High guests have come, once again.
Wearing blue bulletproof vests, they walk through the refugee camp and are immediately surrounded by dozens of residents.
No, help hasn't arrived here yet, the situation is dramatic, an older man tells them.
The United Nations delegation takes notes.
A local worker concedes that there are simply too many new arrivals to care for.
In the background, women are erecting improvised tents out of thin twigs, cloth and plastic sheeting, which will be their home for most of them for months – if not years.
"Somalia is on the brink," says Mohammed Abdiker, regional director of the UN migration organization IOM.
More than seven million people are threatened by hunger, almost half of the population.
"Our answer is not enough," adds the UN official.
At least more money is slowly arriving from the international community, but it's still missing everywhere.
Also because the war in Ukraine is tying up many of the rich countries' resources.
The UN representatives could already see the extent of the catastrophe from the air.
The city of Baidoa in central Somalia is now a patchwork quilt of orange dots, the refugee tents spread out in all directions, even the airport is surrounded by the makeshift shelters of those displaced by drought.
More than a thousand refugees arrive every day.
Naima Mohammed lives in one of these tents, just behind the airport fence.
In the background, the big white helicopters and planes of the UN and the Red Cross land, often with relief supplies on board.
It then booms loudly, but no one pays any more attention to it.
She recently queued up to be provided with food by an aid organization, says Mohammed.
But it was not her turn, the rations ran out quickly.
The need is too great to help everyone.
The mother of seven sits on a bast mat, her youngest child in her arms, it is one year old and looks emaciated.
The girl screams again and again, Mohammed tries to distract her, without success.
"Your own child is crying from hunger and you can't do anything, that's a terrible feeling," she says.
The single mother and her children survive thanks to food donations from the neighbors.
When Mohammed set out from Bush Medina, her homeland, she still had eight children - and a donkey, who transported the few belongings of the family.
She had tried to stay until the end, even after the ten goats had already died because there was no more pasture.
She had tried growing some millet, one of the most drought-resistant varieties.
But that also failed: "No one can plant anything there anymore, there is no longer any life in this area." So they set off, four weeks ago.
The donkey died first on the multi-day hike, after which they had to carry their things themselves.
On the second day, the four-year-old daughter also became weaker and weaker and at some point could no longer walk due to exhaustion and hunger.
She did not survive the escape.
"I had to bury her on the way," says Mohammed, she didn't have time to mourn.
Finally, the mother had to reach the refugee camp that saved her before the other children's lives were in danger.
She made it, but now they continue to suffer from hunger.
Istanbul Abi has made a small fire outside in front of the tents, and a pot of lentils is simmering on it.
She is the camp manager for a small section of the tent city, and the residents have made her their leader.
The 40-year-old arrived in Baidoa five months ago. She seems energetic, walks around restlessly and talks a lot, unlike most here, who endure the hunger lying down.
"My job is to mobilize help," says Abi, "but people are dying here."
Abi also talks to the UN delegation, tells them what is urgently needed.
Water, for example, the truck comes by far too seldom to fill up the residents' yellow canisters.
And food of course.
Abi is only responsible for a small section, maybe a few dozen tents, but in this section alone 15 new people arrive every day.
At least 600,000 displaced people now live in Baidoa, significantly more than the city has inhabitants.
Somalia has one of the highest rates of urbanization in the world, and some call Baidoa the fastest growing city in Africa - because of the drought.
Istanbul Abi himself had hoped never to be on the run again.
She has spent six years of her life in Dadaab in northern Kenya, one of the largest refugee camps in the world.
But in 2017, she decided to return to her homeland of Somalia to make a fresh start.
She received start-up capital from the UN, opened a shop and sold everything from clothes to groceries.
But soon the Islamist militia al-Shabab came and demanded taxes of up to a thousand euros a month.
"It ruined me," she says.
She tried to supplement her income by selling khat, a stimulant plant.
But al-Shabab made trafficking in the drug a severe offense, and Abi was caught.
"They put me in prison and threatened to kill me," she says.
When, due to the drought and inflation, nobody had any more money to shop in her store, she gave up her dream.
She packed up and fled a second time in her life, this time to Baidoa.
Now she takes care of the flatmates in the camp.
Abi's story shows how several crises come together in Somalia and create a toxic mixture: Due to climate change, whole parts of the country have become uninhabitable, the rain has stopped for years, nothing grows anymore, the animals are dying.
At the same time, prices are rising, also caused by the corona pandemic and the Ukraine war;
Food becomes unaffordable.
And in Somalia there is a third poisonous ingredient: Al-Shabab controls large parts of the country, and the security situation is catastrophic.
The militia is cutting off access to international aid, so many people cannot be helped locally.
All of this is leading to an unprecedented mass exodus from the villages to the cities, where people see their last hope.
Next to the capital Mogadishu, Baidoa has seen the largest influx.
It is a hunger crisis, but also one of the biggest migration crises on the continent.
The mayor of Baidoa, Abdullahi Watiin, seems more like a high-ranking diplomat these days.
He stands on the runway of the run-down provincial airport in his best suit and neatly fitted tie to greet the ambassador of Qatar.
Watiin hopes for a generously filled suitcase of money for his community.
The day before, he received the UN delegation and told them with a serious expression how the drought was bringing his city to the brink of collapse.
There is no improvement in sight, on the contrary, the situation is getting worse every day.
In October, there is a high probability that famine will be officially declared in the Baidoa area.
In reality, it has been there for a long time, but the government in Somalia is still struggling with the choice of words, it is also about belittling its own failures.
