Fifty years ago, most households in South Sudan produced the grain they ate, organizing agricultural labour and distributing small surpluses mostly through kinship and other social networks. Now, the majority of households buy most of their food. This transition from self-sufficiency to market dependence took place during long wars, which transformed or distorted almost every aspect of everyday life. It is a transition that now seems to be irreversible. This report therefore looks at how South Sudan’s subsistence system, which organized the production and distribution of wealth around kinship and social networks, is being replaced by a market economy, and what the consequences of this are for the country and its people.
In 2019, I traveled back to my homeland, Yemen, to see how the country is coping after almost six years of conflict. My journey to Mahra, a more remote governate in eastern Yemen, began with a seven-hour drive from the country’s southern city of Mukala. Once largely empty, the coastal road is now filled with countless pick-up trucks transporting people and goods—visible evidence that thousands of Yemenis seek a safer, better life there and beyond the border.
Cars being transported along Mahra’s coastal road.
A used-car market near Nishtun Port.
A quarter of a million people have moved to Mahra since 2015, bringing its population to 650,000 as of early 2019, according to the governor. If this estimate is accurate, more than one-third of its residents are now originally from outside the governate.
Many of these newcomers are internally displaced, fleeing from violence in other parts of Yemen. But while Mahra is not a hotbed of the Houthi conflict, intensive military deployment suggests that a shadow conflict has emerged and regional powers are now heavily invested in the region.
Recruited and financed by the United Arab Emirates (UAE), local Hadrami elite forces control the territories along the coast of the Hadramout Governate leading to Mahra. Saudi-backed security forces moved into Mahra in 2017 and now dominate its nine districts; their numbers continue to strengthen, and they have recently built several new military compounds. Oman has no formal military presence in Mahra, but it indirectly supports local tribes standing against the Saudis.
The drive to the center of Mahra took me through dozens of military checkpoints to check my identity and make sure that I was not a pro-Houthi supporter trying to slip through as an ordinary businessman or a traveler seeking medicines.
In the heart of Mahra’s capital, Ghayda, a small area with bleachers originally designed for official celebrations is now frequently used for protests attracting hundreds and sometimes thousands of people. In September 2019, Mahri protest leaders—backed by Oman—formed the Southern National Salvation Council to counter the UAE-backed Southern Transitional Council and expel the Saudi-led coalition’s military forces from both Mahra and South Yemen. The leaders are demanding that the Saudis hand over control of Mahra’s airport, key ports, and administrative and community institutions.
Raised by protesters, the historical flag of the Mahra Sultanate—which lasted 500 years until 1967—is a reminder to the Saudi-led coalition of Mahris’ independent identity.
Not all Mahris are resisting the regional powers’ increased presence, however; thousands have been recruited by military forces to secure their loyalty. Unfortunately, this is leading to internal divisions among tribes who have historically maintained their independent identity within Yemen and shared common social, linguistic, and cultural characteristics.
Despite the tensions, Mahra is relatively stable, sitting 800 miles east of Yemen’s capital, Sanaa. Although it’s home to only 1.3 percent of the country’s total population, it is the second-largest governate and the main commercial artery for Yemen’s trade with Oman. Since the air, sea, and land blockade the Saudi-led coalition imposed in March 2015, Mahra has become a lifeline for merchants to import goods through its border crossings and ports.
Mahra is also rich in natural resources. Its 350-mile coastline has abundant marine life, and its lush mountainous area in the east—in stark contrast to the vast desert in the north—is famous for its Boswellia trees that produce frankincense, a resin used in perfumes, oils, and incense.
A Boswellia tree in eastern Mahra.
Local fishermen’s boats
Yemen-Oman border crossing in Mahra’s Sarfit mountainous area.
Although not grown in Mahra, qat, a stimulant like coca, is playing a growing role in the economy. No longer considered socially shameful among Mahris but still banned in Oman, many people gather in Ghayda to freely chew qat and build cultural and business relationships.
A large qat market in Mahra.
Who will ultimately benefit the most from Mahra’s growth is not easy to predict. Regional powers in Mahra are jostling for influence over local Yemeni tribes who have distanced themselves from the wider conflict but have suffered from a weak national government. Each power has so far been largely successful in furthering their interests.
“I was a student at Ibb University studying accounting, but when the Houthis advanced to my city in 2014, I felt extremely disappointed, as I did not want to see my beloved hometown ruled by militias. So I dropped out of college and moved to Mahra to work at my cousin’s supermarket. Six months after my arrival, I decided to be more independent and work as a taxi driver.”
The Saudis’ main goal is to keep the Houthis out of eastern Yemen. But their expanding economic interests in Mahra have pitted them against the UAE, which wishes to protect its commercial shipping lines on the south coast. Oman, once a more neutral actor, has stepped up its indirect support of Yemenis—money, cars, media coverage, and diplomatic connections—to secure its border. How long the relative peace can last in this environment is uncertain.
New and old Mahra residents are seizing opportunities as a result of this competition. But they are also struggling to find their way in an increasingly corrupt and restrictive environment. While walking through Ghayda’s markets, I met Rami, a thirty-two-year-old taxi driver from Ibb in northwest Yemen. “I was a student at Ibb University studying accounting, but when the Houthis advanced to my city in 2014, I felt extremely disappointed, as I did not want to see my beloved hometown ruled by militias. So I dropped out of college and moved to Mahra to work at my cousin’s supermarket. Six months after my arrival, I decided to be more independent and work as a taxi driver.” For Rami, it has become a valuable venture: “I am a guide more than a taxi driver. Many people have trusted me to ease their businesses since I am familiar with Mahra’s local authorities.” People like Rami help entrepreneurs navigate complex procedures that often require bribing authorities and exploiting personal relationships.
