Mark Snelling of the British Red Cross muses on his recent visit to drought-hit Somalia. On day three, he talks to displaced women about the precariousness of their lives.

Day 3

We get off to an early start to visit a feeding centre for the displaced run by a local Somali charity. Although clan rivalries have atomized the country politically, the same clan structure is also paradoxically a powerfully cohesive force, placing great emphasis on sharing and mutual support.

The charity had initially set up seven kitchens, funded largely by money transfers from relatives and neighbours living overseas - remittance funds are the mainstay of Somalia's unofficial economy. But the donations have been unable to keep pace with increasing numbers of mouths to feed, and now there are only three.

"Many of the people here have lost everything; they can't go back to where they're from," says Bashir Mohamed, the manager of the kitchen, as volunteers dish out helpings of rice and cowpeas to about 200 women and their children. For most of them, it will be today's only meal.

While Lower Shebelle did not suffer the worst depredations of the drought, it did bear the brunt of coping with the thousands who fled here.

"For sure the rain has given us some hope," says Nurto Omar, a 27-year-old widow who walked 85 kilometres with her two children to the relative safety of Brava. "But we have still lost everything. The future does not look good."

Nurto is living in one of four camps for the displaced in Brava, really little more than ad hoc clusters of tiny huts and shacks. The ICRC distributed food rations here in March to some 8,500 families. The tarpaulins and blankets that were also given out provide vital shelter. Another round of distributions is scheduled to take place before the harvest in July.

Even then, however, Nurto and those like her still face a deeply precarious existence. Their stories highlight with searing clarity the complex challenge of delivering meaningful aid in Somalia.

The rains may spell the passing of the emergency phase of this operation, but longer-term needs are profound. It's quite likely that rains could fail again, and the conflict rages on.

"We want to stand on our own two feet, but whatever happens there will be no food until the next harvest," says Maka Ali Nur, a 54-year-old woman in another camp in nearby Mudulbrava. Like Maka, the vast majority of Somalis are exhausted by the conflict. "We want peace, order and stability and we know that that cannot be an imported solution. Somalis themselves must agree to establish a government."

A peace agreement in 2004 signed by a wide range of warlords, clan elders and civil leaders led to the formation of a new transitional parliament for the country. But it has yet to assert any meaningful authority, and there is still no confirmation of where it will be based. It is undoubtedly a long way from being capable of doing anything for people like Maka.

We leave Brava and head south. The region was once the centre of Somalia's banana industry, a thriving source of revenue for the country, and we don't have to go far before we pass the overgrown ruins of warehouses, looted and destroyed in the early 1990s. A few wealthy businessmen and warlords still run plantations, but the spoils of Somalia's war economy are only for the chosen few.

To read Mark's Day 1 blog, click here.

To read Mark's Day 2 blog, click here.

To read Mark's Day 4 blog, click here.