Previously, it felt like just another ordinary evening in the bishop’s house—flour on the counter, laughter at the table, and a quiet sort of learning passing between people who’d barely known each other a month—yet it was one of those small moments that stayed with him on the road, a reminder that the mission was never only sermons and miles, but the daily business of trust, loss, and starting again in someone else’s way.
I had just started to work with the New Sudan Council of Churches in 1991, when the civil war in Ethiopia came to an end. It was a great blessing for Ethiopia, but it was a blow to the SPLA in the south of Sudan, because for years the Liberation Army had been supplied with weapons via Ethiopia, and many SPLA soldiers had received their training there. But above all, many southern Sudanese who had fled from the war had established themselves in the Ethiopian refugee camps, of which Itang, Pinyudo and Dima are the best known. In Itang alone more than 300,000 Sudanese had found a temporary home. They received food from the UNHCR, there were schools for the children, there was medical care, and they had been able to start growing their own crops. In the camps, the refugees had been relatively safe from the bombardments of the Sudanese government, which was hesitant to fly into Ethiopia.
Being a refugee in a foreign land is difficult, but often it is better than being displaced in one’s own country. Moreover, in some parts of Africa it is often hard to say what ‘one’s own country’ means, for the borders were drawn in colonial days, with scant regard for tribal boundaries. Nowadays many tribes occupy both sides of a national border. Which is their country, the tribal home with borders undelineated on maps, or the borders of the present-day country? It is hard to say. One thing is sure; often tribal allegiance is far stronger than national ties. Not everybody will accept that this is so; western countries cling to the borders which they drew in the past, which certainly makes things simpler for the UNHCR, but not for the people in Sudan.
Now under the new regime in Ethiopia, the refugees, rightly or wrongly, no longer felt welcome. Through the years, they have had to flee war several times. It is said, ‘Wood already touched by fire is not hard to set alight.’ The people of the camps returned to Sudan, although they knew that the situation there was far from peaceful. Within a few days of the new Ethiopian regime, over a quarter of a million people crossed the border near Nasir. The world press did not cover this tragic migration, as it would later report the flight of the people of Rwanda, for the simple reason that journalists could not reach the area.
Difficult access was a problem not only for the press. but for all the non-governmental organizations and aid agencies, representatives of which gathered in the readily-accessible Kenyan capital, Nairobi, to see what could be done for the returning Sudanese. I attended that meeting as a representative of the still wet-behind-the-ears New Sudan Council of Churches. Since the Sudanese were back in their own country, they were no longer the responsibility of the United Nations: technically, they were not refugees but people displaced within their own country. As such they were left to the care of NGOs and the churches.
It was a tedious meeting. Of course it is very important that this kind of relief work is properly co-ordinated, but relief work suffers from having taken on the characteristics of a giant industry. There is competition: at times it seemed as if organizations were fighting with each other over who would get the biggest piece of the cake of misery in the southern Sudan. The group of over 10,000 unaccompanied minors was a particular bone of contention. Every organization wanted to look after them. These young boys, who had gone to Ethiopia for their education, would be prime fund-raising material for any NGO or aid organization. I listened, knowing that our young Council of Churches had no plane and little cash and reaching Nasir and Pochalla, the points where the refugees crossed into Sudan, required the small planes of the Red Cross or the UN. Both organizations were overloaded with requests for cargo space, and they were also carrying their own supplies. Flying for the churches certainly was not a priority for them. Tired and disappointed that we could base in Torit.
Bishop Paride Taban, then the chairman of the NSCC, betrayed astonishment that I had come home so soon. I reported my experience of the meeting in Nairobi, and said that I had concluded we were too small to make a significant contribution. Other organizations seemed extremely, overly keen, so let them get on with it. Anyway, what could we share with the returning refugees? We had nothing. The bishop listened to all this and was quiet for a while. Then he said, ‘My friend’, (he usually calls me by my name, but when he disagrees with me he addresses me as ‘friend’), ‘Your reasoning is wrong; you are not working for one or other foreign NGO, you are working for the Sudanese churches. The people who are returning to Sudan are our own people, our own brothers and sisters. How can you relinquish responsibility for them to foreign NGOs?’ Unconvinced, I reiterated that we had next to nothing to offer. Moreover, I myself was a foreigner. But Bishop Paride insisted that solidarity means more than emergency relief or material help.
