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” neighborhoods, returned to Kawéni, France’s largest shantytown, 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 this slum, not far from the Lycée des Lumières, several piles of trash and bulky debris (sheet metal, wood, household waste, etc.) still litter the ground. I can still hear the sound of corrugated metal sheets being hammered. For some, it’s part of a roof that hasn’t yet been finished. Others are still desperately searching for corrugated metal sheets so they can have a roof over their heads and keep their families safe.
I ask some people why they haven't finished rebuilding yet. They reply:
"We're short on sheet metal. The sheets we were able 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, virtually all of the makeshift, informal, and illegal dwellings were rebuilt exactly as they were, without any intervention by local authorities. The French government had nevertheless expressed its intention to ban and prevent the reconstruction of the 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 sheet metal 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 together 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 cyclone struck—walk hundreds of meters along winding, uneven alleys to fill their containers at the electronic payment water fountains set up on the border between the formal village and the slums.
Some families used solar panels (probably 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 use 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 hidden all their savings 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 market stalls are mostly filled with coconuts for sale.
While farmers have been hit the hardest, vendors selling pastries (doughnuts known locally as goulagoula), juice, and sandwiches near middle and high schools, as well as workers hired 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 (a Chimaoré term for people from mainland France) came to their neighborhood with a big pot and cooked with them.
Chido caused loss of life (about 30 deaths according to the official toll) and property damage, but it also disrupted children’s education across the island, especially in the slums. Many of the 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 resumption of classes. At Lycée des Lumières, where I teach geography, we are providing school supplies and sweaters.
Why point the finger at us?
While politicians are highlighting the “migration flood” of Comorians living in Mayotte and calling for stricter birthright citizenship laws, fear is growing in the Kawéni slum. Some prefer to stay holed up in their homes, 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 baccalaureate, 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 on top of that, they’re blaming us.”
Another person adds:
“After Operation Wuambushu in 2023, which led to the destruction of hundreds of huts, has the situation improved? No. Crime and assaults 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.