Outside camp walls, life still treacherous for Darfur refugees

Others tell of bodies being exhumed and thrown in wells to contaminate the water. "Who wants to go back to a poisoned well?" asks Khadoch Osman Ali, who fled her village, Orbe, after her husband was killed.

And there are other factors at play when it comes to a voluntary return. The growing reliance on aid is also taking it toll, as it so often does in such emergency situations. Sisi residents, many of them here for six months or more, look like they are getting used to the food handouts, schooling, clean water, and more provided here - things they never had back in their villages.

"We have many programs here," muses Ms. Ali. "At home, we did not have such things."

And finally, with the dislocation and the break up of traditional social structures, new leaders are arising, some of whom might have an added interest in staying put, pressuring the community.

"Who wants to go home?" bellows Sisi's camp commander, a former wrestling champ known by all as Khamis, as he shows guests into the makeshift classroom filled with pupils. "No one! That's right!" he cheers. "We will never go back."

Khamis's appointment is new, and its process unclear. But for now, his status elevated, he spends his days helping organize food distributions and unofficially advising international aid organizations.

The older sheikhs, left without herds, land, or any real role have receded into the background. At meetings they sit at Khamis's feet. "There is no one in this world that does not feel attached to his land," admits Nur Ishmael Baraka, the sheikh of Nur, who once owned 100 sheep and 50 cows. "But for security we are willing to give up land and dignity."

Two miles out of Sisi camp policemen on patrol call out to some visitors.

"Come see," they cry, "the villagers are going home." Five families from Sisi have voluntarily returned to their village of Jajake, they claim. Khamis has heard these stories and says it's all a big trick.

"The government lured them with promises they could till the land," he explains, "but when they arrived they were held by force."

Before setting out to see the returned IDPs, the policemen take the visitors to their base, offering dates and tea. One has a twin brother living in Chicago and wants to practice his English. Another is curious for news about the Olympics.

Finally, the policemen set off, leading the way to the returnees. The country looks empty, and the dirt road twists and turns. Several Janjaweed are grazing their camels here. But still the policemen drive.

Finally, they suggest coming back another day. Where are the returnees? What about the policemen's story? What about Khamis's story? These questions are left, like many other matters here, unclear.

But what is clear is that in the place where the returnees cannot be found, hidden among the high grass, are charred black circles where huts once stood. Remains of lives interrupted lie scattered: a broken cooking pot, a charred bracelet, a battery, and a padlock still clinging tight to a piece of tin - all that's left, it seems, of someone's front door. Baby melons are growing here, their vines rampaging through the ruins, and lizards peep curiously from under tumbled mud walls.

"I suppose, one day, I would like to see the land around my home," remarks Mohammad in her bed back at the camp. "But I don't think that time will come soon." Her sister pats her head and asks the visitors if they might like some tea. There is wood today, for a small fire.

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