An hour later I am on the radio requesting the UN to reserve two places for tomorrow’s flight to Nasir. Bishop Taban is highly respected at the UN, and I doubt I would have been able to get a place without him. The next day we land in the United Nations’ Twin Otter on the morass of an airstrip at Nasir. The mud flies higher than the wings of the plane, but the Ethiopian pilot is confident that he can take off again, since the airstrip is being reinforced with bricks from the ruins of the town. SPLA commanders, Riek Machar and Lam Akol turn out to welcome us; probably they have heard that Bishop Taban is on the plane. After the bombardment, very few buildings remain standing: it has been raining for the last few days, and Nasir is a mud-hole. At the UN camp we are supplied with gumboots. But even with these it is difficult to walk through the muddy soil.
A few days ago more than 150,000 returning Sudanese were registered here. They have settled for the time being in and around the churches and schools. The local Nuer people have also offered them their big cattle barns, and have shared their food with them. They have even slaughtered cows for their displaced compatriots; cows are the most precious possession of the Nuer, and they don’t part with them easily. But even traditional African hospitality has its limits. Now there is little food left. In this area of Sudan grows a species of grass which, at a pinch can nourish humans, but even this grass cannot be found any more.
We travel by boat from one settlement of displaced people to the next, and see corpses floating in Sobat River. Many are the corpses of children, too weak to make it across the river’, murmurs one of our guides. As we arrive in Pandanyang, a throng of boys pulls our boat on to the bank. They do not hide their disappointment when they see that we have brought no food. This is a settlement of over 5,000 boys and a few teachers. The boys, aged between eight and fifteen, gather around us. The younger ones cling to us and beg for food. The UN has been able to fly in some biscuits, but yesterday five children died, and one child died as we are there. I feel helpless and I think it would have been better to put some food on the plane instead of me.
I am not the only one who feels helpless to save these lives. In the UN camp, where most relief workers are staying, there is an atmosphere of frustrated powerlessness. To watch people die without being able to do something is impossible to bear. A few days ago a Hercules transport dropped about ten tons of military food rations left over from the Gulf War. What is the use of Nescafé or nutritionless powdered potatoes for people who are dying of starvation? A shipment of fishing-nets has arrived, which is a step in the right direction, but most organizations are still scratching around for funds.
In the evening we gather with other relief workers in the camp. They ask Bishop Taban to go to Nairobi and explain to the world how serious, and also how unjust, the situation is. We sit here in Nasir, a few kilometres from the Ethiopian border. The Nuer people live on both sides of this border. In Ethiopia these people had the status of refugees and were cared for by the UNHCR. Now they and many of the local people are completely dependent on charity. They cannot travel on from here during the rainy season; the swamps cannot be crossed. It will take six months before they can reach their home regions, and in any case some of these areas are definitely not safe to return to. In Sudan, time and time again we are confronted with the sharp distinction made by officials between the internal and external refugees. More than half a million people are displaced within Sudan and they have no official status whatsoever. The local population here has made a great effort to welcome those returning, but they now have hardly any food left themselves. We spend a sleepless night in our tent with many mosquitoes. Next morning we get on a plane which has brought medicines. One of the relief workers wonders: ‘What medicine is there against hunger?’ The pilot tries to take off but has to abort as he cannot get up enough speed in the mud. We laugh about it and remain calm, as the pilot remains calm and seems confident that he can get us out of the mud. He turns round and the second time he manages to get into the air just before running out of airstrip. Soon enough the pilot tells us that he is getting ready to land again south of Nasir.
Pochalla consists of a few brick buildings and a broken pump from the colonial days. The small river makes the border with Ethiopia. Until last week Pochalla was the home of a hundred families and millions of mosquitoes.
When we land, thousands of boys come running to the airstrip. They are living under the trees, having marched here from Pinyudo in Ethiopia. They are not malnourished yet, and with the help of their leaders they have started their own gardens. Some are assigned to search for edible fruits and berries, others sit with their copybooks under the trees and try to get on with their interrupted education. Their leaders appear to be a cross of soldier and teacher; they tell us how they had to run when their camp in Pinyudo was attacked by the soldiers of OLF (Oromo Liberation Front) and troops of the Khartoum government. They had organized the evacuation of the children first, and had arrived here with about 10,000 of them. They had been bombed along the way; though the bombing was inaccurate and there were no casualties, it had scared the life out of the children. The soldier-teachers inform us that another 86,000 people are on their way to Pochalla and that probably they will arrive here tomorrow. A few people of the International Red Cross have managed to get here before us and they have set up a small camp where we are allowed to put up our tents. The Red Cross workers have come to see what they can do for the returnees, but they do not have the funds or aircraft to start a big relief operation. They estimate that 400,000 Sudanese refugees will return to Sudan from Ethiopia.
