Of a Sunrise, Meetings, and roving boys...

August 28, 2006 - 6:37am
Like a crimson flood the clouds ignite
Wreathed in shrouds of early morning
Sleep and darkness escape from the light
The city asleep in the wind no more.
As messengers of cheer little wings in bands
Dip and rise mid cubed surroundings
Speaking in tongues of foreign lands
The dust and flies cling as before.
The clouds are blood sent from on high
An offering of peace for people rebelling
Forgiveness such mercy for deeds of the night
Covered and remembered in time no more.
Now the sun in glory lifts from the mire
Silent and swiftly with purpose climbing
Perfectly round in flaming attired
Vengeful for some loving Father for more.

When I awoke this morning it was still dark. Not yet had the sun rounded fully the earth, and comfortable on my bed in my icebox of a room, I knew that there were some hours still before my alarm tolled the moment of my waking. I lay still for a while, trying to resurrect and complete a dream from moments before. It was a good dream. I was getting married. At one point I grabbed my wife-to-be by the hand and pulled her quickly away from the madness of the preparations, and just held her close to me, telling her that I loved her. I could not see her face, but her body so close to mine created in me such a strong feeling of love that I was loathe for the vision to end. It was around five, and I knew it was useless to try and sleep further, so I rose and prepared an omelet Khartoum. It was quiet but for the wind, and the breeze felt cool and familiar. I sat and read Isaiah 1 -

“Why do you persist in rebellion?...your
whole heart afflicted. From the sole of
your foot to the top of your head there
is no soundness - only wounds and welts
and open sores, not cleansed or bandaged
...though your sins be as scarlet, they
shall be white as snow; though they are red as
crimson, they shall be like wool...For the
mouth of the Lord has spoken.”

I wrote the poem above with those words in mind and continued to sit and watch the sun rising. Now I am back in my room, about to take a shower and go to the WFP headquarters here for a training session on Phase II of IOM camp registration. Tomorrow I expect to return to Nyala to my adopted family, and to the daily hell that controls the people’s hearts.

Same day - 9:33am
As I sat in the conference room at WFP, the same one I was in almost a year and a lifetime ago, it quickly became evident that I was the only non-arabic speaking attendee. Awkward. The packet of info, one in English was given to me, contained all I need to know anyway, and as I briefed through it I realized that I already knew it, and that it was all ‘pretty theory’ that shattered easily the moment the sweat and grime of the reality of the field was encountered. So I departed, called the office for a ride, and sat by the road to write and wait. A group of boys stopped for a quick chat and wanting flame for a musty, half-consumed cigarette. Barely twelve. Disappointed, they sauntered off. Ah, here’s my ride.

Of Transition, Power poles, Perspective, and the Future...

When a person is confronted with debilitating heat every day for months on end they are forced to learn to cope. Each day is a struggle, never seems easy, is full of comments about how hot it is, remarks at the growing sweat marks on shirts (or rather shrinking dry spots), but work always gets done, attitudes usually stay intact, and progress in heat management is truly realized when the mercury drops below 90 and the body feels a slight chill. I think I'll wear long sleaves today...it is 82 degrees...and I feel slightly cool. At moments like that you come to grips with what you are used to and are amazed at what you've learned to put up with.

Tuesday, August 22, was just like the week preceding it, very comfortable in the 70's, or what you would call a typical day in the Appalachians. Eighteen hours later I step off of a plane and am confronted with an evening temperature at least in the 90's. Manageable, not bad really. Maybe I still had it in me. Pull up at the familiar SP house in Khartoum, soak in the air-conditioning, feel the cool tile floor storing up the chill...very nice. Thursday evening a storm swept through Khartoum, pushing ferocious dust and rain ahead of it, and whipping through the streets on the wheels of a wind that surprised some locals with its fury. A colleague and I were in a small restaurant when it happened and did not realize how strong it was as we watched it through the large glass windows.

Returning to the house we discovered that the concrete power pole in front of our house had been shattered and lay sprawling its wires across the road. The windows were dark, and as we stepped inside realized the design misfortune that relies completely on conditioned air to maintain comfort. There exists no circulation and so immediately it becomes a stifling oven. Even outside was slightly more comfortable, the only advantage to indoors was the shelter from the sun. Last night, Saturday evening, the power was finally restored. Those were some of the most miserable moments of my life. As I have just arrived, and am still only in Khartoum, I have not yet started my job, and as such have nothing constructive to do. I am still dealing with jet lag, and the inability to sleep at night (for fear of drowning in sweat) has not helped with that at all. During the day, rest is very difficult, although I have managed a few hours in spurts.

As such we, my colleague and I, spent many hours in some of the cafe's around town, enjoying the cool air, international company (such as Lebanese business men, Jordanians, well educated Sudanese, etc.), and so on. Some of the friends that we have made have proved to be quite amazing, being some very influential members of Khartoum's upper class.

