns – insecurity, and maintaining good herds – and saw Ngamia 1 only in
light of these. Many thought town-based local elites were dominating talks with ‘oil people’ and steering any 'social investment' in their own direction. With the
quiet dignity typical of pastoralist Turkana, they made a call for
better understanding and communication between those on either side of the formidable barrier encircling Ngamia 1.
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| Turkana barrels: scarce water carried by local women |
Security
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| Men practise fighting in a dry riverbed: conflict has cultural momentum but is increasingly well-armed and deadly |
Around Ngamia 1, security is many local
people’s top concern. Turkana district sits culturally and physically in
isolation, its people fighting neighbours on every side except the lake. The
word for outsider is the same as that for enemy [emoit], giving an indication of how local identity is fiercely
carved in opposition to that of others. Here, around Ngamia 1, a cycle of
raiding and counter-raiding between Turkana and a neighbouring Kenyan tribe
(Pokot) has cost many lives and livestock losses, not to mention destroyed
collective peace of mind. Guns are common and raids regular. Often, grazing
animals are stolen, driven away by AK47-wielding enemies. Sometimes, homes are
attacked and, as well as animals stolen, much blood is lost. Stories of
conflict range from a poorly working arm struck by a long-range enemy bullet,
to a family’s mass slaughter that left just one or two members behind. Nobody
sleeps properly, they tell you, and parents fear not only their children being
harmed, but also the psychological effects on them of home environments that
are tense and ever-watchful.
An example
is Napethe, a middle-aged woman living near Ngamia 1. She fled from her ere [true home, and place of one’s
ancestors] in Lokori when the family’s animals were taken and relatives killed
in an armed, nighttime raid on the homestead. Her husband, left with nothing
after a life spent building, caring for and loving his herd, became traumatised
and left the area. Suddenly single, poor and adapting to a new place, Napethe
finds ways to survive but misses her old home and its bounty, and struggles
with the idea of teaching her children and grandchildren that this is now their
adopted ere. Older children are now
unable to go to school, and with no herding responsibilities must somehow find
their way in life, drawn mainly to new towns. Because of conflict, Napethe
carries a heavy burden.
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| Napethe |
In light of this,
what difference do local people think the Ngamia 1 site will make? Some believe
it will make them safer: a young herder explained, referring to the fortified
site, “The security guards can warn us of
Pokot in the area, and Pokot will be put off coming here by the sight of that
place.” But next to him, another herder countered that Pokot will be
attracted to the guns and money on site, so insecurity will increase. Some even
believe whole new conflicts might be caused by this clearly important new
place: an older man stated, “We will be
killed because of this!” Asked to explain, he went on, “We will be bombed by competitors of these
Americans, who will attack them in their camp.”
This may seem far-fetched
or even laughable – people fearing they will be bombed because oil has been
found in their area – but it speaks of the gulf between those on either side of
this project. This can be bridged by communication and reassurance, and is
important: it is unpleasant to think that newcomers could unintentionally add
to local people’s existing fears. Perhaps most of all, the insecurity is an
opportunity for outside investors to contribute to peace-building initiatives.
Adopting a model that has been successful in other parts of pastoralist Kenya,
these might include independently mediated peace gatherings held in the
traditional way, under shade trees, on or near the border between the two
groups. Investing in peace is not only vital in its own right – no one should
live in constant conflict and fear – but also because it underpins all other social
investment or development. It is hard for communities to focus on education,
health and economy when insecurity takes so much in terms of energy, time,
resources, and lives. Anyone helping bring peace would be giving the biggest
gift of all.
Herding
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| A herder moves his goats and camels towards home |
To
any pastoralist, the first fear of change is how it might affect their herds. “It’s bad that oil has been found here,
because we might lose access to the land, and then where will our animals
graze?” said one young woman whose husband has many goats and sheep, a few
camels and donkeys, and three wives to look after them all. If you are a
Turkana pastoralist, you think for your animals: their access to water and pasture
is your health and survival; their wellbeing is your wellbeing. This mindset,
very different from that of non-pastoralists, is something outsiders have to
get used to.
The fear of being displaced, herds and all, is even more acute
for people already feeling hemmed in by hostile neighbours, or chased by conflict
to their current home. “No one wants to
lose meat and meat soup [the animal-keeping lifestyle]. If we are moved from here to insecure places near Lokori and Baringo,
then we’ll lose our animals to enemies!” said an elderly woman, even as her
daughter said she hoped the ‘oil drillers’ would stock the local health clinic,
which is often without supplies. The same elderly woman went on to add: “This place is like a mountain we’ve climbed
with our animals. We don’t want to be pushed off it. We can give oil drillers a
portion of it, but we don’t want to lose it.”
Again, these may seem
unrealistic concerns to cater to – there is no suggestion that communities and
their herds will be displaced from the areas surrounding Ngamia 1 – but they
indicate a communication gap that should be addressed as soon as possible.
These people have lived there and practised pastoralism for their whole lives, just
as their forefathers did. They need reassurance about having a right to their
homes and the pastoralist life of their choice.
As well as assuring people
that their pastoralism can co-exist peacefully with Ngamia 1, social investment
initiatives could strengthen the local pastoralist economy. Discussion with people
who represent this way of life – not simply the easier-to-access, town-based
elites, but on-the-ground herders of both sexes, all ages, and various income
levels – could explore appropriate and effective options to do so. These might
include better access to livestock markets (supporting disaster risk reduction
through the sale of animals before
drought can devastate a herd), animal water and fodder initiatives, veterinary
care and advice for herd management, and other forms of support for pastoralism
desired by local herders themselves. Development and humanitarian initiatives
are increasingly recognising that they have overlooked the pivotal role of
livestock wellbeing in pastoralist health, education, or emergency relief
initiatives: it would be prudent for other forms of social investment to do so
right from the start.
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| Precious milk from the family herd |
Voice
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| Etukoit with her grandson |
There is a danger that local
pastoralist and semi-pastoralist communities around Ngamia 1 will not be able
to speak for themselves, that town-based or politically-connected elites
will speak for them. Already, herding families in the area feel marginalised from information and discussion linked to the new
development and discovery: a mother from Nakukulas, passing Ngamia 1 on her way
to town to buy maize flour for her children, said: “You don’t
know about the meetings taking place in towns; unless the Chief tells you and
invites you, you will not be involved in those, you will not even hear about
them.”
Those more likely to know, and be involved, are typically
non-pastoralists connected to urban and/or political spheres. While many, if
not most, will be from pastoralist backgrounds, they may have dropped out of
pastoralism because of drought, disease or conflict, or have pursued economic,
professional and political opportunities that took them away from the everyday
realities of pastoralist life. These businessmen, professionals and politicians
are currently those most likely to steer any social investment agenda, and to ‘represent’
community voices and interests. While some certainly will, many others may not
share or promote the agenda of a local herding family, often preferring to
pursue urban, non-pastoralist opportunities for betterment.
For example, you
don’t hear much confidence about future social investment from a woman like Napethe,
a local pastoralist with a distinct way of life that has become very used to
living at the margins. Despite her family’s long-standing connection to this
land, despite the fact it is the place of her ancestors, she explains her feeling
that town-based, non-pastoralist elites will reap any rewards from an oil
discovery, and even that corruption and false promises will be likely: “Those people will get rich from oil they
find here. If local people are given a share of the money they make, it will be
just the Chief and the MP. This happens here, and promises get broken; like
when drugs were promised to the dispensary but that promise was not fulfilled.”
*****
A longer note with recommendations was sent to Tullow Oil to inform their social
investment package, and I met with the director in Nairobi to discuss it.
