Diary from Mayotte: two months after Chido, the plight of Comorian migrants stigmatized by the political class
Two months after Cyclone Chido, Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, a geographer specializing in Mayotte's "informal" neighborhoods, returned to Kawéni, France's largest shantytown, which has now been partially rebuilt. He recounts the distress of residents who have lost everything, and who are being singled out by French politicians.
His log gives us an hour-by-hour account of the disaster. Part Three.
Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, University of Montpellier
Almost two months after the passage of cyclone Chido, I visit the northern part of the Kawéni (Bandrajou) shantytown. At the entrance to this shantytown, not far from the Lycée des Lumières, several piles of garbage and bulky items (metal sheets, wood, household garbage, etc.) still litter the ground. I can still hear the sound of sheet metal being struck with a hammer. For some, it's part of the roof that hasn't been finished yet. Others are still desperately looking for sheet metal to put a roof over their heads and shelter their families.
I ask some people why they haven't finished rebuilding yet. They reply:
"We're running out of sheet metal. The ones we've been able to salvage aren't enough to rebuild. The ones that are still there are no longer reusable, as they have been crumpled by the wind."
Some residents denounce thefts, or sheet metal sellers who take advantage of the crisis to raise their prices.
"Before, two-meter sheets used to sell for 11 or 12 euros, but now they've gone up to 23 euros."
However, almost all the informal and illegal shantytowns have been rebuilt identically, without any intervention from the local authorities. The French government had expressed its determination to prohibit and prevent the rebuilding of shanty towns in Mayotte. As Prime Minister François Bayrou put it:
"State and local authorities agree to prohibit and prevent the rebuilding of shanty towns."
"We don't have anything left".
Before the disaster, life was already difficult: families slept on old, worn mattresses, either on the floor or on a bed, in dwellings made of sheet metal and rafters, with extreme overcrowding and limited access to water and electricity. Since the cyclone, the situation has worsened. Many no longer have mattresses to sleep on. The lucky ones squeeze onto straw mats or plywood. Others lie down directly on the dirt, trying to get some sleep despite the discomfort.
To get access to water, families walk hundreds of meters down winding, uneven alleys, as they did before the cyclone, to refuel at the "monétique" standpipes set up on the edge of the formal village and the shantytowns.
Some families were using solar panels (probably stolen from the streets of Mamoudzou) to light their homes or power their fridges, but the cyclone swept them away or destroyed them. Many slum dwellers now use their telephones or candles for light and transport.
In these precarious neighborhoods, families lost what few possessions they had. Some had all their savings hidden at home, under a mattress or in a wardrobe. The wind took it all away. A lady testifies:
"I'm going to have to start all over again. It's so hard! It's bad enough we didn't have much, but now we have nothing, nothing at all.
Some families used to grow tomatoes and cucumbers on public land - without authorization - or on private land, with the owner's agreement. Chido has devastated everything, and the stalls now sell mostly coconuts.
While farmers have been the hardest hit, saleswomen selling cakes (locally known as goulagoula), juices and sandwiches around secondary schools, as well as workers hired to work in the fields or on the farms of the Mahorais, have regained a semblance of activity.
Distribution of live helpers
The distribution of aid (water, sacks of rice, flour, cans of sardines, cans of tomatoes, etc.), supposed to relieve the distress of the inhabitants, is a source of tension. Town hall services have set up supply points in town centers - on a soccer pitch, in front of an MJC, in a large public square. But for illegal Comorians, going there is a risk. Some fear police checks and deportation. Out of fear, some forego food aid and ask neighbors or relatives with legal status to collect food for them.
The families know that this aid will not last (it has already ended in the commune of Koungou), and I can read the despair on their faces. Others smile as they recount how some muzungu (Chimaoré's term for people from mainland France) came to their neighborhood with a large cooking pot and cooked with them.
Chido caused loss of life (some 30 deaths according to the official toll) and material damage, but also disrupted children's education across the island, especially in the shantytowns. Many children living in informal settlements lost their school supplies. But after a two-week delay in the start of the new school year, some high schools and middle schools are welcoming students back for a gradual resumption. At the Lycée des Lumières, where I teach geography, we provide school supplies and knitwear.
Why point the finger at us?
At a time when the political class is highlighting the "migratory submersion" of Comorians living in Mayotte and calling for a tougher right to land, fear is growing in the Kawéni shantytown. Some prefer to hide in their homes, limiting their movements so as not to run into the police. "We're like ghosts, we live in hiding," says Mariama, a mother of three.
Students at Lycée des Lumières in Kawéni are worried:
"If access to nationality or residence permits is tightened, how will we be able to continue our studies? Up to the baccalaureate, these documents are not required, but afterwards they are. Our future is ruined.
A dad wonders:
"Why point the finger at us? Many don't even have mattresses to sleep on, and on top of that we're being singled out as the culprits."
Another adds:
"After Operation Wuambushu in 2023, which led to the destruction of hundreds of huts, has the situation improved? No. Delinquency and aggression are still with us. Some families have been evicted and moved further away, but nothing has been resolved. The authorities have just moved the problems.
Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, Geographer, researcher at LAGAM, University of Montpellier, University of Montpellier
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read theoriginal article.