Previously, he had left Bor with a heavy heart after warnings of coming violence, only to return days later and find the place shattered by massacre, grief and hunger. Among the survivors, he met Margaret Aring, a woman who had lost nearly everything but still found the strength to organise help for others. Her courage shook him out of his despair, and though he felt angry, helpless and deeply worn down by what he had seen, he left with a small, stubborn sense that even in the darkest moments, hope had not fully died.
Jack is a small-time father in the Netherlands. He has just a field of asparagus and a patch of strawberries. The asparagus and strawberries are not usually taken to the auction, but Jack’s wife sells them from the barn to the tourists staying at the local campground. At first Jack had been a little wary when the tourists came up to the barn. But slowly he got used to them. Sometimes he even hawked the strawberries round the holidaymakers’ cabins, and on rare occasions he even had a cup of coffee or a beer with them. Many of the tourists were from Germany. Jack is old enough to remember the Second World War and he certainly was no fan of the Germans. But he got to know them better and very gradually his attitude towards them changed. The ‘Jerries’ became ‘Germans’ for Jack, and, later on, just regular people.
Jack lives in a village not far from where I was born. When I am in the Netherlands, on leave from Africa, I usually go and visit him and his wife. He keeps me up to date with the developments in the village. There were new developments the last time I saw him. People from all over the world, asylum seekers, had come to the Netherlands. Gaining status as a refugee in the Netherlands is a process take years, and there is no guarantee of obtaining that may it. The people have to stay somewhere, and now the large campground with its holiday bungalows has been turned into a relief centre for those seeking asylum.
It had taken years for Jack to get used to the holidaymakers who overran his village in the summer. He never goes away on holiday himself; his vacations start when everyone has gone home and the village is his again. But now that the campground has become a relief centre, it is occupied all year round.
Jack is not pleased about it, and he is not the only one. I ask him if it is because the asylum seekers do not come to buy his asparagus and strawberries. No, Jack assures me, that is not the reason. From the way Jack tells me it is quite clear that there is not much love lost between him and these people. There have been some robberies in the village. And he is not very happy that the people in the camp do not work. For Jack, work means working with your hands, farmer that he is.
Now I have known Jack for a long time, but in spite of his language this morning, it would not be right to call Jack a racist. I ask Jack whether he has met any of the asylum seekers. No, he has not. How could he? They don’t even speak Dutch. The German tourists did not speak Dutch, but they at least understood Jack’s dialect, which is related to German. He does not want to make life difficult for anyone, and they do not all have to live the way he does, but he is at a loss with these people who have invaded his village.
‘Now what about you?’ Jacks wants to know, ‘You have spent so many years with these people. How do you manage? Are they all like these foreigners here?’ We had a good talk about this. The life of those seeking asylum is one of great uncertainty. They don’t know whether they will be allowed to stay or not. They are like a ship in heavy seas, and they hold on to anything in order not to be sent back to their country of origin. Deep in his heart Jack is not against these people, but he does not want to be imprisoned in his own house behind locked doors, afraid that he might be robbed as others have been robbed. We talk further, but when I leave it is clear I have not fully convinced him. He remains afraid that they will break into his house. There may be thieves among those people, but they have not stolen his heart. ‘We’ll have to learn to live with it,’ he says, and showing me to the door adds, ‘I have no grudge against them, but I am not at ease with thieves around me. I worry my heart out. Believe me, many of those Africans are thieves, whatever you say.’
I return to Africa, to the Sudan this time, a country new to me. A new language again, and I wonder if I am still up to learning it. The gauntlet is thrown down when an old lady says to me, ‘If you love us, you will be able to learn our language’. It is a slow business. Am I too old, or could it be that I do not love these people enough? I often feel they look at me with mistrust, and I think they do not understand me, but then it often happens that I don’t understand them either. Just as it is for Jack, work for these people means working in the fields, and they never see me do that. I am a guest of these people, but in their eyes white people must seem a strange lot. Maybe I am in a similar situation to those Africans seeking asylum in the Netherlands.
This evening, as I sit with Sorro in the open near a log fire, I remember Jack and what we discussed. The moon is shining. We drink the sweet tea which Sorro’s wife has poured for us. Sorro is older than I, and in Africa that means he is old enough to be wise. He knows the history of Sudan. Many of his ancestors were sold as slaves. He knows all about the European colonial oppression; he fought against it. But he also fought for freedom against the Arabs. Now he enjoys relative peace living at the edge of the forest with his wife and children.
Sorro is a member of the Anglican Church. He happened to be born in an area which had been allotted to Protestant missionaries in the colonial days. His wife was born in the next village, which was in the sphere of the Catholic Comboni missionaries. She was baptized a Catholic when she was in the primary school. When they married, the missionary told them that the Catholic church had very strict rules about the education of the children. But Sorro had his own rules. He had his sons baptized in the Protestant church and his daughters in the Catholic church. On Sundays they go to different churches, but every evening Sorro leads the prayers for his whole family at home. He is the help and mainstay of many. Missionaries and local priests spend the night in Sorro’s home when passing through. Sorro and his wife are extremely hospitable. They have even built two extra rooms for all the guests who overnight there.
Back in Holland, Jack and I once discussed the great trouble there used to be between Protestants and Catholics. They even burnt each other’s churches down. Now Sorro says how much he regrets that we missionaries brought a divided Christianity to Africa. The differences between the Catholics and Protestants have very little to do with African realities. I agree with him. He tells me about the tension there often was, and still is, between whites and blacks, between Arabs and the blacks, and between the African tribes.
We discuss how people who have fought each other for so long will be able to work together again, when there will be peace again in Sudan. To him, peace is more than the absence of war. As we sit here this evening, I feel convinced that this man is really at peace, in spite of the war all around him.
Here, in the middle of Africa, I remember Jack’s question, ‘How do you manage, working with people who are so different?’ Jack had grave doubts with his, ‘I worry my heart out.’ Sorro’s stories make it obvious that co-operation and mutual understanding is not a story of unqualified success in Sudan either.
With the moon looking down on us I put Jack’s question, which is also mine, to Sorro. How can there be more understanding between peoples? How can we get to know each other’s worlds and show greater respect for each other’s views? Sorro does not read books, and in fact I am expecting one of those long stories about Africa he often tells. But his reply is no long argument. Sorro’s wisdom does not come from books; he knows the sayings and proverbs of his tribe, and there is much wisdom in these sayings: proverbs are the daughters of wisdom. He has understood my question all right; in some ways he lives the answer. Sorro gets along with everybody; he is one who truly loves people. As he throws some more wood into the fire, the flames light up his face. Looking at me, he says, ‘You want to look through my eyes? Give me your heart and I shall give you my eyes.’ I ponder these words of Sorro and know deep in my heart that Jack is not the only one who says or thinks, ‘I worry my heart out’. I do not give my heart away that easily. Maybe it is true that some of these Africans are thieves; they may steal your heart.
