Darfur diary: excerpts from Gray's journal that she kept during her month in Sudan

| For The New Mexican

12/1/2007 -

Below are excerpts from Gray's journal that she kept during her month in Sudan.

Day one: As soon as we land, I am immediately introduced to a gracious staff and given a thorough security briefing by a Save The Children security officer, a former Zimbabwean policeman whose humor, directness, kindness and efficiency make even the warnings about personal safety seem OK. In the process of orienting me to the situation, he shows me a map of Darfur depicting villages occupied by IDPs (Internally displaced people) and villages abandoned by those now living as IDPs. The number of villages abandoned, marked in gray, is alarmingly close, if not more, than the number that house IDPs.

The security situation is complex here: It is not simply a matter, as often cited at home, of the Sudanese Government ("SG") slaughtering people because of ethnicity, religion or access to oil. In fact, there are three conflicts raging at the same time. There are no roads, no running water, no universities, and no jobs in all of West Darfur — or Darfur, for that matter. The same is true for North and South Darfur. The SG supports rebels from the neighboring country of Chad who are stationing themselves throughout the area and are also responsible for the violence. The AM (Abrab militia) and CH (Chadian rebels) often hijack cars, and are targeting NGOs (Non government organizations) with alarming frequency. They steal as many valuables as they can for a thriving black market in Chad and Niger, where most stolen cars are sold for much less than their usual cost. Also bandits are running wild stealing as much as possible to support a black market and to terrorize NGO's. So NGO's have become a target in this matrix of violence, hate and human distress.

Day two: We went to a refugee camp that's not as grim as depicted on the news although these camps are closest to the West Darfur town of El Geneina and therefore logistics and supplies are easier. It is notable how, here, IDPs are not in separate camps but have deserted their villages after being razed and moved into other villages, so tents are thrown up amongst homes and trees and fields. This creates tension between IPDs and host community members. Many of the tents are wedged in between the lush green of trees, offering some semblance of protection and of home.

Most of the women and children look fairly healthy; although at the training and health clinic a young man lies dying in the midst of a meeting, as he is too ill to respond to treatment. And has nowhere else to go. In the meeting, where women who work as educators and community liaisons (on a volunteer basis) are taught about hygiene and cleanliness while holding kids and babies who reek of urine. Despite the noblest attempts and excellent programming, there simply are not enough resources to ensure everyone's health, safety, home and nutrition. It's beyond heartbreaking, it's soul breaking.

Last day: When I leave, I visit with, Ibrahim, the gentle man who sat vigil outside my room every night in case of break-ins, attacks, robberies. His heart is the light in his face. He hugs me and thanks me for my kindness. He is sad he cannot take me to his home to meet his family. Every evening I sat outside with him, identifying the incredible insect life. He tells me how his village was burned, livestock and precious belongings stolen, destroyed, and plundered; his life irrevocably and forever changed. The home he desperately wants to show me is his tented structure in the camps. His wife and children are in the camps. I feel very sad leaving him; he insists on knowing when I will return. In a land as uncertain as this — in a world as uncertain as this — where "my people" and "his people" are learning to distrust, dislike and sometimes hate, I tell him I don't know, but "Inshallah," (If God wills it) I will visit his home and meet his family. This is one of those moments that threads the blanket and restores my sense of justice and humanity. He is one of the most dignified people I have ever met, committed to family, prayer, his work at the home he is charged with helping to protect. I ponder this, as I drift off to sleep — some of the best sleep I have had in years: Why is it I feel more safer with a Moslem man who I barely know and who speaks some English, sitting outside my open window, than I have at times in my own "regular" life? I suspect it is the human connection that somehow feels richer and more enlivened in this environment of fear and violence. The healing and connection that is available when two people engage in a simple act of trying to understand one another despite numerous differences.