Then Mayor Watiin drives the SPIEGEL to the outskirts of the city. The international delegations are not allowed to go there with their protective vests, it's too dangerous.
A month ago, al-Shabab blew up a local government minister along with several of his children.
"I brought my family to safety," says Watiin.
He is sitting in the back seat of his armored SUV, in front of and behind him are pickup trucks on which police officers with heavy machine guns are sitting.
The martial convoy stops at Bayhaaw Hospital, the doctors and nurses seem a bit taken by surprise.
Then the mayor is shown through all the rooms, even in the corridors there are beds.
Mothers lie or sit on it with their starving children, the sight is hard to bear.
"It's getting more every month," says the head nurse, then she stops by the 18-month-old Hussein's bedside.
The boy lies apathetically on his mattress, staring into space, barely able to lift his arms.
Hussein now weighs five kilograms after doctors fed him special high-calorie milk.
When he was taken to the hospital, he weighed just three kilograms, the same as a newborn baby.
It was a last minute rescue.
"He'll survive," says the doctor treating him, even if permanent damage is likely.
Because the brain cannot develop properly due to hunger, many affected children are marked for life.
After all, no patient has died in the hospital for four days, that's quite a success.
A few weeks ago there was an outbreak of measles and cholera in addition to the hunger, and in many cases the doctors were powerless.
Hussein's mother, Hawa Abdullah, is now well acquainted with the procedures on the ward and knows the names of the various types of therapeutic milk, F75 and F100.
Your son is here for the second time.
He had to be treated three months ago, also because of acute malnutrition.
When the doctors finally released him, Hussein was better and could even walk himself.
But at home the only thing waiting was hunger again: "There is no hope in this area, our animals are dead," says Hussein's mother Abdullah.
Out of desperation, she stirred sugar into her son's water, but even that couldn't replace a meal.
Now Hawa Abdullah wants to try a new start with her children, if possible in Baidoa.
Mayor Watiin nods, he knows these stories, but they cause him great concern: »Previously, those affected came to the city, got help here and then returned to their villages.
We have to push this again in order to relieve Baidoa, «demands the politician.
Various organizations try to send money to people in the countryside via mobile phone transfers, but that doesn't bring the rain back either.
Then the mayor's convoy stops abruptly on a dusty street, the mayor jumps out of his car and walks in the direction of a nicely decorated entrance gate.
A place of hope, it seems.
The gate leads to a one-story farmhouse, next to it is a large water tank framed by green trees, a stark contrast to the surrounding reddish-brown dust.
Farmer Derow Adam meets the mayor, hands are shaken, then there is a tour of the farm.
It quickly becomes clear that appearances are deceptive.
Not a drop comes out of the tap, although Adam has drilled his well almost 15 meters deep.
This also has something to do with the tents on the other side of the street. The displaced people have even settled here outside the city gates.
"Sometimes they knock on my door at midnight because they are so thirsty," says the farmer.
As soon as there is water, he opens the tap for the refugees, who now come every day and fill up their canisters.
Adam himself came to the city from the country years ago and once lived in one of the bell tents.
Sharing is a matter of honor for him, as it is for many in Somalia.
Without mutual support, the catastrophe would have been much greater, also because international aid was so hesitant until recently.
But Adam now has to wait longer and longer for his well to fill up again, and it dries up faster and faster.
Several pipes lead from the large tank in the direction of the fields, no water flows through them anymore.
Four months ago, the farmer invested 1,000 US dollars in modern seeds, in drought-resistant millet, cabbage and corn.
A month ago he would have harvested, would have sold his produce at the Baidoa market, it would have been his contribution to the fight against hunger.
But nothing is normal anymore here in central Somalia, the entire harvest has come in, only withered little plants are sticking out of the field.
When the farmer digs his rake into the ground, hot wind blows the dry dust across the fields.
Even without the camp across the way there would not have been enough water, once again there was no rain, for the third year in a row.
»Every year we say: This season was the worst.
And then next year it gets even worse.
Climate change is destroying our existence,” says Adam.
Then the convoy drives on, the houses and tents become fewer and fewer, left and right only dusty steppe.
After a few bumpy kilometers, a settlement appears out of nowhere, silver corrugated iron houses reflect the sunlight, the mayor's armored car turns onto a brand-new, wide street.
The Barwaaqo district that emerged here is one of the flagship projects in Baidoa, 3,000 households from the refugee camps were resettled here, supported by the UN.
Hassan Ismail and his family of eight moved here two years ago. They now have two huts with real beds. His wife and children live in one, and the 30-year-old has set up a shop in the other.
He has invested in a sewing machine and a car battery that neighbors can use to charge their cell phones for a fee.
He sells the sewn clothes as a hawker in the city, and the family also gets around 40 US dollars a month from aid organizations.
"It's still not enough to live on, the hunger stayed," says Ismail.
But they are better off than most other displaced persons.
The almost 20,000 residents of the new settlement have been given the land, they can no longer be evicted - unlike the hundreds of thousands in the tent cities, which are only temporarily tolerated on private land.
The mayor hopes that those who have been resettled in Barwaaqo will eventually be able to take care of themselves, that the dependence on humanitarian aid will finally end.
The plots are large enough to grow something, and private investors have built a market hall on the wide new street.
"As soon as the rain comes, we'll plant," says Hassan Ismail hopefully.
Aid organizations recently had two wells drilled, a small glimmer of hope.
Then Mayor Watiin has to go on, the next meeting with international donors is waiting.
He will give his lecture again, about long-term solutions, about the fight against climate change.
And all the lives that couldn't be saved.
This contribution is part of the Global Society project
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