He Opened the First Gym in Ethiopia’s Kebribeyah Camp, Offering a Space Away From Drugs

Yasin was 22 when he unlocked the door of his gym in Kebribeyah refugee camp for the first time nine months ago. The settlement, one of Ethiopia’s oldest, sits just outside Jigjiga and is home mainly to Somali families who arrived in the 1990s and early 2000s. Space is scarce, and work even more so. Most daily commerce runs through small stalls and informal trading, the sort of low-margin activity that keeps the camp functioning in the heat of Somali Region.

In that context, a gym was not an obvious addition.

The building itself is modest: a single windowless room made from the compacted materials found across the camp. The floor is hardened soil covered with a red carpet that softens the surface and protects the equipment. Inside, the machines are arranged neatly. Treadmills sit in one corner, benches and weights in another, along with a few pieces that Yasin assembled or adapted from what he could source in Jigjiga.

When he explains how the idea formed, he describes it as a simple process of narrowing his options. “I thought of opening a retail shop,” Yasin said, “but there were already many.” During a business ideation training with Inkomoko, he began paying attention to daily routines in the camp and the gaps in how young people spent their time. Late at night, he kept coming back to the same observation: some young men were drifting toward drugs, and the camp offered almost no alternatives. A gym, he thought, could create a different environment.

To get the business running, Yasin received business training and consulting, along with an ETB 50,000 loan from Inkomoko, about $825 USD, which he is now steadily repaying. This support came through Inkomoko’s partnership with the Mastercard Foundation, which has expanded access to finance for young entrepreneurs in displacement-affected communities in the region. With the funds, he bought basic equipment, paint, flooring, and the first supplies for the juice stall. Most of the equipment was sourced second-hand in Jigjiga and brought to the camp in small batches.

Today, several of his regular clients come specifically because they want distance from drug use. Yasin does not describe the space as rehabilitation, but he understands why people seek it out. Drug use in the settlement, according to Yasin, is tied to more than idle hours; it reflects limited opportunities, crowded living conditions, and the long-term uncertainty that shapes daily life in protracted camps. The gym does not resolve these pressures, but it offers a place where young men can spend time outside them, even if only briefly.

A few steps from the entrance is Yasin’s second venture, a fruit juice stall he opened soon after the gym began operating. It complements the fitness space well, offering post-workout drinks, mainly the thick mango and avocado blends that are popular across the region.

Kebribeyah is a conservative camp, and most families are Muslim. For women, public exercise raises privacy concerns, so their access to the gym is limited to early mornings or quieter hours. Most of the regular gym users are young men. Yasin works within these norms, and the combination of the gym and the juice stall allows him to reach different groups without pushing against the camp’s expectations.

Client traffic now averages between 30 and 40 people a day. Fees differ slightly from person to person, but gyms outside the camp in the surrounding areas charge about 10 to 20 birr per session, a range he likely follows. Payments are made per session rather than through memberships. The income is enough for him to contribute to household needs and maintain regular savings. The juice stall, which attracts customers throughout the day, can out-earn the gym, particularly in the afternoon heat.

Yasin, now 23, also has a disability, a reality shared by many FDPs but one rarely reflected in small business ownership. UNHCR estimates that roughly 15 percent of displaced people worldwide have a disability, yet they are among the least likely to access work or enterprise opportunities. He does not present his condition as a barrier or an accomplishment. He speaks about it briefly and says only, “People should know they can do things.”

Much of what he knows about running the space came from listening to clients. “They showed me videos on TikTok and YouTube,” he said. “They would tell me, ‘We need protein,’ and I wrote it down.” When he couldn’t find protein powder, he stocked eggs instead. When clients asked about post-workout drinks, he built the stall. Every addition grew out of these conversations.

Before the business, Yasin had never been employed. “I was young,” he said. “I couldn’t work anywhere.” Now he employs three people; two who assist with the gym and one who helps at the juice stall. His profits go toward daily expenses, family support, and savings. “I’m not asking anyone for money now,” he said. “I have my own income.”

Looking to the future, Yasin’s plans remain practical. He wants to expand equipment, build a shaded area for the juice stall, and create defined hours to give women more privacy to exercise.

He avoids larger claims about impact. He frames his business as work. Work that continues, work that stabilizes, and work that contributes to a small but growing economic life inside one of Ethiopia’s longstanding refugee settlements.