Dadaab Camp Teacher
"She teaches in Dadaab refugee camp—a thick ebony widow who's educated generations. When he comes documenting education programs, she offers her story. Some documentation becomes personal."
Dadaab is not temporary.
Thirty years of "emergency" camp. Generations born, raised, educated here. Khadija teaches primary school—has for twenty years.
I come documenting refugee education.
"Another documentary?" She looks tired. Fifty-two years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of educational dedication. Ebony skin, teacher's dress, the patience of someone who's seen too many journalists. "We've been documented to death."
"I want to tell your story. Not the camp's."
"Mashallah." She considers. "That's different. Come to my school."
Her classroom is made of mud and hope.
Fifty children, one teacher, minimal supplies. But they're learning—reading, writing, dreaming.
"How do you do this?" I ask.
"Because someone must." She writes on the board. "My husband taught me that. Before he died."
"In the camp?"
"Fleeing to the camp. 1992. I was pregnant with our first child."
"I've been here thirty years."
We're having tea in her small home.
"Came at twenty-two. Raised three children. Taught hundreds more." She looks at the camp stretching endlessly. "This is my life. A 'temporary' camp that became permanent."
"Do you want to leave?"
"Where would I go? Somalia is still broken. Kenya doesn't want us. This is home now."
"That's heartbreaking."
"That's reality. We make beauty from what we have."
"You see us."
I've been here three weeks. Filming classes, interviewing students, learning the camp's rhythm.
"Most journalists want suffering. You see our strength."
"Your strength is obvious."
"Is it?" She touches my hand. "Twenty-eight years of widowhood. Twenty years of teaching. I feel invisible."
"You're the most visible person here."
I worship the camp teacher.
In her small home while Dadaab sleeps. Her body is strength made flesh—ebony curves, heavy breasts, survivor's belly.
"Twenty-eight years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Sideed iyo labaatan—"
"Tonight you're not teaching. You're learning."
I lay her on her narrow bed.
In her small home, in her vast camp. Her body is education itself.
I spread her thick thighs.
Study her lessons.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—twenty-eight years of widowhood finally breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I teach her pleasure until she graduates. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—complete the lesson—"
I strip. She watches with those teacher's eyes.
"Subhanallah—star student."
"Ready to learn."
I push inside the camp teacher.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I complete the curriculum.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Finish the education—"
I release inside her.
We lie in her small home.
"Your documentary," she whispers. "Will it change anything?"
"It will make people see you."
"Wallahi?"
"As I see you. A hero."
One Year Later
The documentary won awards.
And brought change—more funding, more supplies, more hope.
"Macaan," Khadija moans in her classroom after hours. "My best student."
The teacher who educates refugees.
The woman who educated my heart.
Lesson learned.