In the last episode, the missionary, still new to Sudan, met John Lakrimoi in the busy market of Yambio, a man forced from his home by war and separated from his family. John, who calls the SPLA freedom fighters while others call them rebels, listens to the radio for news, offering sharp commentary that helps the missionary understand the conflict. Despite hardship, John is proud and refuses to be treated as a slave, standing up to both traders and authorities. He is critical of both the government and the SPLA, especially for using starvation as a weapon, and he believes true peace is impossible while people in the south are treated as slaves. John’s resilience and honesty leave a strong impression, showing that even in the midst of war and pain, dignity and hope can survive.
John Lakrimoi used to be a soldier himself, but he was no killer. He could not shoot his own people. I ask him: would it be different if it meant shooting Arabs? He says: ‘They don’t look on us as humans, but we must not agree with them by behaving like brutes.’
On the radio, the SPLA spreads the news that food convoys are to be resumed. John listens, then chimes in with one of his comments: ‘You Americans are queer sticks, aren’t you?’ I protest I am not an American, and though calling me an American might not be as bad as calling me a Christian dog, I don’t consider it a compliment. I am Dutch, and I point this out to John. He replies, ‘Six of one, half a dozen of the other. First you supply the government in Khartoum with bullets and rifles to kill us, and then you give food aid for those of us in the south who have not been killed yet.’ John makes it look rather simple, but there is some truth in his reasoning.
He has more questions for the Americans and all that lot like them. For instance, he believes we are honestly against apartheid in South Africa. Listening to the radio news it appears the sanctions by the West against South Africa’s apartheid regime have had some results. (Next to the SPLA radio, the BBC news is fairly popular in Sudan; it gives John a view of international affairs.) But John wonders why one never hears anything about apartheid in Sudan? Here black southerners have no rights at all, except to be shot. His culture, his land, his religion are taken away from him; his humanity is in no way respected. ‘Why is it that you protest against apartheid in South Africa, and not against apartheid in Sudan?’
When John asks this I am less inclined to insist that I am Dutch. After all, the Dutch in South Africa initiated apartheid there. I have no clear answer to John’s question. As a ‘Christian dog’ from the West it is possible that feelings of common guilt may have something to do with it. After all, they are our own cousins who were the oppressors in South Africa. They too, as the Arabs here, have claimed to act in the name of God. But I will not even try to explain to John about my guilt by association. It would not go down well with someone who can say quite confidently: ‘I am John, and God knows me’. He knows that there is a lot wrong with himself, but he is too free to be determined by feelings of guilt. John’s goodness to his fellow man does not come from having to make amends for some wrong, but simply from the fact that he is his fellow man. The apartheid here is not so black-and-white as it is in South Africa. The blacks are often blacker, the Arab oppressors are a shade or two browner than the sun-tanned whites of South Africa. I agree with John; apartheid is a more appropriate name for the problem in Sudan than ‘religious war’.
John must be off. After the SPLA news, his siesta is over and he should head for the market-place to see whether there is still a job to be done. He is a proud fellow, by no means a slave. He has got the air of a free man. He fights for that freedom without a gun, but that does not make him less a freedom fighter. This war is not hopeless. I know a man who has set himself free, and John Lakrimoi is his name.
It is still early in the morning when my friend and I drive through the outskirts of Juba. The huts stand close together as if huddled against the wind and dust. Women walk to the Nile with water-jugs on their heads. The people here are very black, so black that they appear nearly blue, but the children soon take on a drab-grey from the dust kicked up by our car. Still, they keep up their friendly waving at us. The road is like a washboard. In town there are about six miles of tarmac, the only asphalt road in southern Sudan. A few years ago Juba was a minor provincial town of perhaps 60,000 inhabitants. Now, swollen with all the refugee camps, 300,000 people try to survive here.
As we jolt along on the road to the Nile, a majestic building comes into view on our right, atop a small hill. It is quite at odds with its surroundings. A large wall is being built around it, possibly to keep the refugees out. The building would be quite at home in Italy, and in fact it was the Italians who went to great pains to erect this edifice here, on the bank of the river. Large letters on its tower proclaim: Haec est domus Dei. My friend tries in vain to avoid the bumps in the road, while I wonder for whom this Latin text has been carved on this building. ‘Here is the house of God’, or ‘This is God’s home’, is what it means. The Bari, Juba’s original inhabitants, do not speak Latin. Nowadays many languages are spoken in the city: the various tribal languages of the refugees, and the development and aid organizations often use their own languages. It is not unusual to hear Dutch or Norwegian. But not Latin. That text cannot be meant for them. The Italians who built this cathedral did know Latin, that’s true, but being themselves the builders of ‘God’s Home’, they did not need this indication either. I come to the conclusion that they must have inscribed the message for God himself, to give him a clue where his home is. After all, the building was erected before the Second Vatican Council, when Roman Catholics addressed and adored God mainly in Latin. He is bound to understand that language; at least he must have understood it in those days. God has had to wander around a long time in Africa, He has lived in trees and mountains for ages. Missionaries were not always pleased with a wandering God, so hard to get hold of, so difficult to control. Here, now, a worthy house has been put up for him, and he can read on the tower that this is where his home is, just in case he gets lost.
Next time, brace yourself for more than just dust and drama as our missionary and the ever-resourceful Masudio tackle life in the refugee camp—where the only thing hotter than the tents is the local gossip, and the water well is the centre of all action. Will the minefields keep the goats in check, or will Masudio’s leadership skills finally convince the men under the tree to do more than just sit in the shade? With trust, resilience, and a dash of wit, this episode promises that even in the toughest times, hope can be found—sometimes right under a tree, and sometimes in a borrowed car heading to Juba hospital. Don’t miss it; after all, in this camp, the hand that rocks the cradle might just rock the boat
