Not My War
The plane rocked as she slowly lost altitude. My ears popped.
The vast dun colored landscape below suddenly gave way to strips of green laced
with a great muddy river down the center, the Nile: a river of mystery, of
historical lore, of intrepid explorers, of elephant hunters and slavers. Born in the mountains and lakes of Central
Africa, it is the lifeblood of the continent, flowing northward to Egypt and
the Mediterranean thousands of miles distant. More recently the land below was scarred by
ethnic conflict and civil war, but from altitude, it looked exotic. At least
that was my mind set. A scattering of
dwellings below expanded into a virtual crosshatching of houses and roads, then
boom, the wheels touched down with a screech and puffs of smoke. I had arrived in Juba, new capital of the
world’s newest country, South Sudan.
A tree hugging, liberal optimist by conviction, I come to
South Sudan to do my part, to try to make a difference - not in the global
scope of things - but in a very direct human way. Perhaps still naïve, nonetheless I know rural
Africa. As a Peace Corps Volunteer I taught English in a boys’ secondary school
in Minaki, Tanzania for two years. I
relished the experience, especially contact with the kids, the opening of their
horizons and the light in their eyes when they realized that dreams might come
true. Back home in Virginia I taught for another year in Rockingham County
junior high, but it wasn’t the same. I
yearned for Africa. When the chance came, I eagerly signed on with Children
United, an Episcopal Church linked non-governmental organization that performs
good works for children in South Sudan, many of whom are victims of war, most
of whom go to bed hungry and all of whom want to hope. CU runs a couple of orphanages and works in
displaced persons camps. I am ready.
I spotted a guy with a Children United sign. Adam expedited me through the airport and
drove me to the CU compound. There two matronly English women, Matilda and
Margery – M&M in my brain’s registry – welcomed me to South Sudan. They were delighted to have another hand on
board and quickly sketched out plans to post me to oversee operations in Bar el
Gazal. Two days later, Adam again
whisked me through the airport to a waiting World Food Program plane scheduled
for Wau. (NGO practice is to book space on UN flights such as those operated by
WFP.) In the intervening two days I learned about CU
programs and operations, accounting systems, money transfer arrangements,
personnel policies, etc. For a small
organization, it was well organized and efficiently run. I also got the chance to spend a few hours at
the Juba orphanage, playing football with kids, reading to them and listening
to their stories. Indeed, they were
victims of senseless violence. Families destroyed, fathers and brothers
murdered, mothers raped, homesteads pillaged and burned. The children’s resilience in the aftermath of
such violence is astonishing.
Five humanitarian/UN aircraft were on Wau’s full sized tarmac when I arrived. James, the
driver, and Ibrahim, head of the local CU office greeted me warmly. Although CU is Episcopal, Ibrahim is Muslim,
as are many of Wau’s inhabitants. The
city itself has a population of about 150,000, more than half of the State’s
250,000 inhabitants. Several ten thousands of those folks are housed in several
UN supervised Protection of Civilians (PoCs) or locally controlled Internally
Displaced Persons (IDP) camps. Wau is dusty and run down, yet it is South
Sudan’s second largest urban center.
Vehicle traffic was light, but pedestrians were many, as were donkeys. Commerce
was well underway. The temperature was
well over one hundred degrees. Wau’s infrastructure, which includes the
terminus of a now defunct railroad from Khartoum, is attributed to the fact
that it was a bastion and entrepot of the Sudanese government during the
decades long civil war. This also explains the relatively large number
of Muslims. The governor’s palace is a stately colonial era building situated
on the banks of the Jur River. The spires of a grand mosque and a stately
Catholic cathedral face off several blocks apart. The CU office, and my not-air-conditioned lodging,
is tucked away in a dilapidated house not far from the cathedral.
I got oriented to my small team. I visited the program sites in the protection
of civilian camps where CU provides nutritional supplemental feeding for
malnourished kids. You can tell an at
risk child. They are skinny, have protruding bellies and often reddish hair.
There were several dozen in each locale sitting on mats and slurping a healthy
porridge out of red bowls. Ibrahim told
me however, that Dinka children, no matter the state of their health, often
fail the skinny test because although long, their arms and legs are quite small
around. Many, however, grow to be
towering adults. Dinka men often exceed 6 and a half feet and a number – like basketball
player Manute Bol – get well over seven feet tall.
I made my official call on Governor Benjamin Baak in the
late afternoon. He received me in his plush office with elaborate gold colored
easy chairs and red rugs. The governor
reminded me of Jabba the Hut. He is a big jowly man, with a deep voice, but he
welcomed me warmly and let me know that he is in charge. I got the message. I know that foreigners
have to stay on good terms with officials.
I will make sure not to run afoul of his writ.
After a few days in Wau, I decided to visit Raga, a town one
hundred miles west where CU also had a small feeding program for which I was
the nominal supervisor. Ibrahim arranged
for me to jump on a WFP plane for the trip, so off I went. Raga was a pitiful version of Wau. It was
smaller, dirtier, dustier, and sadder. Even the people seemed to sense they
were really at the last stop on the road to nowhere. Even so, it was a good visit. Our staff are
doing their jobs, kids are getting fed. Rather than wait another week for a return
flight, I opted to join a three vehicle convoy headed back to Wau and got a
seat in a MSF Toyota. That would prove
to be a bad decision.
