Tuesday
Mar252008
No Easter for starving Sudan
By Ellen Ratner
This past Sunday was Easter, arguably the most peaceful, joyous and hopeful celebration in all of Christendom.
As I glance outside my window, I can see the props of our wealthy civilization: Tall, sleek, buildings of glass and steel, late model automobiles, paved roads and stores offering an abundance of all that that makes life long, good and easy. Yet about one week ago on Palm Sunday, I looked out and saw something else. That day found me in a small village in southern Sudan. And what I saw were buildings of dried grass and open roofs, filled with people, some of whom did not resemble the people I see on the street today – they wore rags, not their Easter Sunday best. And these rags contained men, women and, heartbreakingly, children – so many, many children – who resembled only caricatures of human beings: Malnourished and stick thin, whose tight flesh hosted open, running and sometimes what might be gangrenous sores. Mothers' breasts were dry; fathers and older male children were too weak to gather food that simply wasn't there anyway.
These were the bodies of starvation and the faces of suffering. On Palm Sunday, I was in Southern Darfur.
But among those who suffered, I found little bitterness. I was literally taken by the hand and led to a church service of what is euphemistically called, "returnees" from Northern Sudan and Darfur.
These were the kind of Christians that Jesus would have felt instantly comfortable with. Aside from the church's open roof and dried grass walls, I walked on dirt floors and sat on "seats" of small logs. No cut stone, no stained glass, no elaborately robbed clerics to distract the worshipper from purely spiritual concerns. What there was were people, many of whom hadn't the strength to walk a mile. Yet they crowded into these humble walls to worship their God.
Many of these worshippers were "returnees" who had just returned to this, their home village, just a few days before. They had come from northern Sudan and Darfur.
Several days earlier, a plane from the United Nations World Food Program had visited the village. Sacks of vitally needed food were dropped off and filled the tents of the World Food Program. There were other villages that also needed food, and, as always, there was not enough food to go around. By Palm Sunday, the U.N. food had run out, and the returnees who now crowded the church got nothing.
I would hear their stories but needed no more proof than the gaunt, hollow looks of starvation and malnutrition that characterized each storyteller.
I met a woman who said she was hungry. My translator explained that she would have to live on leaves and water until the U.N. came back. She, like most of the returnees, would be sleeping outside. There weren't enough huts; nevertheless, it might be bearable as the rainy season hadn't yet begun. But remaining outdoors meant increased exposure to mosquitoes carrying malaria (a death sentence given the malnutrition) and an occasional scorpion. But it would have to do.
I have traveled to 60 countries, and up until two weeks ago I thought I had seen it all. The sights couldn't get much worse than Eritrea, the country with the world's lowest per capita GDP. Of course, I was prepared for Darfur.
I was wrong. I have never seen such poverty, such misery and suffering. There was malnutrition as well as no idea and less hope as to when or where the next meal was coming from. People in the prime of life had simply made the decision to die slowly, quietly. There wasn't surplus energy for anything else.
But there was also something else that came with the hunger and running sores – trauma that most Americans only read about in connection with the African slave trade of long ago. The people I met had been forcibly abducted as slaves (although in modernity's penchant for euphemism, they are officially referred to "abductees.") And slavery might have been the least of it. Many of these people were first forced to watch while the village's adult men, as well as some women, were brutally murdered before their eyes. These were fathers, sons and husbands.
After the murders, after being enslaved, came the long march which for many was a death march – always a few murders to keep the rest in line. I've reported on Florida farm workers living in substandard conditions, and I've seen the horrific slums of Kenya, but I've never seen anything like this. The other talk show hosts ranged from the hardest left to the farthest right. And all were moved beyond words at what they saw and heard. Food, not ideology, is what's needed here.
Somebody thought it would be a good idea to bring pens, and we did. How naïve! There is no paper, no school, not even medical care to fill out a doctor's report.
After Darfur I went to Dubai. It may be the world's richest city, beautiful and gleaming. Cranes are everywhere, the sign of work and progress. It struck me like New York City must've looked in the 1920s. I felt like it was another planet, and I could not make any sense of my experience just 24 hours before.
I vow now, in print and before the world, to do something about Darfur. After Hurricane Katrina, I made a similar promise and committed all my spare time to helping people rebuild. I helped raise more than $1 million for the town of Pass Christian, Miss. There's still plenty to do down there, but one thing I cannot do is let the wealth and comfort in which I live and my busy life spin so fast that I forget what I saw in Sudan.
I've been close to the refugee experience since I was a child. Some of my earliest memories were of my parents helping World War II refugees make a home in the United States. But America is not the open door that it was once was. The people I saw in Sudan must rebuild their lives there.
And we must help them. If we do not, we are not worthy of the proud name, "American."
This past Sunday was Easter, arguably the most peaceful, joyous and hopeful celebration in all of Christendom.
