text TIARA ATAII

Doro camp, in north-east South Sudan, is just one such example.

The route to Doro is a well-trodden path. This informal settlement of refugees shares a birthday with the Republic of South Sudan itself, which officially gained independence from Sudan in December 2011 after years of conflict: the celebrations of South Sudanese autonomy came hand in hand with continued fighting over the post-secession plans, which displaced around 100,000 people to Doro. Yet, 13 years of humanitarian governance hasn’t bestowed upon the camp any sense of permanence.

Located just 14 miles from the border with Sudan, Doro still looks like a transitional centre rather than what has become a de facto home to thousands of displaced

Sudanese and South Sudanese people. Sandbags and corrugated iron sheeting (‘CGIs’, in human-

itarian talk) litter the camp, covered by plastic sheeting to reinforce their failing structures. Inhabitants of the camp all have different stories but share in the lack of options available to them: many have been there since 2011, and are likely to remain for years to come.

Esmail arrived in Doro in 2012, after fleeing fighting in his hometown of Kurmuk in the south-east of Sudan. He’s 23, and sharp, in both senses of the word. When we speak, he’s wearing a vest with a flag of the USA across the chest, two beaded chains that sit plush on his neck, and a ring in the shape of a skull. He’s quick to give me his ideas about the issues in the camp and what young people need.

Esmail’s vision

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