The sun is not yet high in the sky, but the heat is already beginning to be felt in the Logone Valley where the village of Karaska is located. Karaska awakens with its usual atmosphere during this traditional fishing season. It is already 6:45 in the morning, and the sunlight is timidly reflecting off the grass. Near where we stand, the light also cast the shadows of young Mousgoum fishermen gathered along a trench, or in the local language called ‘moul’, that is carefully dug by the indigenous Mousgoum people into the damp earth perpendicular to the river. These trenches are used to catch fish when the river swell during the flood season. The young men are mostly sturdy and muscular, with dark complexions and dynamic silhouettes. They are busy with all kinds of tools—shovels, pickaxes, fishing equipment—to catch fish in the moul.
Suddenly, a cry pierces the quiet air. A young fisherman looks up just in time to see a herd of cattle approaching the trenches dangerously. In a matter of moments chaos ensues. A herd of cattle led by a Fulani herder dressed in a dark black boubou is heading towards the riverbank, apparently to water his livestock. But the moment a large cow approaches a trench, calm turns to panic: “Hey… hey… yalah gaboulou… gaboulou,” (“Go away, go away over there”) someone shouts in the group of fishermen, clearly disturbed by the unexpected presence of the herd in this place. They put their words into action by chasing the cattle, which automatically scatter. Panicked, but above all unaware, several cows fall heavily into the trenches hidden under the tall grass. An unintentional trap that would fuel resentment between the two communities.
The Yaéré area, located in the Logone Valley in Chad, more precisely in the province of Chari Baguirmi, is a crossroads that brings together farmers, herders, and fishermen. It is rich in pastureland for nomadic Fulani herders who stay there for part of the year, particularly the Alijam group. The Alijam transhumant herders are a Fulani group identified by their horned, robust cattle, which are mainly white in color. They are a Fulani group that migrates from Lake Chad to the extreme south of the country depending on the seasons, crossing the Chari Baguirmi region, to which the department of Chari belongs. The Chari department in question is a strategic area for these livestock farmers due to the availability of fodder resources such as yaérés, which include water sources found in the sub-prefecture of Lougoune Gana on the border with Cameroon. This area is a strategic stopover for transhumant herders who settle there for much of the year to allow their herds to feed and drink. However, this temporary occupation involves both positive and negative interactions between the transhumant herders and the indigenous population, even though their activities are distinct. Coexistence between these two groups is marked by competing needs for natural resources but also by socioeconomic complementarities. This coexistence is tested by the presence of the mouls who are at the heart of the silent tensions between these two communities. These tensions, which receive little media coverage, are at the root of major deadly conflicts such as the one in 2022, which displaced thousands of people on both sides of the border between Chad and Cameroon.
Encounter with a Fulani camp
It is 8:13 in the morning, when we enter the camp closest to the village of Karaska to discuss the purpose of our visit with the chief of Ferrique. I am accompanied by Moumin, a young local man whom I met on the evening of my arrival in the village. He willingly agreed to accompany me the next day to meet these Fulani herders. Moumin is well known to the young Fulani, Mousgoum and Kotoko in the area, who often come to his older sister’s bar to have a good time. When we arrive at the camp we cross the sheikh’s courtyard, which is already bustling with men and women. There are children playing bare-chested next to a dog, many donkeys, and young cattle. As we move forward, we see three large ropes stretched diagonally across the ground in front of us, used to tie up small ruminants that are not yet ready to go out to pasture. “Be careful, Firmin, don’t jump on those ropes, you have to go around them. It’s forbidden to jump on them. It’s their tradition,” Mounmin exclaims, reminding me to behave. I obey his instructions, and we approach Amadou and his two sons Djabir and Ousman, who welcome us on a mat made of palm leaves. After the customary greetings, we explain the reason for our visit: to discover the interaction between the indigenous Mousgoum people and the nomadic Fulani herders regarding the moul. As soon as we mention this, Djabir, the eldest son we met in the village the day before at Moumin’s sister’s house, seems visibly moved by the question about he moul. He immediately responds in Arabic: “Walaye akouy kalam hana moul fatarasse hanana marawaye fi hiné. ILé Allah besse gay chiffe léna bagarna tara. Nass hana hilé douass bess i dourou fi kalam hana moul ilé hi nakoutou hi nakoutou bess! hou da kalam gassi lena mara wouay hoh hi djiba miskila daymane.” (“Truly, my brother, the matter of moul that you see there is that only God saves our livestock. This is the main cause of the disagreements in this area. The locals only want to fight. They do nothing but dig, and this is a danger to our livestock and is also the source of the disagreements here.”)
