Where Water Holds the Walls Together

Nyaluak Wiew presses both palms flat against the mud wall of her house, smoothing the wet clay in slow, circular motions. The afternoon light falls across her shoulders as she leans forward, careful not to let the mixture crack before it dries. The wall is cool under her hands. A shallow fire pit sits nearby, and thin branches support the roof above her.

She lives in Jewi refugee camp in Gambela. Like thousands of others who fled the conflict in South Sudan, she crossed into Ethiopia in search of safety. “I am a refugee living in Jewi camp,” she says. “This is where I stay with my children.”

In Jewi refugee camp, water shaped Nyaluak’s day, how early she woke up, how long she waited, and what she had to leave undone. For years, water shaped the rhythm of her days. The distance to collect it, the weight of it, the fear of running out before nightfall. In the dry season, the ground around the camp turned dusty and brittle. At the water point, long lines formed early.

“Before, we spent many hours waiting for water,” she says. “Sometimes we would go back home without enough.”

Water was not only for drinking. It held together the clay of her walls. It washed her children’s faces before school. It softened sorghum flour for cooking. When water was scarce, everything tightened. Meals were smaller. Cleaning stopped first. Repairs were delayed.

“We had to manage very carefully,” Nyaluak says. “If the water finished, we had to wait again.”

Through funding from the Italian Agency for Development Cooperation (AICS), Oxfam implemented water improvements in Jewi refugee camp. The work focused on strengthening water supply systems and improving access for refugees and host communities in Gambela. Across the targeted areas, the project reached thousands of people, restoring more reliable water access where shortages were affecting daily life.

The difference shows in the walls she is smoothing.

When water is available, the mud mixture binds more firmly. She can repair cracks before they widen. She does not have to choose between drinking water and maintaining her shelter. “I can fix my house properly now,” she says. “Before, it was difficult.”

Her children attend school more consistently because they are not sent to fetch water repeatedly. Cooking is less rushed. Hygiene has improved. “We can wash more often,” she says simply.

The improvement is not abstract. It is measured in time saved and tension reduced.

Before, water collection meant waiting in long queues under the sun. Disputes broke out when supply slowed. “There were many people and sometimes arguments,” she recalls. “Everyone needed water.”

Now, the atmosphere around the water point feels different. People move in and out steadily. The system is more organized. “It is calmer,” she says. “We collect and go home.”

The project in Gambela did not only repair infrastructure. It strengthened access for communities who depend entirely on shared systems. For refugees like Nyaluak, who do not own land and cannot easily generate income, stable water access is foundational.

She runs her hand across the wall again, checking for cracks. The clay holds.

“Before, most of my time was for water,” she says. “Now I can use my time for other things.”

She tends to her household more carefully. She participates in community life. She watches her children return from school with exercise books under their arms. These are quiet shifts, but they accumulate.

For Nyaluak, dignity is practical. It is being able to maintain her shelter without borrowing water from a neighbour. It is cooking without calculating every cup. It is sending children to school clean and on time.

Nyaluak does not speak in numbers. She speaks in comparison.

“Before, we worried about water every day,” she says. “Now we worry less.”

The clay on her hands begins to dry. She steps back to look at the wall she has just repaired. The surface is smoother now, stronger.

Water does not end up being displaced. It does not erase what she left behind. But it allows her to hold together what she has rebuilt.

She bends again, scooping another handful of wet earth, pressing it firmly against the wall. The work is steady, deliberate.

“This is my home now,” she says. “I want it to stand.”