Popular market in Ghayda City, where the main mode of transportation is motorbikes due to congestion.
A man buying qat in a Ghayda market, and a little girl looking for food for her family, who likely lives in a camp for internally displaced people.
Over the last several years, Mahra’s local government has weakened significantly. For example, in 2017, former governor Mohammed Kudda began to organize the first-ever annual conference to promote investment opportunities in Mahra. Yemeni businesspeople, especially diaspora living in Egypt, Jordan, and the Horn of Africa, showed an immediate interest. But then, at the Saudis’ request, President Abd-Rabbu Mansour Hadi dismissed the governor, who had been critical of Saudi interventions in the governate. Hadi installed a Saudi-loyal replacement, Rajih Bakrit, whose first decision was to cancel the conference.
Mahra’s local authorities have since largely adopted Saudi policies, including higher tariffs on customs and the banning of close to 100 goods from entering the governate (the Saudis claim the Houthis may use them to manufacture weapons).
The Saudis are not the only ones filling the administrative vacuum. While traveling around the city, it’s hard to miss the many billboards carrying the names of development projects. Most are financed by the Saudi-King Salman Center and the UAE Red Crescent and Oman-Charitable organizations. While they are formally listed as humanitarian institutions in Yemen, they are tied to the countries’ respective governments and therefore come with political and economic strings attached. The Red Crescent is run by military officers.
These organizations have built much-needed schools, medical centers, roads, and wells. But according to a local activist, the motivation behind their projects is not the area’s development but rather the expansion of their influence. Many projects that are announced do not move forward.
Aside from appearing to meet Mahris’ basic needs, regional powers are using another, more direct way to bolster their influence. According to armed tribesmen I interviewed, over the last two years, Saudi-backed forces have recruited around 6,000 Mahris to gain their loyalty.
Recruits are largely enticed by healthy salaries. One man I met in Ghayda said, “Before 2015, I was unemployed, with no income, but when the Saudi-led coalition started their intervention in Yemen in March 2015, I joined the UAE-backed forces who, at that time, were in Mahra under a coalition to support the security sector. I was among 2,500 recruits from different Mahra areas. After three months of military training, we became a part of the Mahri security forces. I used to receive my monthly salary from the UAE, but since the Saudis took over in Mahra, I now receive it [an equivalent to $400] from the Saudis.”
The armed tribesmen also receive salaries from their tribal leaders, many of whom are backed by Oman and want to assure some degree of loyalty to the tribe. This shows how much Yemenis’ livelihoods are dependent on the continuing conflict.
For others in Mahra, however, making a living is still a struggle. In the fishing market, I met Mahmoud and his son from Hajjah in western Yemen, who came to Mahra to start life over. “We used to work in fishing in my town, Midi, close to the Yemen-Saudi border, but our business vanished when the battles erupted, so we decided to come here to work given the richness of Mahra’s coast.”
Mahmoud (left) selling fish in a market near Ghayda’s coast.
But Mahmoud and other fishermen face tightening restrictions. Fishing is now prohibited in areas close to Saudi military installations, which continue to spread along the coast. This forces fishermen into more remote areas, including the Somali Sea. Although the Mahri community and some Somalian tribes have close social and economic relations, fishing in the area is dangerous. Navy fleets have mistaken Mahri anglers for pirates.
“Last year, I was stopped by an Indian ship crew in the middle of the ocean. I was beaten and taken to their ship, where they questioned me and then threw me into the ocean. I had to swim 300 meters to my boat,” said Salem, a Mahri fisherman I met in Nishtun Port.
Saudi forces also restrict shipping access in the ports and require prior approval before arrival. Once docked, they often board the boats to check for banned items, including solar electricity systems, batteries, and fertilizers.
A Mahri fisherman preparing to sell his catch in Ghayda’s market.
The situation has apparently worsened since the Saudis deployed forces to Nishtun Port in September 2018. They claim to be combating smuggling networks across the Yemen-Oman border, especially those related to the Houthi movement. But even Mahra’s Saudi-backed governor stated that, since November 2017, no smuggling network has been caught by Saudi forces.
Instead, the Saudis are likely preparing to renew plans for a massive oil pipeline that would bypass the Iranian-controlled Strait of Hormuz and run from Mahra’s coast to Saudi Arabia’s Kharakhir coast—a move that would boost security and greatly reduce transportation costs. Evidence of their intentions have included a leaked document from a marine construction company to a Saudi official and a report that engineering teams have been studying the mechanics of the project.
Salem, a Mahri fisherman (second from the left) with this commentary’s author, Ahmed Nagi (center). In the background are Saudi security ships, moored at Nishtun Port.
On the coast near Nishtun Port, a development project belonging to a Yemeni oil businessman loyal to the Saudis.
Yet smuggling routes going up the coast are a major problem. Through Mahra, networks smuggle cars from Oman to Yemen and qat and handguns from Yemen to Oman. According to some locals I met in Qishen District, “the flow of smuggled goods is heavy along the coast from Mahra to Aden [in southwest Yemen], which is 1,000 kilometers [621 miles] long, and activities are spread throughout Yemen’s territories, even among different warring parties, including Hadi’s forces, the Southern Transitional Council, and the Houthis. Given the good income associated with such activities, smuggling networks have become one of the war economy’s manifestations.”