At the first signs of darkness the millions of mosquitoes descend and we dive into our tents. We have not eaten all day. Almost secretly we eat a sandwich which we have brought from Nasir. It is not easy to eat when thousands of hungry children are watching you. The plane, which brought us, has flown on to Lokichokio on the border of Kenya and Sudan. We will be picked up the day after tomorrow by another plane returning from Nasir. Without much discussion, it is clear to us that as representatives of the churches we should be here tomorrow to welcome the 86,000 returnees who are now on their way to Pochalla. After that we cannot go home to Torit, but we will go on to Nairobi where we will approach partner churches in America and Europe to see how we can support all these people who are refugees in their own country. I fully agree now with the bishop that we cannot leave this work to foreign NGOs. I fall asleep while ten thousand boys sing warrior songs, fighting off the mosquitoes around them.
When we get up next morning we hear that the first wave of returnees are crossing the border river. More than 50,000 people – the figures change daily – are on the way, and we have nothing to offer them. I feel far from comfortable. However, the bishop seems to be energized when he hears people have started to arrive. He washes his face, puts on a black shirt with Roman collar and his bishop’s cross, and together we walk to the river. He welcomes the first arrivals as he pulls them up the bank on to the Sudanese side. Then the great river of people starts arriving. They carry their belongings on their heads. Some have brought their cattle with them, a cow or a few goats, but nothing like the great herds which they once owned. Many carry some not find much here.
Together with the bishop I stand on some stepping-stones in the river and for hours we just shake hands with people. We don’t even know the language of most of them. I bid them welcome in English, but I might as well have said it in my own dialect. Some people of Eastern Equatoria recognize Bishop Paride and they laugh together in greeting. Others have tears in their eyes when they enter their own country again. On the bank a few people of the International Red Cross are counting the returnees. They tell us that more than 3,000 people are now crossing the river every hour. I wonder whether they consider all this shaking of hands a waste of time, or is each one of us doing what we know best? The Europeans are planning, and the Africans are building relations; both, of course, will be needed to support these people who are returning to Sudan. Many have been refugees since the start of the war in 1983. Most seem happy to be returning, but they do not know what lies ahead. Even the great Red Cross has nothing to offer yet except a little medicine in the clinic, which they opened a few days ago.
Yes, I worry about where we can get food for these people. What can we as churches do for them? It does not seem to trouble my friend, Paride, who still stands in the river shaking thousands of hands. Slowly I become aware that I am learning something in this river. We Europeans are generous, we cultivate generosity, but when we must, we often find it difficult to go to people empty-handed. Do I feel uneasy today because we have nothing to share except ourselves? Maybe the only thing we are doing here is letting these people know that they are not forgotten. I have not kept it up as long as Bishop Paride Taban there in the river, but it is important that he stands there. I wonder whether we can allow ourselves to share what we have, our material things, if we are not prepared to share who we are.
A small planeload of journalists arrives, flown in by the UN. Their coming is important, for journalists are often the eyes of the world and it is essential that the nations should know what is happening here. So often the war victims in the Sudan are forgotten. Tired, the bishop returns from the river and the journalists descend on him like so many mosquitoes. But he has told me before the mosquitoes leave you alone once you give them their fill of your blood, sooner than if you keep chasing them away.
They fire their questions. They want to know the statistics. What is the UN doing? Why has the Red Cross not flown in any food? All these boys here, the so-called unaccompanied minors, are they indeed boys in search of education or are they child soldiers? And so it goes on.
Then there again is the question which has been with us all these days: whose responsibility is it really, to look after all these people?
The bishop avoids answering some of the questions but he is willing to answer this one. ‘These people are Sudanese. Some organizations are inclined to claim these boys as their own. Let them remember that we don’t give away our children. These people are victims of the war. The war itself, the starving people, the displacement of people, the division of people, all the pain and suffering is the cross we have to bear. No, we don’t reject the cross. We are not asking the world to take the cross away from us. We are willing to carry our cross. But even Christ did not carry his cross alone: Simon of Cyrene helped him part of the way. We are not asking the world to carry our cross; we are only asking them to be our Simon of Cyrene.’
Next time, he thinks it’s done—one bold visit, a few handshakes, a bit of hope carried home on a small plane. But the morning after brings news that won’t let him rest, and the questions start to bite: who pays for a gesture of solidarity, who gets blamed, and what happens when the world finally looks your way—too late?
