She prayed to Allah to let her live, but she knew there was little chance of that. There was nothing left of her village in Northern Bahr El Ghazal but the scorched rings that were once the foundations of the one-room homes of her family and friends. Most of the people had fled the area and the Baggara militias as they advanced. The government gave support and protection to the Baggara and gave none to the people of western Sudan. She had returned to the village with her mother and two aunts, hoping to retrieve any family belongings they might find and search for food. A small group of militias came upon them and seized her when she attempted to flee. Ignoring the other women, the men immediately set about molesting her. They were practiced and efficient.
The man with the odor of a goat pushed down on her shoulders so hard, she thought they would separate as his pace increased. He finished inside her and used her back to push himself upright, spitting on the back of her head as he rose. As another prepared to mount her, gunfire stopped the assault, her assailants crouching around her. Shouting at each other, the men ran to find better cover in the brush nearby. She heard their guns boom as they shot toward the incoming gunfire. Aisha started to sit up, trying to push her toab down, but as she did, the pain in her groin and lower back gripped her, taking her breath and freezing her for an instant. Blowing the air from her lungs, she lowered herself slowly onto her side, working the cloth down over hips and to her knees where it stopped. Satisfied she was covered, she listened for sounds of the men who raped her. They were now some distance away, their shouts muted by the dry wind blowing across the floor and over her head. She began to weep. As she did, the ache rose in her body and stifled her sobs, a hand of pain over her mouth. Eyes squeezed closed with shame and fear, she failed to see the man who returned. When he said, “Get up, you will come with me,” her sobs broke through the pain and she wept for where the world had left her.
***
In August, southern Sudan was hellish even if tranquil, which it was not. Work for the mission continued through the heat and havoc, the abominations and savagery of the militias and outlaws sending a relentless stream of torn and abused Sudanese into the compound to wait for what attention they might receive. The doctors and nurses did what they could to ease the suffering. Medical supplies were inadequate, as was food. A good deal of suffering stayed with the people despite the best efforts of the medical staff and clergy. It was never enough. The despair of the maimed and sick soon became the shared despair of the workers of the mission. Their faith became as the child waiting for the comforting touch of a distant and inattentive father, mistaken in his convenient estimate of the child’s strength and willingness to endure. To endure, a person needs hope and the French nun knew hope was as scarce as sympathy in Sudan. Without a parent’s love and interest, children suffer, left to find their way, deprived of the wisdom and protection that gives comfort and hope. She wondered where their God was; he was not in Sudan.
Thinking of the American, the nun knew he had flown over one hundred times in nine months for the Fathers of Notre Dame’s mission in Sudan. Most of those flights had been into Ethiopia, Kenya and Northern Sudan. He shuttled medical supplies, patients and occasionally visitors to the compound at Mapuordit. At first, the flights went smoothly, with little problems with customs and inspections. Things had begun to change in the end of May, especially his flights within Sudan. Officials in Khartoum and Port Sudan were increasingly difficult, at first causing some delays, then confiscating cargo, specifically medicine that combated malaria and dysentery. Visitors were not bothered unless they traveled with targeted cargo. The church began segregating the flights carrying visitors and medical supplies. As the raids on villages in southern Sudan increased in number and lethality, visits by doctors slowed as the church and aid organizations adjusted to the increased risk and developed the strategies required to protect the lives of contributors and officials.
Sister Marie Claire knew the American struggled to maintain the plane. He expressed regret at not having learned more than basic maintenance, which he now practiced almost daily. As with everything else mechanical in southern Sudan, dust and grit and its management determined reliability in machinery. The plane was well-built and rugged enough to function well in difficult environments. She knew Hanley was taking no chances and monitored the engines and electronics as much as he could.
Compliant grasses and shrubs around the airstrip absorbed the mid-morning heat, as Sister Marie Claire found shelter in the tree-shade close to the plane. Perched on his aluminum ladder, the American inspected the left engine, knowing he would find more dust than the last time and that he would need to increase the frequency of his maintenance routine. Unnoticed by Hanley and the nun, Jumma approached the plane and called out his greeting, startling the American so much he lost his balance, kicking the ladder sideways. Moving quickly, Jumma caught Hanley, helping him right the ladder.
“Are you alright?” Jumma asked.
“Yes, thanks. If it weren’t for these work gloves, I would have fried my hands on the cowling trying to stop my slide,” Hanley said.
The young African studied the care with which the American removed dust from the cooling fins of the engine’s cylinder housings. Brushing and blowing, Hanley worked meticulously to remove what dirt he could, periodically removing the dust that accumulated on the housing as well. Hanley checked the breeze to try to keep dust from blowing back on the engine.
“So, Sister, how were things at the clinic this morning?” the American asked.
“Busy. I wanted to visit with the doctors and inventory our supplies before leaving for Aluakluak with Father Robineau. That is a change of plans. We were to leave this early morning. I wanted to get some things done before we left. That is why I’m here. We need to talk. Jumma, would you mind leaving Mr Martin and I for a few moments while we discuss a matter? Please. I will hold the ladder.”