Despite the smuggling, however, customs revenues have ballooned since 2015, currently bringing in $3 to $4 million monthly according to managers at Shihen crossing. At the center of the Oman-Yemen border, the crossing has grown to be one of the busiest land ports in Yemen. It is now the most common route for goods entering and leaving Yemen and is a window to the world for people seeking to travel and do business with Oman, China, and India—Yemen’s biggest trading partners. Since 2015, Omani authorities have greatly eased visa controls at the crossing. This is likely an attempt to boost their image by offering businessmen, students, and patients a safe alternative to flying out of Sanaa.
Unfortunately, Saudi-backed local authorities control the crossing and refuse to send the requisite customs revenues to the Central Bank in Aden. The money instead goes toward buying the local tribes’ loyalty. Meanwhile, public institutions in Mahra are still suffering from a financial deficit.
Mahra’s future will likely involve further hardships. In one scenario, tensions escalate, as Saudi Arabia continues to expand its control over Mahra’s districts and its people and as Oman increases its resistance to military presence close to its border. Should this happen, a major breakout of fighting could drastically reduce continued investments in Mahris’ basic needs and economy.
In another scenario, the return of a strong state in Yemen leads to the pulling out of Saudi and Emirati forces and a decline in Omani support, resulting in a temporary vacuum and loss of livelihood for many Mahris. For now, the conflict in eastern Yemen remains in the shadows, and it may take time for relief to spread from Yemen’s central war-torn areas.
In the long term, lasting peace and development in Mahra will only be possible with a strong state, without the entanglement of external interventions. But because of the complexity of Yemen’s situation and the spreading of more diffuse conflict, this goal seems elusive.
This photo-essay was originally published by the Malcolm H. Kerr Carnegie Middle East Center.
The humanitarian catastrophe afflicting Yemen over the past five years has been exacerbated by the country’s suffocating isolation from the outside world. The Saudi-led Arab coalition has blockaded most of the country’s air and sea ports. Meanwhile, fighting has further isolated Yemen’s regions from each other. The expansion of the conflict zone and the competing local parties’ control over different areas have contributed to the rise of internal borders that have systematically kept inhabitants apart.
One example of such dynamics is the growing difficulty to cross from the northern part of Ta‘iz, which is controlled by Ansarullah, more commonly known as the Houthi movement, to the city center, which is held by parties loyal to the internationally recognized government. Even though the distance between the two areas is just a few kilometers, the journey can feel like crossing an international border. Travelers are forced to use alternative rugged routes that result in journeys that can often last hours.
A similar situation exists on the routes that connect Yemen’s northern cities, controlled by the Houthis. Dozens of military checkpoints have been set up to screen travelers and search their belongings. Armed men usually demand documents issued by the travelers’ sponsors in places where they are visiting, or by the authorities the travelers intend to see. The aim it to prevent the entry of anyone who may potentially belong to the opposing camp. Whoever does not meet the criteria risks being detained.
Residents of western and northern areas of Yemen are also finding it increasingly difficult to enter Aden in the south. The forces of the Southern Transitional Council, which controls the city and surrounding towns, have restricted the flow of people into the areas under their control. There is a exception to this, however, in that those traveling through Aden airport can enter into the city, provided that they hold a valid airline ticket and pledge not to remain in Aden.
In central and northern Yemen, both Houthi and loyalist forces have carved out internal borders by setting up checkpoints at the edges of the areas they control. The most prominent of these are the Houthi-controlled checkpoint in the Rada‘a area of Bayda Governorate and the government-controlled Falaj checkpoint in Marib. Both checkpoints, again, restrict the movement of people and goods.
Regional actors have also exacerbated Yemen’s geographical segregation. In early 2018, the United Arab Emirates pressured the then-governor of Socotra into barring the entry of all Yemenis except those originally from the archipelago. This pushed the local authorities to place other restrictions on non-residents, such as demanding that they be sponsored by locals when wanting to visit. They also have limited the use of boats by travelers to the island, to prevent large numbers of displaced from reaching Socotra. In that way they have made air travel the primary mode of transportation to the archipelago. These measures remain in place despite differences between the UAE and the local authorities in Socotra.
Warring parties instituted these new internal borders as a temporary measure to establish their control. However, these have developed into more enduring tools to divide Yemenis and limit movement, creating a new reality of geographically isolated pockets of land. There is an economic rationale for keeping the situation as is. As the conflict drags on and the war economy becomes more anchored, these new borders have taken on valuable economic roles. For example, the Houthis have created a customs center near the capital, San‘a, in the city of Dhamar. This center has imposed high tariffs on goods arriving from areas beyond the Houthis’ control, which represents a valuable source of revenue helping to finance the militia.
Similarly, just as smuggling is common across international borders, so too has it developed along Yemen’s internal borders. To facilitate their smuggling efforts, some networks have coordinated with the militias at checkpoints and paid them off with part of their revenues from smuggling operations. This too has helped harden the militias’ desire to maintain the status quo. These smuggling networks have also become widespread along Yemen’s extensive land and sea borders and have turned to transferring goods such as weapons and drugs.
Yemen’s internal borders have impacted heavily on the lives of civilians. Other than restricting their freedom of movement, such borders have nurtured regionalism and rallied society behind local identities, a phenomenon that will have both short- and long-term effects. Economically, these internal borders have limited work opportunities and raised the cost of basic goods, deepening the suffering of ordinary Yemenis. People were hard hit hard by the recognized government’s decision to move the Central Bank to Aden in 2016, which damaged the banking sector in San‘a, and the Houthis’ more recent decision to stop using the newly-printed riyal.
The presence of internal borders has added an extra layer to Yemen’s many challenges, which include managing its international borders and dealing with a battle for domination among regional states. Yet internal borders are no less relevant. Understanding them allows for a better grasp of Yemen and its conflict.