My partner for the trip was Alain Henri. Grizzled, 40 something, with a MSF cap jammed
low on his brow. Alain was a veteran of
MSF operations in the region. He’d done time in Darfur and was in Bar el Gazal
for the past two years. Not a doctor,
Alain was a logistics specialist – the man who moved supplies to where they
were needed. He had driven to Raga two
days earlier, “no problems” he said toting stuff for the MSF clinic at the IDP camp. Our driver was named Vincent.
We bumped and jostled along the dusty track, never able to
exceed thirty miles an hour. Only
several miles out of Raga, the number of homesteads along the road diminished,
before long there were none. We were the
lead vehicle, which provided a distinct advantage because even at the slow
speed the Toyota kicked up clouds of dust. Alain and I compared notes about our
jobs and complaints about the heat and dust.
I noticed a gap in the road ahead, evidently a washout still left over
from last year’s rains. Vincent braked, engaged four wheel drive, turned off
the road onto a sandy trace that wound around bushes, then across the wash and
back toward the road. He stopped suddenly. I looked up to see four armed men guns leveled
standing in front of us. “Merde,” Alain exclaimed,
“I hope it is just a robbery.” We were
ordered out along with four persons from the trailing Toyotas. One of the armed guys barked an order. Vincent translated, “Empty your pockets, he
wants money, watches and phones.” We
complied, but not quickly enough, the troops rained down blows and a few
vicious whacks with gun butts. Alain had
a trickle of blood leak out below his cap. This little introduction to our
captors was to repeat itself irregularly over the next few days. After the thrashing, I spoke up. “We are
humanitarian assistance workers, in South Sudan to help, to feed hungry people
and care for the sick.” The band looked
befuddled. “Tell ‘em, Vincent”. Vincent
said a few words, but was harshly cut off.
“No interest,” Vincent muttered as we were marched off into the bush. We walked about a half mile and ordered to
sit. Given an order translated as no
talking, two of the bandits stood guard.
We sat for an hour or two, then jerked attentive when we heard a truck
or trucks grinding up the road from Wau.
Shortly gunfire and explosions erupted back towards our vehicles. Black smoke flared up into the sky. Our guards exalted and danced around. Maybe this is over I hoped. But no. Within
minutes, a larger band of marauders tramped through the bush. The obvious leader came over to us. “A great victory,” he said. “ Seven SPLA
dead. Now you come.” “Wait,” I replied.
“Let us go. We are of no use to
you.” Major John, as he later told me to
call him, was blunt, “no, you come.”
We tramped off. Seven
captives – Alain, me, Vincent, and four other South Sudan folks. We walked for hours through the heat of the
day. Ordered to be silent, the seven hostages were kept together with guards
fore and aft. Other men in the group scouted ahead, ranged behind and out to
the sides. Obviously, this was an ingrained, well-practiced movement through
the landscape. To me the landscape all
looked the same. Flat land covered with scrub brush about ten feet high. There was nothing different to see and no
discernible trail. And it was hot. I stumbled along, thankful at least for a
decent pair of shoes and a long sleeved shirt, but I had no hat and no water. We finally arrived at a clearing with a round
mud hut in the center. Major John
approached. “Camp”, he said, “we will rest here tonight.” He motioned us into a lean-to type
structure. At least there was shade and
we could talk a bit. Being foreign to
the heat, Alain and I suffered the most from the tribulations of the day. One of the drivers confirmed that our captors
were Ferrit, as was he. He overheard
conversation about us. They were puzzled about what to do with us – shoot us or
let us go. The group had no contact with
headquarters so could not get orders, thus Major John decided to walk us to his
general.
Just before dusk one of the soldiers brought us a couple of
plastic bottles full of awful looking water and a half dozen roasted corn cobs.
I drank thankfully, and munched a few rows of parched maize.
We were roused before dawn. John came over. “Today, we walk
early while it is cooler. We rest another day, then get to headquarters. ” Off we went.
Same drill as yesterday, but it was easier. We walked for hours, Got
bashed a bit during one of the brief rest stops, apparently just for the joy of
the power of it. Our destination was similar, an isolated homestead, but this
one had a family in it. A woman brought
water and porridge for us.
After a restless night, especially when the screaming shits
hit, I felt weak when the morning trek began, but steeled myself to the ordeal,
hoping that it was the last day.
Headquarters camp was indeed bigger – a virtual small village. John went to find his commander. An hour or two he came to us. Sheepishly, he
confessed that the general was irritated that he captured us. His task was to attack the SPLA, not take
hostages. While we’d been walking, WFP
officials had contacted the general through an intermediary. For months WFP and the general had
coordinated food deliveries to hungry villagers in rebel territory. Because of lack of communication with his
men, the general could not confirm custody of the missing foreigners. But now that he had us, he would deliver us
to an agreed upon food delivery site.
Unfortunately, John noted, “it is another day’s walk away.”
I asked John, “Why are you fighting?” “Mostly we defend,” he replied,” We fight
back when we can, then run and hide. Our leaders have decided this. I do as I
am told. Yeah, I want peace, but is not my power. Maybe war is fate. Elders say it has always
been so. Why are you here?” he asked,
“this is not your war.”
Whoa, I paused, thought briefly about a platitude about
helping victims, but no…
“Agreed,” I replied, “not my war.”
