Mayotte Diary: Two Months After Chido, the Plight of Comorian Migrants Stigmatized by Politicians
Two months after Cyclone Chido struck, Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, a geographer specializing in Mayotte’s “informal” settlements, returned to Kawéni, France’s largest slum, which had been partially rebuilt. He describes the plight of residents who have lost everything and whom French politicians are blaming.
His logbook provides a hour-by-hour account of the disaster. Part Three.
Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, University of Montpellier
Almost two months after Cyclone Chido struck, I head to the northern part of the Kawéni slum (Bandrajou). At the entrance to the slum, not far from the Lycée des Lumières, several piles of trash and debris—sheet metal, wood, household waste, and so on—still litter the ground. I can still hear the sound of metal sheets being hammered. For some, it’s part of a roof that hasn’t been finished yet. Others are still desperately searching for metal sheets to build a roof and find shelter for themselves and their families.
I ask some people why they haven’t finished rebuilding yet. They reply:
“We’re short on sheet metal. The sheets we’ve managed to salvage aren’t enough for the reconstruction. The ones that are still here can’t be reused because they’ve been crumpled by the wind.”
Some residents are speaking out against thefts, or against sheet metal sellers who are taking advantage of this crisis to raise their prices.
“Before, two-meter sheets of metal sold for 11 or 12 euros, but now they’ve gone up to 23 euros.”
However, nearly all of the makeshift, informal, and illegal dwellings were rebuilt exactly as they were, without any intervention from local authorities. The French government had, however, expressed its intention to ban and prevent the reconstruction of shantytowns in Mayotte. As Prime Minister François Bayrousaid:
“The national government and local authorities are united in their efforts to ban and prevent the reconstruction of shantytowns.”
“We have absolutely nothing left”
Before the disaster, life was already difficult: families slept on old, worn-out mattresses, either on the floor or on a bed, in homes made of corrugated iron and rafters, living in extremely cramped conditions with limited access to water and electricity. Since the cyclone, the situation has worsened. Many no longer have mattresses to sleep on. The luckiest ones huddle on straw mats or plywood. Others lie directly on the hard-packed earth, trying to get some sleep despite the discomfort.
To get water, families—just as they did before the hurricane struck—walk hundreds of meters along winding, uneven alleys to fill up at the electronic water fountains located on the edge of the formal village and the slums.
Some families used solar panels (likely stolen from the streets of Mamoudzou) to light their homes or power their refrigerators, but the cyclone swept them away or destroyed them. Many slum dwellers now rely on their cell phones or candles for light and to get around.
In these impoverished neighborhoods, families have lost the few possessions they had. Some had kept all their savings hidden at home, under a mattress or in a closet. The wind blew it all away. One woman recounts:
“I’m going to have to start all over again. This is so hard! We didn’t have much to begin with, and now we have nothing—absolutely nothing.”
Some families used to grow tomatoes and cucumbers on public land—without permission—or on private land, with the owner’s consent. Chido destroyed everything, and now the stalls mainly sell coconuts.
While farmers have been hit hardest, vendors selling pastries (doughnuts known locally as goulagoula), juice, and sandwiches near middle and high schools, as well as workers hired to work in the fields or on the farms of the people of Mayotte, have seen a return to some semblance of normal activity.
Distribution of aid under pressure
Aid distributions (water, bags of rice, flour, cans of sardines, cans of tomatoes, etc.), intended to alleviate the residents’ hardship, are a source of tension. City hall departments have set up distribution points in the city center—on a soccer field, in front of a youth center, and in a large public square. But for Comorians living in the country illegally, going there is risky. Some fear police checks and deportation. Out of fear, some forgo food aid and ask neighbors or relatives with legal status to pick up food on their behalf.
Families know that this aid won’t last (it has already ended in the town of Koungou); I can see the despair on their faces. Others smile as they recount how some muzungu (the Chimaoré term for people from the mainland) came to their neighborhood with a big pot and cooked with them.
Chido caused loss of life (about 30 deaths according to official figures) and property damage, but it also disrupted children’s education across the island, especially in the slums. Many children living in informal settlements lost their school supplies. But after a two-week delay in the start of the school year, some high schools and middle schools are welcoming students back for a gradual return to classes. At Lycée des Lumières, where I teach geography, we are providing school supplies and sweaters.
Why point the finger at us?
While politicians highlight the “migrant influx” of Comorians living in Mayotte and call for stricter birthright citizenship laws, fear is growing in the Kawéni slum. Some people prefer to stay holed up at home, limiting their movements so as not to run into law enforcement. “We’re like ghosts; we live in hiding,” Mariama, a mother of three, tells me.
Students at the Lycée des Lumières in Kawéni are concerned:
“If the requirements for obtaining citizenship or residency permits are tightened, how will we be able to continue our studies? Up until the high school diploma, these documents aren’t required, but after that, they are. Our future is ruined.”
A dad wonders:
“Why are they pointing the finger at us? Many people don’t even have a mattress to sleep on, and yet they’re blaming us.”
Another adds:
“After Operation Wuambushu in 2023, which led to the destruction of hundreds of huts, has the situation improved? No. Crime and violence are still rampant. Families have been forced out and are settling a little further away, but nothing has been resolved. The authorities have simply shifted the problems elsewhere.”
Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, Geographer, Research Associate at LAGAM, University of Montpellier, University of Montpellier
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Readthe original article.