This blog was originally published by the Malcolm H. Kerr Carnegie Middle East Center.
The daily hardships of the camps are apparent in the crowded rows of ramshackle bamboo-and-tarpaulin huts, but there is also an unexpected orderliness to this makeshift community. The decade’s recent exodus is just the latest, largest wave of a refugee population that has been growing here for 30 years, and a semblance of civic and family life has emerged in the camps, along with markets, community centers, and places of worship.
While relief efforts are largely meeting refugees’ basic needs, life in the camps offers little more than survival, and many are desperate to escape to find work, go to school, or rejoin lost families. It’s a daunting, underground journey. Deprived of legal citizenship in their own country, and lacking identity and travel documents, refugees must hide or fake their identity and risk jail, or death under fire, to cross the nearby border.
An unknown number have braved this harrowing journey. Thousands more, who fled persecution before the latest exodus, have found their way to other countries in the region. As a result, Rohingya families are often splintered across multiple borders. Despite the numbers of Rohingya who have experienced the trauma of dislocation and family separation, however, no data existed to understand its impact. To clarify the dimensions of this crisis, the Centre for Peace and Justice at Bangladesh’s BRAC University, which has been conducting social and policy research on the Rohingya crisis, collaborated with The Asia Foundation on a new study, Mitigating Hardship with Mobility: The Coping Strategies of Rohingya Refugees in Bangladesh.
The survey took place in a moment of upheaval: on August 25, 2019, Rohingya youth and community leaders staged a peaceful prayer rally to commemorate their second year in Bangladesh and call for Myanmar to grant them citizenship. Local media, encouraged by anti-Rohingya activists, mischaracterized the rally as an angry protest, and camp security officials took steps that included cutting cellphone and internet service, just as the survey began. The Bangladesh government announced that it was illegal for the Rohingya to have Bangladeshi SIM cards, and there were reports of Rohingya mobile phones being confiscated or destroyed. We were concerned that our enumerators’ tablets, along with the collected data, would be seized. Luckily, this did not occur.
Respondents spoke of the daily sorrows of camp life, the lack of mobility or possibilities, the boredom, the difficult conditions. They missed everything from home: Burmese cigarettes and coffee, lahpet thoke (pickled tea-leaf salad), and the lives they used to have. Some wept over family members jailed abroad and their abandoned property in Myanmar, often asking for help or information. Whenever possible, we directed them to NGOs that were working on these problems. The importance of this survey’s results—to find strategies to restore fractured families, clear the way for remittances from abroad, and support the Rohingya diaspora—was always on vivid display.
The research team is currently analyzing the survey results, and we expect to publish our findings in the coming months. The findings will help inform solutions to mitigate the impact of family separation and reduce the perils of illegal travel in pursuit of a better life.
Conducting fieldwork is indispensable for researchers to understand and produce knowledge of the turbulent Middle East. For this to be successful one needs to develop a wide personal network, maintain it, and constantly expand it.
Make no mistake, building and sustaining a network can be arduous, requiring dedication and time. It is an art unto itself, which goes beyond the short-term contractual relationship with passing contacts. The relationships that usually matter are more personal, can be transformed into valuable friendships, and enable opportunities for partnership and cooperation, with both sides having a common interest in developing skills and producing knowledge.
That researchers need personal networks in the Middle East is unquestionable, because the region usually functions through personal relationships. However, there is no single recipe for how to do so. One of the finest things about traveling to the field is that you meet people, or should, from all walks of life. Most of those with whom you interact potentially add to your understanding—janitors, hotel receptionists, taxi drivers and barbers (who love to talk), local researchers, or senior officials with whom you arrange to meet (if they don’t cancel). It is the willingness to listen to people and, of course, nod convincingly when hearing conspiracy theories, that help to develop a wide network.
That said, ultimately you are the architect of your own networks. Meetings with some interlocutors will be the first and the last you have, while you may choose to remain in touch and reconnect occasionally with others. It is the third category that interests us here: those individuals who are happy to trade their local knowledge if they feel that they can get something in exchange. However, this has less to do with money than with mutual interest in a research area. Many people respond when they feel an urge to disseminate the information that they will share with you. Similar concerns between you and someone on the ground is often a valuable instrument in advancing knowledge of a particular situation.
I have experienced this personally on many occasions. I met one of my good friends, a researcher and a humanitarian worker, while on a field trip to Jordan. An official meeting of 40–50 minutes turned into a longer discussion over a dinner of fine Middle Eastern dishes. It didn’t take much time to understand that we had many interests in common. We even invited each other to our weddings. Professionally, our interchanges were mutually beneficial. Our shared concerns meant we were encouraged to exchange on a variety of matters, adding to our understanding.
The other favorite story of mine started in one of Amman’s busiest streets where I met a Syrian journalist from Dar‘a. A meeting that was supposed to last for an hour turned into a long discussion that went beyond Syria politics. This led to the idea of working together on a short project that involved engaging in several long, in-depth interviews. The next step will be cooperation on a larger project.
Maintaining contacts successfully is not easy because it means allocating what is most valuable in life, namely time. Remembering your contacts only when there is breaking news, or not being available when they need you, does more harm than good. For a network of contacts to be truly effective means that researchers need to invest in the gamut of interactions that make up a human relationship, not reduce everything to a functional task of extracting information.
That is not to say that information from the ground is irrelevant. Of course it is not. But when access to information is prioritized over human relations, it raises ethical questions and indicates to interlocutors that they only serve as your tool. Few people like to be reduced to that and it can weaken relationships.
