Major Jackson

curbside on an Arp-like table. He’s alone
of course, in the arts district as it were, legs folded, 
swaying a foot so that his body seems to summon 
some deep immensity from all that surrounds:

The UNHCR Somali driver speeds by a small herd
of white cattle prodded along by a desert farmer.
rust-colored dust in its wake clouds barbed-

“When they came to camp, they asked my friend Abdi
if he was ready to join the militia. He said, no.

“Another main concern or risk that we face apart
from civil unrest is the threat of banditry,
mainly between Dadaab and Liboi, by far

In the placid lean of an arid summer, in the lingering
snarl of pit latrines, the sharp barbs of the acacia,
in the opaque eyes of the girl whose fingers frenzy

“We always kicked for the same team. We prayed
next to each other on the sajjada during salat.

“As you can see the camps are overpopulated,
and the small parts in between, if somebody
vanishes, getting to them is like a reunion date

Over a tundra of red sand they arrive eager as stadium
fans, with laundry-like sacks and bags, separated into queues:

They told you that their enemies surrounded
the women, the countless rapes fifteen miles
from the border, even on the outskirts around

Just as the World Food Program charter plane en route to Nairobi sped along the dirt airstrip to its lifting speed and began its ascent, I looked down at the sprawl of white tents and clusters of globular huts below where I had just spent a life-altering three days and vowed never to write about the experience of visiting the Dadaab Refugee Camp. Instead, I would content myself with making occasional trips to volunteer, and until then and meanwhile, help raise awareness about the oldest and largest UN administered refugee camp in the world. (Is it coincidental that this camp is also in Africa, the most historically neglected continent on earth?)