“Yes, Sister, I know what to do, what to say. One thing though; when the people of the villages learn there is someone willing to help, they offer all the information they have. They understand they are not to speak about the visit. Having their children returned to them is too important; and so they don’t talk of it to others, of this I am certain.” Jumma looked at the road ahead and nodded to confirm his information.
“Do you think any of them doubt you; that you may really be from the government?” she asked.
“I don’t know. No one has ever asked me that. There is too much fear. When I explain that I work for a nonprofit group, not affiliated with the government, they accept that. I also believe they know that the people of my tribe would not be of the government. They want to help.”
Jumma knew the nun believed this. She believed making a difference, doing something about the children was what mattered most. Doing what the church and the government will not do, they must now do.
A bump and a jolt brought Jumma’s attention back to their trip and to their mission that day. It was a warm morning, dry as always, the sun just above the horizon. A small herd of cattle stood off to the right of the track, all the color of browned butter, thin, all rib lines and pelvis bones, casting shadows on pale hides. As the Land Cruiser approached, the herd turned toward the rising sun. Jumma noted their condition with sadness. Sister Marie Claire’s head turned to watch the herd as she passed it. She asked Jumma, “Have you ever talked to Monsieur Hanley about this?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I would not without having your permission first.” Jumma wished he was sitting in the cooling shade of a large tree, writing in his notebook.
“I’m thinking about telling him of our plan,” she said.
“When?”
“Soon. We will need his help. His part will take some planning and preparation. It will be soon.”
When, exactly, is soon, Jumma wondered.
***
Aisha’s sleep was fitful, the floor under her sleeping mat hard and irregular. When awake, she concentrated on the soft rhythmic snore of the women asleep on the low cot beside her, hoping it would lull her to sleep again. One thin wool blanket was all she had to keep her warm. Even in September, the large house in Wad Madani was cold at night. Sold into slavery, she had been in the house almost a month.
The Baggara had taken Aisha to Nyala by truck where she was transferred to another truck with nine other women and two small boys and shipped to Wad Madani. There, she was taken to a home and put to work as a servant, cleaning and doing laundry on the weekend and working in an old cotton processing facility on a draw-frame during the week.
The lack of sleep was worsening her physical condition. Her fingers were constantly bandaged, her back and groin always ached. The muscles in her lower back had been badly pulled, also the product of the assault. Her period was late and she constantly prayed not to have been impregnated by one of the Baggara. Forced to sit for up to fourteen hours a day on a stool with nothing to support her, she found it impossible to remain upright after only a few hours. The result was a small man, Arabic she believed, who poked her in the back with a wooden rod while screaming threats and obscenities in her ear. The breath he bathed her in was horrible, from bad teeth, garlic and tobacco, among other things. With a face scarred by acne and a large, crooked nose, she thought the shop manager was as ugly on the outside as he must be in. When not praying to be rescued, she thought of how she might end her life. The idea of escaping on her own never entered her mind. She harbored no expectations of sympathy.
Almost daily, one woman would say Aisha should be glad she was not killed or kept for sex, to be passed around until someone, tiring of it, killed her. Another woman would occasionally stroke her head and say, “You must be strong”. There was some caring in that, she thought, some feeling other than fear. That was all, a bit of advice, a stark assessment. There would be no love, nor someone to hold. None of that.
That night, lying on the cold floor, listening to the sounds of the building and the city, Aisha wondered if anyone heard her prayers. What hope she had she put in the words she muttered, praying through that night and into the day that followed.
***
Torn and creased, the note and its contents on Sister Marie Claire’s lap had not changed with each reading over the past two weeks. It was the note that caused the nun to develop her plan.
The noted was from a man she knew, a Nur and a merchant in the town of Rumbek, where the archdiocese had offices. The man had a sister who was driven from her home by the Baggara, along with her husband, two sons and a small daughter. An older daughter vanished after the attack on their village. The merchant, Paul, believed the older girl had been taken captive and sold into slavery. For several weeks, he had been quietly making inquiries so as not to bring attention to himself.
The note also contained new and encouraging information. Word had come from relatives in Wad Madani that Paul’s niece was working as a servant in a household in that town. She was taken there along with several other young women and forced to work in the home of a wealthy family with ties to a government official in Khartoum. The note did not identify the official or the relationship with the family in Wad Madani. Some of the girls were also working in the family’s cotton processing factory. Two of the girls had been badly abused and may not have survived, the relatives were not sure. The note ended with Paul’s plea for help, asking the nun to find a way of bringing his niece back to his family in Rumbek.
The story was not new to her or the people of the mission, nor was the plea. Kidnappings had become commonplace, serving as both punishment for the Sudanese and income for the Baggara, who seemed fond of the arrangement. She remembered this man, Paul. He was small and wiry with a thin mustache and smile. He owned and operated a popular restaurant near the diocese, specializing in a mix of traditional Sudanese dishes and a close approximation of western food. She knew it well. The restaurant was small with small round tables, their black paint chipped, showing yellow wood underneath, the tables crowded together, the smoke from the grill and the cigarettes of the customers creating a cloud over the room. Savory smells, onion and meat, overcame the smell of tobacco that greeted patrons who waited outside for tables. Church officials and guests dined there while discussing business. Visitors, especially from Europe and America, were warned not to discuss the conflict that surrounded them. All were careful not to discuss any politics in public places.