In the Middle East people are sensitive to gestures of recognition. Offering a small gift to an interviewee can go a long way. However, this does not mean that you are buying their collaboration, and thinking such a thing would be a mistake. Rather, such gestures create a positive atmosphere that makes interaction, and an exchange of information, much easier. Most people one interviews appreciate it when you take the time to think about them before your discussion.
Networks, by their very nature, are dynamic. People come and go, marry, emigrate, or quit research altogether. While some bonds may last for a long time, eventually it is very difficult to maintain a large network for a long time. Adding new people to your list of contacts is not just exciting and challenging, it is crucial. Staying within the same circles can often mean that the same ideas and outlooks circulate again and again. To have an interlocutor with whom one always agrees can lead to ignoring valuable alternative views, to the detriment of a more balanced understanding of a given situation.
Therefore rejuvenating one’s network of relationships while also maintaining ties with previous contacts, particularly personal ties that display appreciation of an individual, may be as close to a recipe for successful research as one will get.
This blog was originally published by the Malcolm H. Kerr Carnegie Middle East Center.
Majok Nyinh-Thiou (Majok) is a small market town on the border between Sudan and South Sudan, four hours’ drive to the north-east of Aweil. It is one of the main border crossing points between the Northern Bahr el-Ghazal region in South Sudan and the Sudanese regions of Kordofan and Darfur. For this reason, it attracts many traders and migrants, although border crossings are strictly regulated by the South Sudanese military (SPLA).
Historically, Majok has had a close relationship with towns like Meiram and Muglet that are now on the Sudanese side of the border. However, this relationship has often been disrupted by the region’s conflicts, which have restricted the mobility of the local population and shaped the way that people have built often insecure livelihoods. Majok has retained a heavy security presence, with many SPLA soldiers deployed there to control border crossing and manage the lucrative collection of fees and taxes that result from it.
While Northern Bahr el-Ghazal suffered from raiding by pro-Khartoum militias during the Second Sudanese Civil War (1983-2005), the region escaped the worst of the fighting during South Sudan’s civil war. Nonetheless, this national conflict has contributed to increased economic pressures on the region’s women.
Many of Northern Bahr el-Ghazal’s young men joined the pro-government Mathiang Anyoor (Brown Caterpillar) militias in 2012 and 2013, which were first formed to protect the border after independence. They later became a source of fighters loyal to President Kiir’s government and many were deployed in conflict zones after the war broke out in December 2013. Those who were killed or lost contact with their families often left their wives as the sole breadwinners.
The region’s conflict-affected economy has created a substantial population of women forced to scratch out a living in an increasingly marketized economy. We met some of these women in Majok’s busy market, sitting in grass-thatched shops selling tea, roasted nuts and other foods like vegetable leaves, wild fruits, dried fish and meat.
We sat down with Rebecca Anger, a widow in her early thirties with three children. Rebecca was born during the war between the SPLA and the Sudanese government. Unlike many of their neighbours who left for the north, Rebecca’s family chose to remain in their village south of Majok.
The family survived on farming, gathering wild foods and some humanitarian assistance. They also brewed alcohol to sell to SPLA soldiers. Brewing became a source of money for many women from southern states, who would make beer and sell it in the north where the Islamist government had made it illegal, but demand remained strong.
After the war, Rebecca married an SPLA finance officer. He died from illness in 2013 just before South Sudan’s civil war broke out in Juba. At first, Rebecca was left to look after her children on her own, but her husband’s younger brother later adopted her as a wife. She has had two children by him, but he only comes home occasionally and doesn’t provide money for food. Rebecca is responsible for paying all the living costs for her family.
Rebecca makes a living by selling tea and roasted nuts in the market. She has considered going to the north to resume her alcohol brewing business, which she thinks will provide a better income than her tea stall. However, she fears the consequences of risking the border crossing, which she hears has grown more difficult in recent years—those caught crossing without the right permissions may be beaten, tortured or arrested and forced to pay for their release.
Local governance and security organs regard border crossing by women and children as a long-term threat to the region. They fear that it will artificially reduce the population and therefore weaken the region’s political and economic status. Mothers are told that children are the property of the country and should not move across the border with them.
The women who want to cross have two options: either they pay a local chief to draw up a travel permit, which states that they are crossing for medical reasons, or they can bribe SPLA soldiers to help them cross safely. Regulation of the border has therefore become a lucrative business for some SPLA soldiers.
Many women who can’t afford these options are now living in Majok, where they try to gather enough money to pay for illegal entry in to Sudan. Those who cannot afford to pay for permits or bribes sometimes travel to the border on foot through the forest and enter Sudan via this route. Due to the presence of armed militias, this route is risky. The militia groups rob travellers or ask for bribes by threatening to take them to the border authorities. It is even more dangerous for women, who may be subjected to sexual violence.
The strict regulation of the border also affects the truck trade between Northern Bahr el-Ghazal and Sudan. Evidence of this could be seen on the main highway south that runs between Warawar in South Sudan and Meiram in Sudan, with trucks loaded with foodstuffs parked there throughout the day. They had arrived in Majok overnight from Sudan—crossing the border illegally under cover of darkness.
This illicit trade across the border is a lucrative business. It is controlled by Sudanese Misseriya who inhabit Meiram and the areas around it. Local businessmen in Meiram, who have developed relationships with the security forces on the border, buy goods from Khartoum-based traders and smuggle them into South Sudan overnight where they can get a higher price.
The South Sudanese soldiers deployed on the border rarely arrest the drivers if they are caught. Instead, they have set up many roadblocks between Majok and Aweil and unofficially tax the trucks. For this reason, the soldiers and their commanders on the border prefer to have many more trucks entering South Sudan through Majok.