Still, as we'd walk around town, hopping from one cafe to another, and then back to the house, I was struck with the surreality of it all. We begrudged the fact that we would return again to a house deprived of electricity, but I knew that the men who were working on fixing it could only ever expect such a thing. The lanky teenager who approached us at an outdoor local restaurant late at night, addled because of the glue he got high sniffing (a huge problem in Africa), wandered the streets twenty-four hours a day in scraps for sandles and rags for clothes, and was too messed up in his mind to take the food we offered him. He wanted money instead. In a place like this, there is no hope for him. That is not a statement westerners want to agree with. But he will never experience the life that I have, or that many of his countrymen experience in the city. A boy like that won't even experience the real joy that a peaceful village or region in Darfur has. It does make you ask, 'Why?'. And while I have seen this countless times before, the perspective of our darkened house freshened the point a little. Enough at least to feel again the sadness that, if left unchecked, could eventually drive you into deep emotional trauma. It felt right to feel that again, and to let that experience help shape my attitude as I prepare to return to the troubled region of Darfur. I probably won't feel that again while I am here, not as acutely at least, and it is good that way, otherwise I would become useless in trying to help. As I've experienced in the eight and a half months it has been since I was here last, there are ample moments later to let the grief and shock and anger and anguish escape. If the mind refuses the body eventually finds ways to release the pressure.

On a note of 'business', I am to attend a seminar here in Khartoum on Monday, and then on Tuesday I expect to take off for Darfur.

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Airports, Jews, and airplane neighbors...

August 22, 2006
I just stood in a line at the Lufthansa gate for twenty-five minutes to find out if I could carry the two bags I have with me. One, my laptop case, I was not concerned about, but the other, my guitar, a small backpacker model, produced some concern. For alleged security reasons carry-on items were being strictly limited, but before I reached the culmination of my wait, it was announced that all that was desired was accomplished, and I walked away to find a seat, both bags in hand.

I had noticed them before the ‘line episode’, but during my wait I was slightly entertained by a Jewish family managing their three strapping Hebrew sons. The eldest appeared to be around five, the youngest was learning to walk (or stand rather, using his stroller as support), and the third son fit somewhere in the middle. In my heart I felt an affinity for them and, in all honest, a sense of honor to be near them – a family of the chosen people of God. Although the parents were rather plumply substantial, I was struck by their attractiveness. It would not be untrue to say that the woman was beautiful, possessing a beauty that is inherent to peoples of the Mediterranean – darker skin, sharply defined eyes, noble nose, proud mouth, and a nature described as both coy and gregarious. The man was less glamorous but obviously capable of producing sons of notable strength, both in appearance and personality. It was a pleasure to watch their interactions, hearing their language flow effortlessly from their lips, seeing their love for their sons, and then noticing the unspoken communication via the meaningful glances of a man and a woman who are intimately acquainted with each other.

Later – enroute at 37,000 feet somewhere over England
There remains less than an hour before I reach Frankfurt. We have flown east through the night searching, as it were, for an early sunrise and have found it, ahead of schedule as planned. The sitting position does not work well for me when it comes to sleep, so I have spent the last seven hours conversing with my neighbors, surfing the web and writing emails, eating, and just sitting still to allow time to march on as it wills.

My neighbors provide some interest, and they are: Dan, sitting in front of me, Steve, to my front right, and John, two seats to my right. There would be more, but the ticketing agents failed in their advertising and many seats remain cold. Of the four of us there is only one traveling for ‘pleasure’, but combined we represent an eclectic array of destinations. Greece, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, and Sudan. Dan and Steve, Kazakhstan and Ukraine, are going on missions trips, Dan for a year, Steve for three weeks. Dan, a conservative looking twenty-two year old Lutheran sporting a leather strap necklace with a Christian fish pendant, has never been overseas, but appears to have remedied that by diving in headfirst [with such a long commitment]. He seems scared and unsure of himself, probably using some of these tedious hours to question what it is that he is doing. Steve, a nice and pleasant person, fancies himself a dashing, part-time overseas missionary, clocking a couple of weeks every couple of years. During the day, he teaches Sunday school and does something in the financial world. Before takeoff and prior to cruising altitude we heard his life story, and for a while afterwards he ‘dazzled’, as he may have thought, us with stories of Jabez praying and ‘no way that could be coincidence.’ John retreated into the world of Bose Headphone induced silence, and I confess for a while I envied him. Later on he and I struck up some words, querying each other of the other’s business and discussing world politics. In the course of things I presented my world view and gathered that his was somewhat emotion-based and irritated towards US foreign policies. He’s a fan of President Carter and is something of a wannabe humanitarian. I don’t begrudge him that, though.

Later – Frankfurt
I am very weary now. Due to the raised security cautions for flights bound for the states there are security lines almost a quarter of a mile long. Then, due to my error, I stood in on for half an hour before I realized my mistake. Then I found my gate and waited for another twenty or thirty minutes at the check-in counter just to ask a simple question. That complete I searched for a place to sit down and came up only with the marble floor. My body and mind are exhausted and I have difficulty keeping time sorted out in my mind.

Book of Being Update...

"The Book of Being" has been entered into the film festival that was targeted and now we wait to learn of its fate. Insha'allah taybeen.