He explains that some of these mussels are large and deep, capable of drowning even a human being. He suggests that we go with him right away, just behind the camp, to see for ourselves. We gladly accept. On the way, he admits: “The fishermen here are mean to us farmers. They don’t want us here because of these mussels, even though we are following in the footsteps of our great-grandparents. This is where they used to settle before leaving during the rainy season, but they didn’t have these problems in the past. Today, that’s no longer the case. We encounter too many problems, especially when we arrive at the end of the season when the mussels are still full of water. It’s not easy to move around peacefully with the livestock at this time of year, yet we have to pay the police a lot of money before they let us settle. You see? These people are ignorant and mean. Even recently, in a Kotoko village not far from here, there was a conflict over this issue, and the Kotoko admitted that they don’t want them”, he admits with regret.
Following Djabire’s reasoning, we can see his perception of the indigenous people regarding the use of space. A feeling of mistrust and frustration emerges from this personal account.
The point of view of the Mousgoum fishermen
According to Mermon Sylvain, a former fisherman and boulama (neighborhood chief or village chief) from the Sara district of Holom, and approximately 60 years old, whom we met at his home: “First of all, I must admit that the work that feeds me and my children is fishing with a goura (a type of fish trap). That’s how we get by on the waterfront. It’s an ancestral technique that we learned. As for the moul, it’s a local name for something that looks like a mold made from dry wood to shape bricks. When you remove the wood, you leave the brick on the ground, right? So that’s how we named these fishing trenches moul, because when the poison gets in, it’s considered brick. We each set up our moul on our ancestors’ land. It stretches from the riverbank to a pond somewhere in the bush. Its length can vary between three and four thousand meters depending on the family’s capacity. As the river swells, the fish follow the line of the mold and take refuge there, where they spawn and multiply. When the river recedes, the entrance is closed with a net and wood fixed to the ground. One mold can yield between seven and eight canoes of fish, worth between two and three million CFA francs. We do this on our land, and we have to pay the military authorities a lot of money before we can start digging: between 300,000 and 600,000 CFA francs.”
On the other hand, the Mousgoum fishermen defend their practice as a technique essential to their survival. According to Mermon Sylvain, the molds are not just traps, but a strategic fishing method passed down from generation to generation. He also points out that setting them up requires authorization and payment to the military authorities.
In another camp, life goes on. Despite the tensions, some interactions between herders and fishermen show signs of cooperation. Cow dung for example, provides a solution to the energy shortage while creating a link between the two communities. Most of the time, the women from the village come to the camp to collect dried cow dung. In this remote area, energy is a pressing issue because it is a floodplain with no wood. Cow dung is therefore used as the main source of energy. It is used for cooking and smoking fish. This exchange illustrates a fundamental aspect of local life: the interdependence of communities despite their differences. Through these daily interactions a fragile balance is emerging, giving hope for lasting dialogue between these communities.
Market day: a day for everyone to come together
The Karaska market becomes a place of peace. In this bustling market, where trade is essential to everyone’s survival, rivalries are temporarily set aside in favor of the need to coexist. At the Karaska market, scenes of complementarity can be observed. A joyful bustle reigns over the large village square located right on the water’s edge. Under makeshift tents, stalls overflow with dried fish, colorful vegetables, and clothing. Merchants call out to passersby, touting the quality of their products.
There are enough canoes parked nearby, which are the main means of transport in this remote area. Adoum the fisherman, is negotiating the price of his fish with a woman who has clearly come from the city, judging by her clothes. He looks up and sees Amadou a few meters away, talking to a butcher. The two men’s eyes meet. A moment of silence falls, heavy with recent memories. Then, without a word, Amadou approaches. He is holding a basket containing a few pieces of sugar cane, commonly known as ‘réqué’ in the local language. “Here, take this,” he says, holding out a few pieces of the food he has taken out of the basket. “A gesture of peace.” Adoum hesitates, then accepts. “For your family,” he whispers. The two men stare at each other, then exchange a smile. Around them, life goes on: Mousgoum women buy milk from the Fulani, while herders buy fish for their evening meal. The market is a place where rivalries are temporarily set aside in the face of daily necessities.
While the conflict in the trenches remains an open wound, here, in this bustling square, another reality prevails: that of interdependence. For beyond the tensions, herders and fishermen need each other to survive. And perhaps, over time, they will learn to share the resources of the Yaéré in a sustainable way. Moments of cooperation show that peaceful coexistence is possible. Although divided by their use of the land, herders and fishermen are mutually dependent on the resources of the Yaéré.