The life stories told to us by Rebecca and other women in Majok help us understand some of the difficult choices that women in Northern Bahr el-Ghazal face, particularly those who have little or no support from their husbands. Surviving in the border economy is hard, with little prospect of self-advancement. But the alternative is to risk the crossing in to Sudan, which brings more dangers for them and their children. This has been made more difficult by the strict regulation of the border since independence, making it difficult, expensive and risky for traders and individuals to cross. This often leaves women, like Rebecca, trapped in a low-margin economy in towns like Majok, surviving as best they can.
It’s business as usual for cross-border trade in the Sulu Archipelago, off the southern Philippine island of Mindanao, where enterprising men and women from Zamboanga City and the island provinces of Basilan, Sulu, and Tawi-Tawi brave the waves of the Sulu Sea to import goods from Sabah in North Borneo—goods such as rice, noodles, and other food products, as well as the cooking oil and gasoline that remote island communities of the southern Philippines depend on.
Isolated from formal trade and markets, “barter trade” as the locals call it has been practiced here since time immemorial, and it continues despite a regulatory environment that is becoming more restrictive due to rising maritime insecurity in the region, including the growing presence of kidnap-for-ransom groups such as Abu Sayyaf and the rise in violent extremism in Southeast Asia.
A recent study by The Asia Foundation explores the challenges faced by barter traders in the southern Philippines and the strategies they adopt to navigate this complex political and security environment. Trade in the Sulu Archipelago: Informal Economies amidst Maritime Security Challenges finds that barter trade remains a risky business. While Malaysian authorities allow the duty-free transshipment of goods, barter traders are considered to be smugglers under Philippine law, and the goods that fill their wooden-hulled boats are contraband. Rather than being discouraged, however, these traders have found allies among some security and regulatory agents, who provide protection in exchange for a cut of the profit.
This “special arrangement” has benefited both traders and some state agents, along with formal and informal actors throughout the supply chain, including fixers, boat operators, port operators, wholesalers, laborers, and truck operators. It’s a system with no clear-cut distinction between formal and informal actors or transactions, consigning transborder trade to a legal gray zone in which formal and informal are conflated. Filipino state agents who facilitate border-crossing to Malaysia can shift their role from facilitators to regulators, preventing the entry of untaxed imported goods on their journey back to Philippine waters. In the same vein, formal traders can easily embark to Sabah on a registered wooden-hulled boat from a local public port, then dock illicitly, loaded with contraband, in one of the many private ports upon their return.
Despite significant legal risks and growing maritime insecurity, barter traders have few livelihood alternatives. In interviews in January and February 2019, 36 barter traders gave a glimpse of their skill and persistence in moving goods across the maritime border, even in times of heightened scrutiny. When enforcement is more severe, most traders say they stop crossing the border to wait for the situation to normalize. Others change routes. Women traders importing clothing and other nonperishable goods, for example, have shifted to traveling either by plane or along the formal Zamboanga City–Sandakan route, plied regularly by the vessel MV Dona Antonia. Small traders with insufficient capital are forced to find other sources of income during crises. Larger traders smuggling cigarettes and other contraband have evaded state agents by hiding among nearby islands for hours, waiting for navy or coast guard vessels to finish their patrols.
For those with the capital—at least 10 million Philippine pesos (PHP) in cash (approximately USD 200,000) for each journey to Sabah—cross-border trade can be a lucrative business, with a round trip generating around PHP 1 million (USD 20,000) in profit. State actors who accept “special payments” can earn similar profits from each shipment, without the risk faced by traders. The study illustrates how this mutually beneficial relationship between traders and state actors has created a parallel economy that overlaps and often supersedes the formal legal structures and practices in cross-border trade. In this parallel economy, fueled by large financial rewards, state regulatory and security agents interact with traders and fixers in both official and unofficial transactions. Among traders, the high demand for barter-trade products, their familiarity with trade routes, strong social networks, and clan-based support add to their resilience in braving the waves of adversity in cross-border trade.
All this soon may change following the adoption by plebiscite in January and February 2019 of Republic Act No. 11054 establishing a new regional government in the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (BARMM). The new BARMM government now has an opportunity to enact laws to protect barter traders from coercive rents and more equitably and transparently share the fruits of cross-border trade with the local economies of the Sulu Archipelago. Providing incentives for barter traders to formalize their operations could gradually eliminate the issue of rent payments and corruption. Executive Order 64, signed by Philippine president Duterte in late 2018, allows for the establishment of a Mindanao Barter Council (MBC) and the designation of ports in Sulu and Tawi-Tawi as legal areas for barter trade. The MBC will continue its function until the Bangsamoro government establishes its own barter trade office, at which point authority will devolve to the regional level.
How these legislative changes are managed, along with existing and emergent security challenges, will be key to the future development of the region and the stability of the newly created BARMM. Informal trade in the Sulu archipelago operates in a complex conflict environment shaped by extreme poverty, marginalization, and weak governance. These interlocking issues are deeply ingrained in what have been flawed government systems and policies. Efforts to formalize barter trade as a significant economic and cultural activity must incentivize barter traders and others directly involved in the practice to participate in a legal and transparent manner. Policymakers, regional agencies, and donors should focus on understanding how the country’s policies on barter trade, security, and maritime borders can be improved to maximize benefits for Filipino traders, the BARMM, and local economies in the Sulu archipelago.
Last August the Iraqi government decided to shut down the Mandali border crossing between Iraq and Iran in Diyala Governorate. In justifying the move, it described Mandali as an informal crossing that had been used for illicit trade and for the unauthorized movement of people and goods.
