Maybe it was meeting with Deng, and hearing his humbling story of fleeing war in Sudan. He was only able to detail moving to a refugee camp in Ethiopia, being driven from Ethiopia to two different IDP camps back in Sudan, chased to Kakuma refugee camp in Kenya, and then upon attempted recruitment by the then ‘rebel’ movement of the SPLM, moved to a more secure Dadaab refugee camp, before the sun started to set and I needed to be walked home. When I go back to the National Community Development Services compound, of which he is executive director, tomorrow to lead an art workshop with adolescent returnees (refugees that return home), I expect to hear the rest of this all too common experience.
Or maybe it was the long-awaited invitation to visit Nyamone’s home tonight, to meet the husband and two children of my age-sake, which helped put things in perspective. I think of her as head chef at our compound, though I’m told there is no such position. That she is purportedly the worst of the three cooks we have is contributing to my GI calamities, but I’ll not let this deter me from the opportunity to finally visit someone in their home.
It was most likely, though, my talk with Gach, the boss-man of our implementing partners, and his ironic demands for funding for a year of work that never happened that forced me to laugh at all of this. His intransigence was punctuated by the hilarity that is the Nuer pronunciation of the English alphabet, in which the letters F and P are swapped and the ‘th’ sound non-existent, giving simple expressions like “technical parts” and “peer educators” new and more comedic meaning, and readjusting my name, Judith, to end with a sly hiss. Judassss.
This is all to say I’m feeling a bit less corn-fused today and that my directionlessness has been squelched for yet another few hours. It also goes to show my need to connect with people and how disparaging it can be to lost in your own mind in the bush. Having tangible activities helps. Today’s thwarted election process was still productive; we are making progress at facilitating the community to take ownership in the entire development process – something I’ve echoed as a mantra for many years in my community building work, but always doubted my ability to aid in. The idea of sustainability is key here, as is promoting independence, in light of the tremendous challenges facing the population returning to a country that parallels America in the early 1700s. It’s hard to imagine working with teachers who themselves never went to school, or promoting basic hand and face washing, when people only have the rain water collected in muddy puddles in front of their homes, or girls being married off at age 14 and my being single and childless at 25 nearly despicable, right? It’s not just the lack of electricity, the disease, or the constant insecurity that plagues South Sudan – it’s now an ingrained, culturally imbued, dependency in the face of years of humanitarian aid. It’s the interns that come for two months during the summer, and don’t get to meet any Sudanese people until they force their way through the bureaucratic loop holes. And the organizations that take months, if not years, giving, giving, giving, to the point where the people constantly demand for things like notebooks, malaria-nets, food, etc.
Oh the moral hazard of aid! I’m chalking this up and trying to delight in the small things that can keep me somehow centered and grateful. And on that note, we have pet ducklings.
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