Confronting Despair with a Sense of Purpose

For Sakina Ahmed, the town of Assosa in Ethiopia’s Benishangul-Gumuz Region feels like a world away from the bustling, paved streets of Khartoum, Sudan, where she once built her life. Yet, ten kilometers outside Assosa, in the temporary city of refuge known as Ura, she has unearthed something she thought was buried forever: a purpose.

Sakina’s story is etched with the kind of loss that can shatter a soul. At just 28, she has already endured a lifetime of grief. The relentless and brutal conflict in Sudan claimed her husband and one of her children. With her two surviving children depending on her, she was forced to flee the only home she had ever known.

Her identity, like her journey, has always been one of crossing borders. Born to an Ethiopian mother and a Sudanese father on the frontier between their nations, she eventually found her center in Khartoum. Now, that center is gone. Her arduous six-month trek through South Sudan and into Ethiopia remains a blur of fear and exhaustion, a memory she guards closely.

When she finally arrived at Ura Refugee Camp, the journey’s end brought no relief, only a crushing emptiness.

“When I got here, I was completely broken. I had lost everything that made me, ” Sakina recalls, her voice soft but steady. “The weight of my grief was so heavy I saw no future. I saw no reason to go on.”

The profound depression that followed is a common, yet often unspoken, shadow in refugee settings. For Sakina, it manifested as a desire to end her life. The trauma of her past had eclipsed any hope for her future. It was in this darkest moment that she found a lifeline: the Women and Girls’ Friendly Space (WGFS) in the camp, supported by UNFPA with funding from Canada.

This safe haven, more than just a structure, became her sanctuary. Here, she received critical psycho-social support from counselors and staff from Medical Teams International (MTI), an implementing partner on the ground. They listened. They validated her pain. Slowly, gently, they began to help her rebuild the pieces of herself.

“They didn’t just see me as a refugee, or a number. They saw me, Sakina, as a woman who was hurting,” she says. “They showed me that my story wasn’t over.”

The transformation began within the walls of the WGFS. As her spirit healed, a unique skill set emerged as her key to a new beginning. Fluent in Arabic, the language of her Sudanese home, and Amharic, the language of her Ethiopian heritage, Sakina found a new role: becoming the voice for those who could not be heard.

Today, she is employed by MTI as a translator, a vital bridge between the camp’s Arabic-speaking refugees and the Amharic-speaking staff. In the health clinic, she translates symptoms and diagnoses, ensuring a mother understands her child’s treatment. In administrative meetings, she conveys the concerns and needs of her fellow refugees. 

“Now, I can help other women who are just like I was,” Sakina explains, a gentle smile touching her lips. “When I translate for them, I see my own fear and confusion in their eyes. I can tell them, ‘I was there too. It will be okay.’ That connection is everything.”

Her healing is nurtured alongside other women in the WGFS. She finds a quiet joy in the rhythmic flow of sewing, stitching together not just fabric, but a sense of community. Over cups of tea, she discusses the day’s challenges and small triumphs with her fellow refugees, weaving a new tapestry of friendship and mutual support.

This integration extends beyond the refugee community. The ethos of the program, championed by UNFPA and MTI, is to foster harmony between those seeking shelter and the communities that host them.

Meryem Abdullahi and Bahida Hadi, 22 and 27 respectively, are from the local host community. Employed as cleaning staff in the health clinic and the WGFS, they are integral to the daily rhythm of the camp. Their work preparing tea and refreshments is a simple yet profound act of welcome and solidarity.

“We are all women. We all have families. We understand their struggle,” says Bahida. “Working here, we learn from each other. We are building something together,” adds Meryem.

This deliberate integration ensures the support system is not an isolated bubble but a blended community where host and refugee women work side-by-side, sharing skills, stories, and a common humanity.

For Sakina, the journey from despair to becoming a pillar of her community is a testament to the power of targeted, compassionate support. The WGFS provided more than just a service; it provided a space for her to rediscover her own strength.

She is no longer defined solely by what she lost in Sudan. In the Ura refugee camp, she has built a new identity: a survivor, a translator, a friend, and a mother.  

“I have found my purpose again,” Sakina says, her gaze clear and determined. “I am using my past to help others build their future. This is how we heal. This is how we survive.”