In the last episode, the missionary reflected on a powerful encounter with John Lakrimoi, a former soldier who refused to harm his own people and now stands proud and free in the midst of war-torn Sudan. John’s sharp wit and honest questions challenged the missionary’s views, especially when he asked why the world protested against apartheid in South Africa but ignored the suffering and loss of rights faced by black southerners in Sudan. Despite the hardships, John’s dignity and resilience shone through, showing that true freedom is not just about escaping chains, but about holding on to one’s humanity and hope, even when the world seems indifferent. As the missionary travelled through the dusty outskirts of Juba, passing the grand cathedral with its Latin inscription, he pondered where God’s home truly was—among the people struggling for survival, or in the buildings built to honour Him.
We cross the Nile over a clattering Bailey bridge, donated by the Benelux countries during the short-lived truce of 1973. There are several refugee camps here. We call at one of them where my friend is building a water well. Safe drinking water is very important. Thousands of people are trying to survive here. Bored to death, men sit in little groups in the shadow of the sparse trees. On the other hand, the women have no time to get bored; they are cooking on small fires or washing clothes; the well will help them most. Children are playing, messing around with water, quarrelling or watching with great interest the two white visitors.
Masudio, a lady teacher who speaks English, shows me around the camp. Some families have a tent, donated by one or other non-governmental organization. These tents are far too hot to live in; they probably were designed for Scandinavian countries and not for Sudan where the sun bakes everything below it. Other people have tried to build their own huts, but at present it is very hard to get grass. They have started a school for the children under one of the trees. Masudio tells about the health programme, which is largely run by the displaced people themselves. The water well under construction is part of this programme. These are positive developments, but the teacher also tells me about the minefields around the camp. The government has put them there to prevent the SPLA soldiers from coming into town. Only recently some women were killed when they were looking for firewood. Because of these minefields the men cannot go hunting nor can they keep cattle, apart from a few goats which are tied to the trees. The displaced people have become prisoners in these camps, and regularly they are accused of supporting the SPLA. The tangible misery makes me quiet.
Masudio tells me about herself. She and her children walked more than sixty-five miles fleeing from the war. She has no idea where her husband is. If he is fighting in the SPLA army, she had just as well say she does not know. The war has been going on for years, and may last for many more. My friend joins us and explains to Masudio how they can prevent the well from getting polluted. She listens carefully and promises that she will explain it to the people. A woman approaches with a request: will she ask us whether she and her sick child can go with us in the car to the hospital in Juba? Without consulting us, Masudio tells the woman that we will indeed take her and her child to Juba hospital. Ordinarily I would resent that permission is presumed, but Masudio is so clearly in charge of everything here that I accept her decision. Officially, one of those men under the tree over there will be the boss, but the teacher is the one who organizes much of what happens here. Through her initiatives she has become the leader. When it comes to work and development it is often the women who take the lead. On the cover of the copybook which lists the names of the schoolchildren, she has written, The hand that rocks the cradle, should also rock the boat.
Looking around the camp is depressing. For a long time these people will be dependent on relief. Hardly any cultivation is possible because of the minefields. However, this woman Masudio does not appear depressed at all. I muster up the courage to ask: ‘Masudio, how have you coped with this life, for so many years now? I think I just could not do it. It would be my death.’ But Masudio is a strong woman in a starved body. She need not think long about an answer: ‘We do not bear this alone. God is here with us.’ She says this, so utterly convinced, that I cannot but believe her, although in this environment my belief is stretched to the limit. When Masudio and so many others say here, ‘God is with us’, it conveys great trust. When I begin to feel desperate, they are still full of trust. Trust is probably the very essence of faith. She radiates this trust. I am glad she is here.
Nextweek, as dawn breaks over the restless land, the journey takes an unexpected turn—where hope flickers in the eyes of the displaced and the line between sanctuary and struggle blurs beneath the ancient trees. With faith tested and alliances shifting, our travellers find themselves at the heart of Tombura, where empty hands and open hearts spark a new kind of courage. Will the bonds of community outlast the scarcity of aid, or will the shadows of war prove too deep to cross? Prepare to follow the footsteps of those who, even when all seems lost, discover that the greatest gifts are sometimes found in the simple act of listening—and that, in the search for peace, the next chapter is always waiting just beyond the horizon.