According to Iraqi media outlets, criminal organizations had smuggled narcotics into Iraq through there. The area is heavily controlled by Shi‘a militias, who have moved personnel and weapons with relative freedom. Diyala has gained strategic significance for paramilitary groups backed by Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, given its location between the Iranian border and Baghdad, a region segmented by ethnic and sectarian fault lines.
Since the fall of the Ba‘th regime in 2003, the Iraqi state’s control over borderlands and border crossings has been considerably weakened. As the fragile state directed its resources and manpower toward securing central areas of Iraq and other strategically vital locations, several border areas and geographic peripheries became places of lawlessness and contestation by local groups, foreign powers, criminal organizations, and insurgents.
For example, at one time the areas of western ‘Anbar and Nineveh Governorates were strongholds for Al-Qa‘eda in Mesopotamia and its later incarnation, the Islamic State. Similarly, the two main Kurdish parties, the Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP) and the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan, have de facto control over Kurdistan’s border crossings with Turkey and Iran. Even Iraq’s ports in the south have been deeply infiltrated by militias and informal networks, with some docking zones having fallen under the control of political parties, militias, and nonstate actors.
The state’s inability to impose control over Iraq’s western border helped the Islamic State to control territory in both Iraq and Syria. The group moved from these peripheries into major cities such as Mosul and Raqqa. The Islamic State formed what it called Wilayat al-Furat, or Euphrates Province, combining the Iraqi town of Qaim and the Syrian town of Albukamal into a single administrative unit. The geographic and cultural proximity of the two towns tempted the Islamic State to make this newly established province a place where it would eliminate the border and in that way create its supranational state. Indeed, for a few years the border ceased to exist in that location and people traveled between Qaim, Albukamal, and Deir Ezzor relatively freely.
This blog was originally published by the Malcolm H. Kerr Carnegie Middle East Center.
The Syrian city of Albukamal and the Iraqi city of Qaim along the Syrian-Iraqi border are separated by only a few hundred meters and have historically been linked by tribal and family ties. For decades the cities, like the border dividing them, have had strategic importance for Syria and Iraq, even as their role appears to have expanded today to have implications for the rivalry between Iran and Israel.
The Syrian-Iraqi border has gone through several phases in which it has played essential roles in the politics of the region. During the 1980s it served as a front line in the rivalry between the Syrian and Iraqi Ba‘th parties. Albukamal and Qaim were very close to one another physically and culturally, but also separated by politics. Shortly after Saddam Hussein seized power in Iraq in 1979, Iraqi-Syrian relations deteriorated and the contending Baathist regimes closed the border. As a result, smuggling, particularly of cigarettes and livestock, became a central feature of the local economy and society, drawing on old relationships linking the two sides. This was facilitated by the large number of uninhabited areas and natural tunnels present along the border.
In 2003, after a military coalition led by the United States overthrew the Iraqi Baathist regime, the Syrian authorities began infiltrating jihadis into Iraq to attack coalition forces, which they regarded as a threat. The jihadis used the existing smuggling networks to move fighters. These networks remained in place until the start of the Syrian uprising in 2011, when the flow was reversed, with members of the Al-Qa‘eda-linked Jabhat al-Nusra and what later became the Islamic State entering Syria through this area. During the same period smuggling expanded greatly, encompassing weapons, food, and other products, alongside other wartime economic activities.
In 2014, when the Islamic State group took over large swathes of territory in Syria and Iraq, the area of Albukamal and Qaim became a major point of interest for jihadis, who moved people, weapons, and goods between the two countries. In addition to the preexisting smuggling networks, Islamic State fighters found the area appealing because of the natural tunnels present there, which allowed them to move without being spotted by aircraft and drones.
Moreover, the area is fertile, permitting fighters to grow their own food and not rely on imported food. At the same time it is surrounded by a vast desert, which meant that Islamic State combatants had room to maneuver without the presence of enemies close by, helping to facilitate their movement across the border. Because of the loss of agricultural land, rising prices, and the destruction of local infrastructure during the Syrian and Iraqi conflicts, military-related activities came to dominate economic life. This included the manufacturing of explosive devices and military uniforms.
The Islamic State also exploited its presence to portray itself as a defender of Sunni interests, creating a dilemma for local tribes. The Sunni tribes wanted the Islamic State out of their areas, but they did not want the Shi‘a-dominated Iraqi government to gain power as a consequence. Islamic State fighters were able to exploit this ambiguity and force local tribes to support them and swear allegiance to the group. This dramatically affected stability in the area as the Islamic State was able to portray itself as the protector of the Sunni tribes.
In late 2017, Syrian government forces, supported by Iran-backed militias and Russian airpower, recaptured Albukamal. The U.S.-backed Syrian Democratic Forces took the environs north of the city, known as the Jazira. On the Iraqi side of the border, the Shi‘a-dominated Popular Mobilization Forces and the Iraqi army evicted the jihadis from Qaim. Since then, the Syrian and Iraqi governments have kept a firm security grip on the two cities, with Iran’s backing.
Today, the Syrian-Iraqi border has come to play a new role in the emerging regional rivalry between Iran and Israel. Both countries now regard the border as strategically important. To Tehran, controlling the border means having the capacity to move Iranian forces and Iraqi Shi‘a militias into Syria and Lebanon in case of a broader conflict with Israel. Israel, in turn, aims to prevent this, which is why it appears to have targeted Iraqi territory, including areas near the border, so that Iran thinks twice about deploying such proxy forces.
The Syrian-Iraqi border near Albukamal and Qaim is likely to remain a place of strategic importance in the future, notwithstanding what appears to be its geographical isolation. Both cities have become much more than a border crossing. In that regard they represent a boundary that has regional implications. This cannot be to the liking of their inhabitants, who have time and again suffered from dynamics over which they have had little control.This publication was produced with support from the X-Border Local Research Network, a program funded by UK aid from the UK government. The views expressed do not necessarily reflect the UK government’s official policies.
