Diary from Mayotte: life in France's largest shantytown in the aftermath of the cyclone
**Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, geographer and specialist in Mayotte's informal settlements, returned to Kawéni, France's largest shantytown, a few days after Cyclone Chido hit. He tells us about the destroyed "huts" and the struggle to survive.
His log gives us an hour-by-hour account of the disaster. Part Two.
Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, University of Montpellier
Monday, December 16
Two days after the cyclone hit, I decided to return to Kawéni. A first attempt had been made impossible by the limited time available and the many requests I had to respond to: interviews, help in my village with clearing up, and other emergencies. Kawéni, located in the commune of Mamoudzou, the island's capital, is home to France's largest shantytown. This town was one of the study sites for my thesis on the vulnerabilities of migrants in Mayotte.
Here, all the risk factors are present: high population density, lack of access to resources (roads, water, electricity, etc.), terrain exposed to natural hazards, precarious housing, often built using salvaged materials. These shantytowns have been tolerated in Mayotte, due to massive migratory pressure that has undermined the island's ability to provide suitable housing, as well as economic constraints and difficulties in managing this long-standing phenomenon, which has become an integral part of the urban landscape.
On the road to Kawéni, passing through Majicavo Koropa, I see an emergency shelter built from Algeco containers, completely ripped open by the force of the wind. At the entrance to the shantytown, not far from the Lycée des Lumières, I bumped into an acquaintance, Ravi, a resident of Kawéni Bandrajou who had given me access to his neighborhood during my research. On the day the cyclone hit, he stayed in his tin hut and slept. A few minutes after waking up, his house was completely destroyed by the wind. That he escaped unscathed is a miracle.
Total chaos
As I enter the Kawéni shantytown, I notice total chaos. The inhabitants, mostly Comorian, are overwhelmed and constantly moving back and forth between the shantytown and the formal neighborhoods. Before the cyclone, the shantytown functioned in some ways like a formal neighborhood, despite the extremely precarious living conditions. The dwellings, 95% of which are made of sheet metal, cover an area of around one hectare. Inside, the space is small and multi-functional. A single room serves as kitchen, bedroom and living area. The furniture is basic: a few mattresses, plastic chairs and a makeshift table. The paths between the houses are winding, steep, sometimes stabilized by tires, rocks or concrete.
Public infrastructure is almost non-existent. Here, people improvise for everything: illegal connections for water and electricity, mutual aid between neighbors to make up for shortfalls. Community life is organized around informal activities: small grocery stores, ruminant farms, craft workshops. Koranic schools and small squares, where residents chat and play, are central social gathering places.
Cyclone Chido ravaged everything: houses, shops, Koranic schools, the mosque. Even the animals were swept away. This has had a profound effect on the fragile system of solidarity that enabled the neighborhood to function. For the time being, the human toll remains uncertain. Authorities put the death toll for the whole island at 35, with 67 seriously injured and 2,432 slightly injured.
However, some people working at Mayotte's hospital center are giving other information: according to them, around 100 people died in Petite-Terre and 1,000 in Grande-Terre. The figures remain a subject of debate: many people question the transparency of the state and accuse it of hiding the exact number of deaths to limit its responsibility in the tragedy.
One gentleman explains that he, too, stayed at home, while his wife and children were evacuated to the Lycée des Lumières.
"If I have to die, God will have willed it," he says.
Others give different reasons:
"I didn't want to, just leave"; "I want to keep my house"; "There were alerts before and nothing happened."
I ask if the authorities have come to alert us to the content of the emergency as they did in 2019, during the respective passages of Kenneth (April) and Belna (December). One person replies that they haven't:
"No one from the town hall, the prefecture or the intercommunal authority has come to see us.
Rebuilding the slum
Some inhabitants, having the physical or economic means, have started to rebuild. The more robust are organizing themselves to fetch water, while others are simply trying to protect what remains of their possessions. Everyone seems to be in a hurry, as if life had been suspended by the cyclone and had to be restarted at all costs.
Further on, I can see local residents collecting metal sheets, which seem to have come from houses located in "formal" neighborhoods. Formal" here refers to neighborhoods recognized by the Mahorais, local authorities and the State as official, legal housing zones, with addresses, improved roads, etc. In contrast, "informal" refers to shantytowns, where the houses are built on the ground, and where the inhabitants are not allowed to live. Conversely, "informal" refers to shantytowns, where construction is illegal and networks are absent.
Some residents work in groups: one person carries the metal sheets from the boundary between the formal and informal districts, while another carries them to the site where they will be used.
Fear of theft
The tension is palpable. People are exhausted and mistrust is rife, especially when it comes to essential resources. Everyone accuses the other of being a potential thief. The cyclone has led to the failure of several security systems (fences, alarms, video surveillance, etc.). The Lycée des Lumières paid the price: groups of thieves mingled with stricken families and waited until nightfall to steal computers, video projectors and chairs.
Around 6 p.m., a slum-dweller asks me to keep an eye on his metal sheets. I wait a long time for him to come back. After his return, I decide to leave the area. Walking towards the asphalt road, I see several people around a generator. Here, for two euros, you can recharge the battery of your cell phone, essential for getting around safely in the maze of metal sheets and staying in touch with your loved ones through this crisis.
Around the phones, some Comorians are talking about returning to their homeland, having lost everything in the cyclone. They fear hunger or lack of work, the little jobs known here as "bricoles" or "kibaroa" - cultivating a Mahoran's field, building a house, etc. But for the moment, returning is impossible. But for the time being, return is impossible: there are no boats linking the two neighboring islands of Mayotte and the Comoros.
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.