“Yes, Sister,” Jumma said, moving aside while the nun took the old ladder in each hand. She said to Hanley as Jumma walked away, “You work on the plane more and more. It is not breaking, is it? Without the plane you are of little value to us.”
“I’m just trying to keep it operational. Dust get’s into everything. It’s hard to keep up with it. It’s like shoveling sand against the tide,” Hanley mumbled.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” she asked.
“Nothing. Hold that ladder steady while I get down. Hold it, there. Thanks.” Hanley stepped into the dust beneath the engine and wiped his eyes on the shirt sleeve bunched around his elbow. “I’m thirsty,” he said. “Just when I think I have a handle on managing this heat, managing my thirst, I find I haven’t. It’s still brutal, as far as I’m concerned, but controllable. Water and food; Americans have no clue as to their good fortune. None. The amount of food and clean, clear water wasted every day in America would keep thousands of these poor Sudanese bastards alive for a year.”
“I’d prefer you not refer to these people that way,” she said
“Sorry, I get cranky when I’m dying of thirst,” he said. “It’s hard not to think about it around here. I’m learning not to worry about it. But, I’ve not really died of thirst yet, have I?”
“Not yet.”
“I understand that the Diocese of Rumbek is sending a new priest to replace Father Robineau next month. Are you upset? How long has he been here?”
“A long time.”
“Will the people be troubled by his leaving; I mean, will they see it as a bad sign?” Hanley turned and gathered the brushes, tools and rags he used to battle the dust as it tried to take over his airplane. Kamikaze Spores, he once called them when he and the nun were talking of the work it took to maintain the plane.
“No, they know we are here for only a set amount of time. We tell them so. They do not expect much of anything in their lives to last, I would guess,” the nun responded.
Hanley said, “I wonder if this is a sign the church will become more active in the process of protecting its people. Betwe
en you and me, I’ve always thought it was bullshit to claim to be a shepherd guarding the flock, only to stand by while the wolves carry off the sheep. The Catholic Church does a great job at helping themselves, but not the people, not here.”
The nun watched as the American folded the rags into squares, bundled the brushes and tools together and walked to the rear of the plane, climbing through the rear door, to store his cleaning tools. Sister Marie Claire took down the ladder and carried it to the old shack and put it inside.
Walking back, the nun found the American sitting in the doorway of the plane, staring off into the distance. when she turned to follow his gaze, she saw people moving across the land. They were walking toward the mission. There were perhaps eight or ten of them, a line that varied in height, both adults and children. There was now a steady flow of the refugees coming to the Lakes Province in Southern Darfur and Western Bar El Ghazal. The number was small compared to those who had been forced to migrate elsewhere to places like Chad or the Central African Republic. Driven from their farms by Nomadic Arab militias and the Sudanese government, refugees were appearing every day in the region, they were woman and children, as it was mostly the men of Darfur who were being killed. Those villages fortunate enough to receive prior warning sent their women and children out into the countryside to hide in the brush or behind rock formations, anywhere sparse country provided concealment. The men remained behind to face the militias who were often supported and protected by government troops. Outnumbered and barely armed, they became easy prey for the murderous raiding parties. The women caught were raped and sometimes murdered. Young girls were also raped. Sister Marie Claire said to Hanley, “A United Nations aid worker told me of a young woman who fought back and was killed and left dead and naked in the road as a message to other women not to resist when molested.”
“How old was she?” Hanley asked.
“Just a child.”
“This won’t stop soon, will it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Everyone I see here is young, very young. When people look at me, they appear to be dumbstruck. You once said it’s because they seldom see someone my age and because I look older than I really am. You also said whites look older anyway. You said I must look ‘biblically old’ to the Sudanese. You mangled the word biblically, by the way, but I kept my mouth shut.”
“What is mangled?”
“Twisted, badly pronounced.”
“Oh. Then, thank you.” She smiled and said, “You think you are humorous, but you are not. It’s not your fault. You are not French and, therefore, don’t really understand humor.”
The American wiped his eyes and forehead against his sleeve again and squinted into the distance. The line of refugees was gone. “Sister, do you think God has abandoned us here in Sudan?” he asked.
“I think he is busy elsewhere. It is a big universe, you know, and we are so small.”
“Many an anxiously rationalizing theologian would disagree with you. I was raised to believe my soul was the focus of God’s attention every second of every day. It appears he’s lost interest. Kind of like my ex-wife, I suppose, and not just in my soul either. I hope to hell there is something really catastrophically bad happening on the other side of the universe that keeps God so busy, he or she or it has forgotten about us.”
“She?”
Squinting in the sunlight, Hanley said, “When I was a kid, my grandmother said that I must believe there are more good people than bad in the world. She saw that particular bit of faith as necessary if we were all to carry on each day. Basically, I think she was right. She was one of those thin and fierce little Irish women that kept their families together through all manner of difficulties, who understood how fleeting the good times would be when they came. I know, and I don’t know how I know, but I know there are thousands of women just like her in Sudan; different cultures, different experiences, different circumstances, but the same. They have the same dedication and commitment to their children and their loved ones. I keep thinking that maybe God is here in the women. He certainly isn’t here in the men. That’s what has always struck me as bullshit about God being a man, you know, a father figure. God can be found in the women and children if here on earth at all. Or in dogs.”