Khartoum would be a problem. Paranoia, like a thin mist, covered the capital, blinding it, perhaps willingly, to the troubles, the darkness of the people in Darfur and Southern Sudan. Harsh measures were now a standard policy. When suspicious, they moved quickly to quell that behavior, which was any they believed to be a threat to their government, using any means necessary, including the use of militias. Stopping threats was only a small factor in explaining their behavior. Other issues were involved. Many, including the doctors and others at the mission, questioned the church’s determination in matters relating to its human rights record. She knew better, many times trying to convince them of the church’s dedication to ending the conflict, working with the Sudan Council of Churches to bring peace. She wasn’t always successful, but she kept trying. Hanley was the most skeptical. As an American, she expected him to be cynical; from what she saw and read, it was one of their most defining traits, she believed.
Low sunlight through the single window of her room shone as a quadrilateral on the bed cover. She laid the note in the center of the irregular sunshine and walked to her small writing desk. At times like this, when she was reminded of the random cruelty around her, of just how rare the true compassion of humans was or of her inadequacy, she turned to letters and her mother. Knowing that she was now at risk of never seeing her mother again, she missed the simple love and caring her mother had always given to her. A note to her mother, just to state her love and loneliness, was all she would do; perhaps it wou
ld be enough. After that, it would be time for the evening meal and a talk with the American.
21
As parties go, this wasn’t much, he thought. He had little experience with parties, not having had any birthday celebrations he could remember. But for a party in southern Sudan, he thought it was probably okay. Hanley watched Father Robineau move around the dining room, saying good-bye to the doctors and nurses, the native staff and officials from the diocese, including the bishop, who had traveled from Rumbek. Shaking hands, exchanging embraces and pleasantries, the old priest seemed genuinely moved by the affection he was receiving. He’d earned it, Hanley thought. This many years in Sudan, serving the people here, he’d damned well earned it.
Sister Marie Claire crossed the room to stand beside Hanley. “I’m glad we had this farewell party. He has been a passionate champion for these people. To most, he seems kind, even timid, but he is not. He has stood up to government officials and even the diocese. Maybe not of late; he has grown tired, but for many years, he did. When I first came here, he was a lion, a quiet lion, but brave. I admired him for his bravery,” she said, a look of genuine admiration on her face. Hanley reminded himself that she recently said Father Robineau did not stand up to the diocese for the children and the network.
“Will your network miss him?” he asked, testing her consistency or at least her memory.
“The network? No, it will not miss him. He has not been involved with the work we are doing, the recovery work, I will call it. He will be missed by many others,” she said.
Hanley watched as a young nurse, talking to Father Robineau, wiped her eyes and then began to weep quietly. Holding the old priest’s hand, she raised it, pressing it to her cheek, her eyes closed. The priest stroked her hair, then bent close, whispering in her ear. The nurse nodded, took the old man’s hand from her cheek and kissed it. Hanley suddenly envied the old priest, not certain why. Maybe it was simply because he would soon leave Sudan.
***
Beans, again. These were yellow-green, ugly in a threatening, you-may-be-poisoned kind of way, with a spot here and there on their, shriveled skin. They were long, curved, like a string bean, only thinner, like the people they failed to nourish. In an oily broth, they appeared to have been a culinary afterthought. “We should let Jumma cook”, he said aloud. No one heard. But it was something. As tired as he was of eating some type of bean almost every night for dinner, Hanley knew he was lucky to have anything to eat at all. Sudan had taken over fifteen pounds off him. Using his pocket knife, he added holes to his belts and lived with the bunched waistbands of his pants. Any joy he had from his new thinness was measured against the realization millions of Africans would have welcomed any body fat at all. Africa is crazy, he thought.
He arrived at the dining room early with a letter from Elizabeth. Her divorce was slow, with her husband, Gary, dragging his feet throughout the process. After an initial meeting with Hanley’s attorneys who were representing Elizabeth, Gary agreed to everything. Hanley thought Gary might be hostile to the attorneys but wasn’t, they reported. Elizabeth would share custodial rights of his daughter with her husband and agreed to the proposed visitation schedule. Hanley knew Gary’s protestations were mostly a show for his own parents, demonstrating he could stand up to his wife and his father-in-law. But then Gary demanded more time to review the documents, asking for numerous adjustments and corrections. Now, the final date for the divorce decree was set. His daughter would be free of her husband by the first of November. She was already living in Hanley’s house in Kokomo with Carrie and his old dog. Rocky’s last letter said all seemed well, except that Carrie and Weed were not exactly pleased to be living together. Rocky told Hanley that she truly believed Elizabeth was more concerned for the dog’s safety than that of his granddaughter. He supposed she was right. Rocky wrote every week, but the letters came to Hanley in clumps, sometimes up to a month late.