Also, the website for the movie has had a face lift, thanks to Jordan Niednagel's web prowess. Visit the changes at: www.bookofbeing.com


Regards,

Jonathan

Of Jury Duty and Small Towns...Part Two

And after all of that the entire week of jury duty was cancelled. I am bummed. I was actually looking forward to it, but my reaction is also bittersweet as I now have regained precious moments. Masha'allah.

Of Jury Duty and Small Towns...

“The General Assembly hereby declares the public policy of this State to be that jury service is the solemn obligation of all qualified citizens, and that excuses from the discharge of this responsibility should be granted only for reasons of compelling personal hardship or because requiring service would be contrary to the public welfare, health, or safety.”

Thus speaks the North Carolina General Statutes. Early in the month of July, soon after returning from cruising the country, I received, for my first time, juror summons. Failure to respond as directed results in being held ‘in contempt of court’ and a 50 dollar fine. The summons is actually a directive of the court and is no different in severity from a subpoena. It is a ‘solemn obligation of all qualified citizens,’ and according to the instructional video I was shown we do not ‘have to’ but we ‘get to’ take part in Jury ‘service’. We should not look at is as ‘duty’ but as ‘privilege’, etc., a way to take part in the great judicial system of our country. In the overall scheme of things, having seen some of the rest of the world, there is truth to that outlook as we still have the best thing going here. It is hard, though, to maintain that perspective when I am scheduled to leave in twenty-one days, making each day precious to me, and an entire week is consumed by the uncertainty of being on jury duty.

Uncertainty well describes the experience thus far. My first day was yesterday, Monday, and I arrived early to the affair, joining approximately forty other would-be jurors in waiting to discover whether or not we would be used. It was mostly harmless and comprised of patient waiting, something I accomplished all the more easily by losing myself in a book I brought (that is called ‘planning ahead’). After about an hour and a half the judge determined that we were not needed for that day and that we should return in the morning. Upon checking a recording at the courthouse via telephone I discovered that even that has changed and that I should check the recording again this evening about tomorrow (Wednesday).

The difficulty I am having is that I want to make plans with people this week but am restricted from doing such as I can’t be sure what each of my days will look like. I might be selected and strapped to a trial and thus unavailable for socializing, and then I might not. It is like being on hold with technical service, name the company, for a week. You can’t really leave the phone because the representative might answer at any minute, but so far you’ve been at it long enough to begin to singing along with the looped hold music.

In spite of my grouching I am intrigued by this whole process. Sitting on a jury is something I cannot claim to have done and after considering the situation I determined that that is something I want to change. Even as I sat there in the courtroom I was taken by the official stature displayed and the regal judicial 1970’s styling of the courtroom. I wanted to be on the team. Just for a week though.

Occasionally I glanced up from my reading and in doing so discovered the true nature of jury duty. In my small town and county it is not as much ‘judicial’ as it is ‘social.’ Going in for my ‘solemn obligation’ I suspected that I would encounter people that I knew, and, from the numerous warm greetings I observed others taking part in, I figured that I was not the only one bringing such ideas to the day. I recognized half of the forty people there. Of those twenty or so, there were only a handful that I had had personal encounters with, but in that group were folks that I consider friends and during moments when reading was not viable I was free to catch up a bit with them.

Even as I experienced the phenomena of the small town, I was reading about it in my book. E.B. White, the celebrated essayist and author of such classics as ‘Charlotte’s Web’ and ‘Stuart Little’, had this to say:

“On the day before Thanksgiving, toward the end of the afternoon, having motored all day, I arrived home, and lit a fire in the living room. The birch logs took hold briskly. About three minutes later, not to be outdone, the chimney itself caught fire. I became aware of this development rather slowly…I phoned the Fire Department as a matter of routine, dialing a number I had once forehandedly printed in large figures on the edge of the shelf in the telephone closet, so that I would be able to read it without my glasses. (We keep our phone in a closet here, as you might confine a puppy that isn’t fully house-trained)…
My call was answered promptly, but I had no sooner hung up than I observed that the fire appeared to be out, having exhausted itself, so I called back to cancel the run, and was told that the Department would like to come anyway. In the country, one excuse is as good as another for a bit of fun, and just because a fire has grown cold is no reason for a fireman’s spirits to sag. In a very short time, the loud, cheerful apparatus, its red signal light blinking rapturously, careened into the driveway, and the living room filled rapidly with my fire-fighting friends.
My fire chief is also my barber, so I was naturally glad to see him. And he had with him a robust accomplice who had recently been up on my roof installing a new wooden gutter, dry and ready to receive the first sparks from a chimney fire, so I was glad to see him. And there was still a third fire-eater, and everyone was glad to see everyone else, as near as I could make out, and we all poked about learnedly in the chimney for a while, and then the Department left.”

The excerpt is taken from “Points of My Compass” and the chapter entitled, “Home-Coming”. As I read those words for the first time in that courtroom, surrounded by hearty handshakes and the affable conversation of friends in a small town, I laughed, knowing that I was also included in this affectionate mixture and that this week just might promise to be an experience that I will enjoy and remember. After all, how can you not when surrounded by the cart-boy from Wal-Mart, the father-in-law of a former employer, the librarian, former Franks-A-Million customers, co-members of church, and a collection of other good-natured citizens of this fine county. I rest my case.