This blog was originally published by the Malcolm H. Kerr Carnegie Middle East Center.
Puntland’s Bari region is remote and mountainous with few roads and an increasingly distant relationship with Garowe, the state capital. The inaccessibility of the interior, where Islamists militants are active, has meant that coastal communities—more easily accessed by sea than land—have become Bari’s economic centres. These places often have stronger economic and social links with communities in Yemen, which is only 200 km away by sea, than Puntland’s own in-land political centre. In December 2018 I was part of an RVI team that travelled to Bari to conduct research on the economic life of the communities that live there. Based on research carried out on this trip, we produced a report—Mobility, Trust and Exchange: Somalia and Yemen’s Cross-border Maritime Economy—as part of the X-Border Local Research Network.
We carried out research in Baargal, on the eastern side of Cape Guardafui (Puntland’s north-eastern most tip); Bareeda, on the north coast; and Xaabo, a day’s drive to the west. These fishing communities are economically dynamic places, attracting migrant labour from as far as southern Somalia and the Somali-speaking region of Ethiopia. Yemeni fishermen and other business people come and go largely without hindrance, using the coastal villages and landing beaches to rest, resupply and interact with local officials who administer a system of taxes and permits allowing them to operate there. Puntlanders are also able to travel to the coast of Yemen, where they buy goods or take advantage of the better medical facilities and shops.
One consequence of this open economic system is that Puntland’s fishing ports are experiencing rapid economic change with some negative consequences for the Somali population. While Puntland’s state authorities and the Yemeni fishing sector have developed an arrangement over the regulation of fishing rights, this increasingly excludes local fishermen from the industry—an outcome that is driving anti-Garowe sentiment among the fishing communities.
Traditionally, the relationship between the Yemeni and Somali fishing industries was transacted around a relationship known as Istilam (receiving). This form of fishing involves medium-sized boats (10-40 tonnes), owned by Somali or Yemeni businessmen, travelling between the small ports to buy the catch from local fishermen. The fish are usually caught using nets that are laid overnight.
With the Istilam method, both the large—mainly Yemeni—receiving boats, and the local Somali fishermen, make money. However, the net-fishing method used by most local fishermen—where the fish dies before it is landed—is now seen as producing a lower quality catch than the higher-skilled method of line-fishing, which keeps the fish alive for longer. As a result, Yemeni boats now increasingly come with their own skiffs and fishermen, who operate using lines, rather than nets. This method of fishing for yourself, rather than buying from others, is known as Istiyaad.
The local fishermen are increasingly left out of the industry, while the state government taxes the Yemeni boats $2-3,000 for 45 days to operate in the area. There is a lot of resentment directed towards the administration, which people said takes fees from each fishing boat but produces nothing for the local economy. Locals told us that many fishermen, now unable to sell their catch to the Yemeni boats, cannot afford to send their children to school.
In Baargaal we witnessed the arrival of a convoy of vehicles protected by heavily armed soldiers. We were told that they were taking the money accrued from taxes and licenses to Garowe. People were very unhappy about this. In Bareeda, we were told that the Puntland state administration had sold the region’s fishing rights to Yemenis for a few dollars, which has caused much local resentment.
Only in Xaabo—the biggest fish market in the area—was the Istilam method of fishing still widely in evidence. This was due to local factors, principally the Yemeni boats’ need to quickly fill their holds with fish before the ice, which they bring from their home ports, melts after a few days. This means using the maximum number of skiffs available to gather around 30 tonnes of fish in a short time. Xaabo, where the sea is calmer, is also a good place to fish in skiffs, as the small boats can go out every day, whereas in the less protected ports on the Indian Ocean side they cannot operate when the winds are too strong.
As a result, many skiff owners have moved to Xaabo to sell their catch and it has become a boom town with a major fish market and tuna processing factory, as well as many shops and even boat repair facilities (mainly run by southern Somalis). Despite this economic success, the general feeling of unhappiness with the way resources and power are shared in Puntland was felt there too.
Due to the high numbers of Yemeni and other foreign boats fishing off the Puntland coast, some locals have developed other ways to make money out of this influx by acting as paid protectors (Booyado) on their boats. At one point, an elder stormed in to one of our interviews saying that we were talking to people who never fished, but instead just protected Yemeni boats fishing in Somali waters for a few dollars. He complained that this was destroying the livelihoods of local fishermen.
One young man also claimed that recently he had gone out to sea armed and boarded a Yemeni boat that was fishing illegally (without paying a license fee). He forced them to hand over $700 in cash. They couldn’t complain to the Somali authorities or the local elders because they didn’t have permission to fish.
Xaabo, due to its proximity to Bosasso, receives more attention from the Puntland state coastguard, which monitors the payment of license fees. However, a system of local guides—Arbaab—exists, who alert the Yemeni boats that the coastguard has left Bosasso so that they can avoid the area and don’t pay any fees. The Somali guides feel a greater sense of affinity with their Yemeni neighbours, who they are often related to by clan or intermarriage, than their own political leaders.
While Puntland’s coastal fishing communities are highly integrated in to the Yemeni fishing economy, it is by no means a win-win situation. Local fishermen feel that they are increasingly being pushed out of the market by the better resourced Yemeni fishing boats, who negotiate their presence in the region with the rent-seeking state leadership. This serves to accentuate existing divisions between the politically powerful centre and the productive, but vulnerable, peripheries where the local economy is often at its most dynamic.
