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.