When the road out of the district closed, the bread stopped first. Flour that had arrived by lorry every week now came only in rumours. Within a fortnight, families who had never known hunger were measuring out what little they had by the handful.
Twelve women who had been part of one of our savings groups made a decision that sounds simple and was not: they would pool their remaining flour and fire a single oven, together, for the whole street. One kneaded, one tended the fire, one kept a ledger of who had eaten and who still owed. Nobody was turned away.
What began as an act of survival became something sturdier. As small deliveries resumed, the cooperative kept its ledger, kept its prices fair, and began to sell a little beyond the street. The margin was tiny. But it was theirs, and it held.
We were not waiting for someone to save us. We had an oven, and we had each other. That was enough to begin.
Cooperative member, Aden
A year on, the oven feeds the street and steadies thirty households. The women who run it did not need a rescue. They needed the space, and the small stake, to build a rescue of their own.