The letters were treasures to him now. Sudan proved their value, enhanced it, made him reassess, see and admit the mistake of his prior complacency. Even the fights with his ex-wife now had a nostalgia he would have laughed at a year ago. And Sudan changed flying for him and the change was saddening. The change brought a new depth to the feelings of doubt over his decision to come to Africa. Flying now had the feel that handling a gun always gave him. Guns were too unpredictable for him, too much to go wrong with too much ease. Friends of his who used guns were amused that he would consider a gun more hazardous than an old plane.
The letter had the news of his daughter’s plans to redecorate his home. She also announced her plan to enlarge the garden areas in both the front and back yards. Rocky was acting as a consultant to her former gardening pupil. With the money at their disposal, Hanley knew the effort would someday be spectacular or as spectacular as ornamental plants could be. At the end of the letter, Elizabeth again implored her father to come home, to tell the church he must leave, that his daughter and granddaughter needed him in Indiana. Maybe I should, he thought.
Father Robineau came into the dining room, his white shirt stained brown in spots from his sweat and the African dust. With him was a new Slovakian doctor Hanley met two days before, a short and plump young man with a head of thick, black hair. His pale face was cradled by a heavy dark stubble. He had, Hanley thought, the palest eyes he had ever seen, like ice over blue water. Seeing Hanley, the priest said, “Ah, Hanley, the young doctor thinks we should find the land and build a new city to house those fleeing Darfur. He believes there are enough humanitarians to support such a project. What do you think?”
“All good ideas are proven wrong over time. In America, the land of the good idea, we allow our politicians to prove that theory over and over again, which they do. The same goes for humanitarians, but the ratio is much smaller. I think one politician cancels out hundreds of caring individuals.” Hanley said.
“Are all Americans this cynical?” asked the doctor.
“No, most are just smart-asses. They’re usually younger. In my country, cynics are just smart-asses with some age on them,” Hanley explained. “How long before you leave us Father?”
“Maybe three more weeks; at my age it would seem to be a short time, but in Africa, it’s perilously far off.”
Through the window, Hanley saw Sister Marie Claire approaching the dining hall. Always a fast walker, her pace was almost furious and raised small dust clouds as she crossed the barren yard. With her head still down, she rushed through the door and to the table where the doctor, the priest and the American sat. Stopping next to the chair of the American, she said, “Forgive me for interrupting, but I need to speak to Monsieur Martin for a moment.” The priest smiled and shrugged. The nun turned and walked away, heading for the door. Hanley rose and followed her out into the evening light, the air cooling, but still warm. Smoke and dust blew past as Hanley jogged a bit to catch up. The nun said, “I need to tell you something and then ask a question. I could not do this with Father Robineau there. It is better that we discuss this alone.”
“I see. You need to give up this idea that someday, I’ll run away to Paris with you. I believe the man you’re married to would send me straight to Hell, although I probably shouldn’t let that concern me as I’m on my way, no matter what I do. However, I don’t want you to throw away a perfectly good career over me.”
She smiled at him and said, “If I would throw it away, it would not be for you. It would be for someone more handsome and more sophisticated, which means I would have many, many men to choose from.”
“Yes, you would.”
“There is something more serious than your infatuation with me to discuss. I have a note in my pocket from a man who has asked me to help him. He wants to bring back a niece who has been kidnapped and taken to a city north of here. Wad Madani. She is enslaved, working in the home and the factory of an Arab business owner. The Baggara killed her family or drove them off and abducted her. They probably raped her also, that is what they do. Women and children, i
ncluding boys, are taken by truck and train to the cities of the North and sold into slavery. Muslims try to convert them. Some resist, many don’t. Many die. He wants his niece returned.”
“I assume he came to you because of the network. Am I right?” Hanley asked.
“Yes, he knows of the network. People who have loved ones that have been abducted search for information; are they alive, if so, where have they been taken. When word reaches the members of the network that someone is making inquiries, we watch that person, see who they meet, who they talk to. When we think it is safe, that they are safe, we approach them, offer our help. We stress to them the importance of discretion, of keeping secrets,” the nun explained.
“You know that’s crazy. People can’t keep secrets. They’re desperate. Some are stupid. It’s dangerous. Or is that it? Is it the danger you like?” Hanley smiled the odd smile that sometimes unnerved Father Robineau.
“No, don’t be a fool. I hate danger. There is such riskiness…”
“It’s very risky.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Thank you. It’s very risky. However, it is necessary. The church knows nothing of this, or at least they have said nothing to me about it. Someone must stand for the women and children here. Going through customary channels works if the channels work themselves, but they don’t. How do you say it, the rules don’t apply? I must do what I can do,” she said.
“What exactly do you want to discuss with me?” he asked her.
“I want you to fly with me to an area southwest of Wad Madani–”
Sometimes the Darkness Page 19