In episode VI, the missionary crossed the old Bailey bridge over the Nile and visited a refugee camp where survival was a daily struggle. There, Masudio, a determined teacher, guided the missionary through the camp, showing how the women kept life going while the men sat in the shade, and how the children learned under a tree. Despite the heat, the minefields, and the constant threat of war, Masudio’s strength shone through as she organised the camp and cared for others, even arranging a lift to hospital for a sick child without hesitation. When asked how she managed to cope with such hardship, Masudio simply replied, “We do not bear this alone. God is here with us.” Her unwavering trust and leadership brought hope to the camp, proving that even in the hardest times, faith and resilience could light the way forward.
The people in the camp do their praying together under one of the trees. Occasionally, a priest comes to celebrate the Eucharist. On Sundays they often go to the cathedral in town, and that is special, different, but as such not a better church than the tree. I have heard the story of the girl who had grown up in the rural area and who, with her community, used to pray under such a tree. She went with her mother to town and her mother took her to a big building and explained to her daughter that this was a church. The child looked around and said, ‘But where is the tree?’
We drive back to Juba. My friend the well-builder is not much of a talker. The mother protects her sick child from the dust, and I am left to my own thoughts. I am still pondering Masudio’s answer: ‘God is with us’. She seems to have experienced it. And perhaps there is something in it; after all, in Egypt, God’s Son had also been a refugee. And again, he spent more time with this sort of people, at the periphery of society, than with the officials and priests in the temple. As we drive into Juba again, we pass by the cathedral and it is very quiet there. I find it hard to believe that God lives there now.
However, last Sunday I attended a service in this cathedral. It was so dynamic and full of enthusiasm that I am inclined to think God was present then. I wonder if God had come with Masudio and the other refugees from the camps around Juba. Haec est domus Dei, This is the house of God, I read again. Must I believe this, or is Masudio right in insisting that he is there with them in the camps? I am reminded of Shug, a woman in the novel The Color Purple by Alice Walker. She finds God amongst the people. She says: ‘Be honest, have you ever found God in church? I haven’t, I have only found a bunch of people hoping he would show himself to them. The only God I have ever felt in church I had brought along myself. I think other people do the same. They come to church to share God, not to find him.’
When Masudio comes here on Sunday to sing with her choir, so full of faith and trust, then God will come with her, then he will feel at home here. I would go along with Masudio: ‘God’s home is where the people are’.
They were starving and almost naked when, in small groups, they reached Tombura. They had been on the move for more than two months, living on what they found in the forest: roots, berries and vegetables growing in the wild. People of another tribe would have succumbed, but the Azande know the forest and the forest is their friend. It protected them against renewed attacks by the SPLA, the freedom fighters in southern Sudan. Most of the displaced are women and children. You can see the fear in their eyes when they tell how the rebels set fire to the grass in which they were hiding. That is how people here hunt wild animals. They set fire to the grass and the fleeing animals are shot. Many of the men were shot. The young ones were captured to be trained as freedom fighters. Nakubeya had jumped to her feet and had shouted to the soldiers, ‘You’ve got our men, you have our sons, let us be so that our tribe won’t be wiped out!’ To her great surprise she was not killed, the shooting stopped and they had fled into the forest, she and all the women and children. Tired, sick and very down-hearted they have more or less settled in and around the school, which is empty now, for the Christmas holidays.
Tombura has a committee which administers emergency relief for displaced people, but for quite some time there has been nothing to hand out, and so the committee has little to do. We pick up a radio message in Yambio, a cry for help: What is the church going to do for these people? For months we were able to supply seeds and tools to help the refugees and the displaced. After all, the soil around this area is very fertile and rather than build camps for them, we encouraged the displaced families to start their own gardens. Initially, we had some food and blankets too. But now everything has been distributed among other groups of displaced people. New supplies would have to come from Juba, but that is impossible. The roads are minefields, and even if a small plane were to become available, it is getting increasingly risky to fly. We are empty-handed. All we have is a little money, but you cannot eat that, and there is hardly any food left to be bought in Yambio or Tombura.
I go to Médecins Sans Frontières, the French medical organization. In the past they were able to help a few times, but they have practically become refugees themselves. Their little plane, which supplies their hospitals, has been shot down by government troops, and these are doctors who staff government hospitals! If that same government shoots down their plane, can it really care about the health of the people in the south of Sudan? The four people in the plane, three French and a Sudanese, were killed. The people at the MSF compound are shocked. Their organization in France has decided they must leave Sudan. For some it is a relief, but for others, who have been here longer, it only makes things worse. The French doctor at Tombura visited the refugees, but apart from handing out some medicines there wasn’t much she could do. Yes, she could listen to their stories. Then she heard on the wireless that her colleagues were leaving Yei because the situation there had become unbearable, because of constant attacks from the SPLA. They call themselves Médicins Sans Frontières (Doctors without borders, without limits), but of course there are always limits. They too feel defeated, empty-handed.
I decide to go to Tombura anyway, with only the meagre gift of money. But now that the aid organizations have nothing to hand out, now that no NGO claims the displaced, a new development has taken place. The local people of Tombura have begun to talk to the refugees.
Next week in Tombura, as the dust settles after a Christmas full of music, kindness, and dancing under the trees, new faces and fresh stories arrive in the village. Will the friendships and family ties, made stronger by sharing what little they have, help everyone face the challenges ahead? With hope in their hearts and a bit of laughter in the air, the people are ready for whatever comes next. So, don’t miss the next episode—because in Tombura, even when times are tough, there’s always room for a bit of joy and a helping hand.
