N'Djamena, CHAD - and the SUDAN crisis: Part 1
"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace: where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injustice, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is dark, light; where there is sadness, joy."
~ St. Francis of Assissi, 1181 - 1226 ~
Going with the flow was like a roller coaster ride in deciding to go to Chad. I could not bear to visualize dying children in mothers' arms, women getting raped, more people getting tortured and killed. How can anyone even doubt that this is genocide? The Sudan crisis has now expanded into Chad and the Central African Republic. Most of the world is still just watching. Many are still unaware. And sadly, many are in heavy denial of what is happening because it has not reached their private backyards. During the last couple of weeks prior to December 23, 2006, I felt compelled to be in Chad to serve the refugees and give some relief to colleagues and other humanitarian workers in whatever way during the holidays. Whatever small service I can do. There are brothers and sisters out there who are suffering. This is a soul thing. My personal gift to my loved ones for Christmas.
The logistics changed not only daily but almost hourly. No plans can surely be made. Miraculously, I actually got my visa on time and my Thuraya satellite phone a day before departure. Concentratedly immersing in the many articles and news about the Sudan crisis and the potentially explosive scenario in the refugee camps in Chad strengthened my decision to go. I also got back-up coverage at work in such a short period of time. I spoke with my family, my children, and they understood. Several family members do mission work. They may not have liked it because of obvious safety risks, but they understood. Following what seems to be the right thing to do has always been good for my spirit.
The flight journey from Louisville to Cincinnatti to Paris to N'Djamena was seamless and generally smooth. I thought about the refugees. The wish to hug them. The humanitarian workers who are most probably already beyond Compassion Fatigue and secondary stress. Finally , I arrived in N'Djamena almost close to midnight. The Aeroport International N'Djamena was somewhat old and run-down and represented the difficult infrastructure of Chad. Whatever I remember of French and Arabic words started to gush in my mind. I focused auditorily at the languages being spoken all around me almost to a dizzying level. And yet, something felt familiar. There were men who looked like soldiers and men who were wearing their long flowing Arabic garbs. It was hard to see at night and it was very disorienting. Someone called out my name and then handed me a piece of paper saying that my baggage was delayed. Okay, then.
I dragged my hand-carry luggage outside of the airport, and looked for a cab. There were no women out there, only men. They probably were wondering what in the world a woman was doing out there in the middle of the night. Especially in a country where the humanitarian workers like those from UNHCR and IRC were being evacuated because of heightened security problems. A country where culturally women are generally seen and treated as secondary citizens. Some humanitarian workers have been robbed, assaulted and there were reports that some were killed. At that time, I was too tired to be fearful. In my understanding, a situation like that was an opportunity to serve. Having done disaster work and global medical missions, knowing some rusty conversational French and Arabic, familiarity with the culture for having worked closely with the Sudanese and other African refugees in my community, and years of experience in ASD and PTSD work allowed me no excuses but to go.
A man tried to help me with my baggage and redirected me towards several cab drivers. That I felt a bit uncomfortable especially when they started talking at the same time and were haggling as to who would drive me to my hotel, was an understatement. I took a deep breath, decided to maintain my composure and built up confidence to look at their eyes directly, and spoke some French-Arabic with two of them. One of them smiled when he heard Arabic and French words from me so I decided to trust and go with that cab driver. Je parle un peu francais. Parlez vous anglais? Je ne sais pas. Vous etes bien aimable. Mar-haba. Kif halak? Shok-ran. Menfadlak...S'il vous plait, monsieur, Hotel Le Meridien Chiari. Merci.
~ St. Francis of Assissi, 1181 - 1226 ~
Going with the flow was like a roller coaster ride in deciding to go to Chad. I could not bear to visualize dying children in mothers' arms, women getting raped, more people getting tortured and killed. How can anyone even doubt that this is genocide? The Sudan crisis has now expanded into Chad and the Central African Republic. Most of the world is still just watching. Many are still unaware. And sadly, many are in heavy denial of what is happening because it has not reached their private backyards. During the last couple of weeks prior to December 23, 2006, I felt compelled to be in Chad to serve the refugees and give some relief to colleagues and other humanitarian workers in whatever way during the holidays. Whatever small service I can do. There are brothers and sisters out there who are suffering. This is a soul thing. My personal gift to my loved ones for Christmas.
The logistics changed not only daily but almost hourly. No plans can surely be made. Miraculously, I actually got my visa on time and my Thuraya satellite phone a day before departure. Concentratedly immersing in the many articles and news about the Sudan crisis and the potentially explosive scenario in the refugee camps in Chad strengthened my decision to go. I also got back-up coverage at work in such a short period of time. I spoke with my family, my children, and they understood. Several family members do mission work. They may not have liked it because of obvious safety risks, but they understood. Following what seems to be the right thing to do has always been good for my spirit.
The flight journey from Louisville to Cincinnatti to Paris to N'Djamena was seamless and generally smooth. I thought about the refugees. The wish to hug them. The humanitarian workers who are most probably already beyond Compassion Fatigue and secondary stress. Finally , I arrived in N'Djamena almost close to midnight. The Aeroport International N'Djamena was somewhat old and run-down and represented the difficult infrastructure of Chad. Whatever I remember of French and Arabic words started to gush in my mind. I focused auditorily at the languages being spoken all around me almost to a dizzying level. And yet, something felt familiar. There were men who looked like soldiers and men who were wearing their long flowing Arabic garbs. It was hard to see at night and it was very disorienting. Someone called out my name and then handed me a piece of paper saying that my baggage was delayed. Okay, then.
I dragged my hand-carry luggage outside of the airport, and looked for a cab. There were no women out there, only men. They probably were wondering what in the world a woman was doing out there in the middle of the night. Especially in a country where the humanitarian workers like those from UNHCR and IRC were being evacuated because of heightened security problems. A country where culturally women are generally seen and treated as secondary citizens. Some humanitarian workers have been robbed, assaulted and there were reports that some were killed. At that time, I was too tired to be fearful. In my understanding, a situation like that was an opportunity to serve. Having done disaster work and global medical missions, knowing some rusty conversational French and Arabic, familiarity with the culture for having worked closely with the Sudanese and other African refugees in my community, and years of experience in ASD and PTSD work allowed me no excuses but to go.
A man tried to help me with my baggage and redirected me towards several cab drivers. That I felt a bit uncomfortable especially when they started talking at the same time and were haggling as to who would drive me to my hotel, was an understatement. I took a deep breath, decided to maintain my composure and built up confidence to look at their eyes directly, and spoke some French-Arabic with two of them. One of them smiled when he heard Arabic and French words from me so I decided to trust and go with that cab driver. Je parle un peu francais. Parlez vous anglais? Je ne sais pas. Vous etes bien aimable. Mar-haba. Kif halak? Shok-ran. Menfadlak...S'il vous plait, monsieur, Hotel Le Meridien Chiari. Merci.
posted by LIZ | 5:53 AM
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