Mayotte logbook: 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 slum, which has been partially rebuilt. He recounts the distress of residents who have lost everything and are being blamed by French politicians.
His logbook provides us with an hour-by-hour account of the disaster. Part Three.
Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, University of Montpellier
Almost two months after Cyclone Chido struck, I traveled to the northern part of the Kawéni slum (Bandrajou). At the entrance to this slum, not far from the Lycée des Lumières high school, several piles of waste and bulky items (sheet metal, wood, household garbage, etc.) still litter the ground. I can still hear the sound of metal sheets being hammered. For some, it is part of the roof that has not yet been completed. Others are still desperately searching for metal sheets to build a roof and shelter their families.
I ask some people why they haven't finished rebuilding yet. They reply:
"We don't have enough sheet metal. The pieces we were able to salvage aren't enough for the reconstruction. The ones that are still there can't be reused because they've been crumpled by the wind."
Some residents report thefts, or 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, almost all of the precarious, informal, and illegal dwellings were rebuilt identically, without any intervention from local authorities. The French government had nevertheless expressed its desire to prohibit and prevent the reconstruction of the slums in Mayotte. As Prime Minister François Bayrousaid:
"The state and local authorities agree to prohibit and prevent the reconstruction of slums."
"We have nothing left at all."
Before the disaster, life was already difficult: families slept on old, worn-out mattresses laid directly on the floor or on a bed, in homes made of sheet metal and rafters, 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 sleep despite the discomfort.
To access water, families walk, as they did before the cyclone, along winding and uneven alleys for hundreds of meters to refill their containers at coin-operated water fountains located on the edge of 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 phones or candles for light and to get around.
In these precarious neighborhoods, families lost what little they had. Some had hidden all their savings at home, under a mattress or in a closet. The wind blew everything away. One woman recounts:
"I'm going to have to start all over again. How hard it is! We didn't have much to begin with, and now we have nothing, absolutely nothing."
Some families grew 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 mainly sell coconuts.
While farmers are the hardest hit, vendors selling cakes (donuts known locally as goulagoula), juice, and sandwiches outside middle and high schools, as well as workers employed in the fields or on farms in Mayotte, have seen a return to some semblance of normal activity.
Distribution of aid under pressure
The distribution of aid (water, bags of rice, flour, cans of sardines, cans of tomatoes, etc.), intended to alleviate the distress of residents, is a source of tension. City hall services have set up supply points in the city center—on a soccer field, in front of a youth center, and in a large public square. But for Comorians in an irregular situation, going there is a risk. Some fear police checks and deportation. Out of fear, some give up food aid and ask neighbors or relatives in a regular situation to collect food on their behalf.
Families know that this aid will not last (it has already ended in the town of Koungou), and I can see the despair on their faces. Others smile as they recount how muzungu (a term used in Chimaoré to refer to people from the mainland) came to their neighborhood with a large pot and cooked with them.
Chido caused human casualties (around 30 deaths according to official figures) and material 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 return to classes. At the Lycée des Lumières, where I teach geography, we are providing school supplies and sweaters.
Why point the finger at us?
While politicians highlight the "migratory flood" of Comorians living in Mayotte and call for tougher birthright citizenship laws, fear is growing in the Kawéni slum. Some prefer to hide in their homes, limiting their movements so as not to encounter law enforcement. "We're like ghosts, we live in hiding," Mariama, a mother of three, tells me.
Students at the Lycée des Lumières high school in Kawéni are concerned:
"If access to citizenship or residence permits becomes more difficult, how will we be able to continue our studies? These documents are not required until high school graduation, but after that, they are. Our future is ruined."
A dad wonders:
"Why point fingers at us? Many don't even have a mattress to sleep on, and on top of that, we're being blamed."
Another 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 happening. Families have been displaced and are settling a little further away, but nothing has been resolved. The authorities have simply moved the problems elsewhere."
Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, Geographer, Associate Researcher at LAGAM, University of Montpellier, University of Montpellier
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Readthe original article.