A small wind so hot, it stung Sister Marie Claire’s face blew for an instant and brought with it more khaki-colored dust. She closed her eyes to keep the dust out and said, “Think of how much faith it takes to overcome the horror all of these people see every day of their lives. God expects that from all people, not just those forced to live a life of abuse and fear. If God creates us, then allows us to live our lives without his help, then what becomes of our prayers and our faith. My God would not do that.”
Hanley climbed down from the plane and walked toward the terminal shack. He stopped and said, “Maybe God has a telephone that tells him who is calling and when it rings, he won’t answer when he sees it is Sudan.”
The nun said, “When I return from Aluakluak this evening, I will bring with me some information that I will share with you. It is important that you understand the need to protect this information. You must not share it with anyone. Once I let you into this, you must protect whatever you learn. Always. Protecting the information is protecting the children. Do you understand? Oui?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Bien,” she said.
***
When Jumma had time to sit and think, his memories would visit him. To ward off his recollections, he wrote recipes, mostly. His recipes were what he imagined he could do with his native foods if they were plentiful. If he could add the herbs and spices, the garnishes he read about in books or those described to him by the doctors and others visiting the mission, the food would be wonderful. He thought his recipes were good. Hunger made him a creative writer of recipes.
Sometimes Jumma wrote of things other than food. He tried poetry, as he understood it to be, tried stories, but was never satisfied with the results. Now he had something else to write about.
Jumma had a new notebook, much larger, thicker than he normally used. The nun gave it to him. This one was not for recipes or stories. No one knew of the contents of this notebook, besides he and Sister Marie Claire. Jumma did not carry it with him unless he was with the nun or Azari, the man who drove the big truck. Even Azari did not know what was in it; Azari could not read. Azari barely spoke at all. Jumma would go with Azari to Rumbek, Yirol and other towns when picking up supplies or moving patients. Jumma rode along to help with the loading and unloading, but that wasn’t all Jumma had to do on these trips.
For months now, Jumma had been visiting families in villages in southern Sudan, searching for the parents of abducted children, gathering names, physical descriptions, birth dates and any other information that may prove useful in finding and identifying those swept away by the war. The nun asked him to so this. It was his part of her plan, a plan to bring these children back to their families.
Jumma wrote a short story in his small notebook. The story was of a man who taught his children to survive in a world where days were always dangerous and tomorrows did not exist.
***
A pain in his lower back, on the right side, like pinched skin, only much deeper, moving back and forth like an electric current, was one of a half dozen things keeping him awake. Rolling over, Hanley grunted and the bed squeaked in response. Trying to find some comfort, enough to sleep if he could, was at least something he could do other than thinking about the nun and her network.
Sister Marie Claire’s offer of information was not surprising; he had expected it, had been asking for it. Now he would get it and with it would come something else, another thing he was expecting; a request. He had the feeling this was all planned, well-planned, for some time. Her objection to his invitation from the church to bring his plane and fly for the mission was probably a ruse used to cover her excitement. When the nun learned he was coming she started planning. Sure she did, he t
hought. I bet it didn’t take her long to find out what kind of plane it was and how many children it would hold; not long at all.
20
As they rode the rough road to Yirol, Jumma, who had been reading, gave up and now looked out the window at the passing countryside. Driving the Land Cruiser over the rutted road was difficult for Sister Marie Claire, but he knew she enjoyed the challenge. Raising her voice to be heard over the struggling machine, she said, “Jumma, when we get to Shama, we will stop to see a family where I will change the dressing of one of their daughters who we treated last week at the clinic. I want you to find a family there, a family who lost a son, a small boy. I have information that the boy is in a city in the North; Wad Madani is the name of the city. Find the family. Here is their name. I’m told they live on the east end of the village. They have been taken in by the wife’s family. Put this paper in your pocket and don’t lose it. As always, do not talk of what we are doing. Use the story that you are from a private agency, a relief group, and you need information about their boy. Learn what you can. Try to determine if they know where he is. Whatever they know will be useful even if it is wrong. We can compare their information to what we already have, perhaps verifying what we know or eliminating bad information if possible.”
Nodding his understanding, Jumma noted the landscape beside the truck as blurred, but that in the distance was clear; the opposite of his memories. Turning to look at the nun, Jumma saw the concentration on her face as she drove; fierce, he thought, as always. Sister Marie Claire was as determined as anyone he’d ever known. Jumma’s father gave everything he did his complete attention and commitment. He no longer had his father nearby but he did have the nun; the nun and her plan. He was a part of it, willingly followed her as she laid it out, assembled the information and gathered the people she needed, which were few. Jumma was proud to be one of them, to be included and trusted. He was proud of what they were doing, of being part of something larger than himself. What he felt for the plan and the part that he played in it was what he had always hoped he would feel about Sudan. Their shared mission was something he could do to make his country better. It made him feel good.
Sometimes the Darkness Page 18