As I glance outside my window, I can see the props of our wealthy civilization: Tall, sleek, buildings of glass and steel, late model automobiles, paved roads and stores offering an abundance of all that that makes life long, good and easy. Yet about one week ago on Palm Sunday, I looked out and saw something else. That day found me in a small village in southern Sudan. And what I saw were buildings of dried grass and open roofs, filled with people, some of whom did not resemble the people I see on the street today – they wore rags, not their Easter Sunday best. And these rags contained men, women and, heartbreakingly, children – so many, many children – who resembled only caricatures of human beings: Malnourished and stick thin, whose tight flesh hosted open, running and sometimes what might be gangrenous sores. Mothers' breasts were dry; fathers and older male children were too weak to gather food that simply wasn't there anyway.
These were the bodies of starvation and the faces of suffering. On Palm Sunday, I was in Southern Darfur.
But among those who suffered, I found little bitterness. I was literally taken by the hand and led to a church service of what is euphemistically called, "returnees" from Northern Sudan and Darfur.
These were the kind of Christians that Jesus would have felt instantly comfortable with. Aside from the church's open roof and dried grass walls, I walked on dirt floors and sat on "seats" of small logs. No cut stone, no stained glass, no elaborately robbed clerics to distract the worshipper from purely spiritual concerns. What there was were people, many of whom hadn't the strength to walk a mile. Yet they crowded into these humble walls to worship their God.
Many of these worshippers were "returnees" who had just returned to this, their home village, just a few days before. They had come from northern Sudan and Darfur.
Several days earlier, a plane from the United Nations World Food Program had visited the village. Sacks of vitally needed food were dropped off and filled the tents of the World Food Program. There were other villages that also needed food, and, as always, there was not enough food to go around. By Palm Sunday, the U.N. food had run out, and the returnees who now crowded the church got nothing.
I would hear their stories but needed no more proof than the gaunt, hollow looks of starvation and malnutrition that characterized each storyteller.
I met a woman who said she was hungry. My translator explained that she would have to live on leaves and water until the U.N. came back. She, like most of the returnees, would be sleeping outside. There weren't enough huts; nevertheless, it might be bearable as the rainy season hadn't yet begun. But remaining outdoors meant increased exposure to mosquitoes carrying malaria (a death sentence given the malnutrition) and an occasional scorpion. But it would have to do.
I have traveled to 60 countries, and up until two weeks ago I thought I had seen it all. The sights couldn't get much worse than Eritrea, the country with the world's lowest per capita GDP. Of course, I was prepared for Darfur.
I was wrong. I have never seen such poverty, such misery and suffering. There was malnutrition as well as no idea and less hope as to when or where the next meal was coming from. People in the prime of life had simply made the decision to die slowly, quietly. There wasn't surplus energy for anything else.
But there was also something else that came with the hunger and running sores – trauma that most Americans only read about in connection with the African slave trade of long ago. The people I met had been forcibly abducted as slaves (although in modernity's penchant for euphemism, they are officially referred to "abductees.") And slavery might have been the least of it. Many of these people were first forced to watch while the village's adult men, as well as some women, were brutally murdered before their eyes. These were fathers, sons and husbands.
After the murders, after being enslaved, came the long march which for many was a death march – always a few murders to keep the rest in line. I've reported on Florida farm workers living in substandard conditions, and I've seen the horrific slums of Kenya, but I've never seen anything like this. The other talk show hosts ranged from the hardest left to the farthest right. And all were moved beyond words at what they saw and heard. Food, not ideology, is what's needed here.
Somebody thought it would be a good idea to bring pens, and we did. How naïve! There is no paper, no school, not even medical care to fill out a doctor's report.
After Darfur I went to Dubai. It may be the world's richest city, beautiful and gleaming. Cranes are everywhere, the sign of work and progress. It struck me like New York City must've looked in the 1920s. I felt like it was another planet, and I could not make any sense of my experience just 24 hours before.
I vow now, in print and before the world, to do something about Darfur. After Hurricane Katrina, I made a similar promise and committed all my spare time to helping people rebuild. I helped raise more than $1 million for the town of Pass Christian, Miss. There's still plenty to do down there, but one thing I cannot do is let the wealth and comfort in which I live and my busy life spin so fast that I forget what I saw in Sudan.
I've been close to the refugee experience since I was a child. Some of my earliest memories were of my parents helping World War II refugees make a home in the United States. But America is not the open door that it was once was. The people I saw in Sudan must rebuild their lives there.
And we must help them. If we do not, we are not worthy of the proud name, "American."
tagged 
Darfur, Sudan, poverty, refugees in News/Commentary
Darfur, Sudan, poverty, refugees in News/Commentary 
Today at Talk Radio News Service
Also, this morning, the Bureau will cover a discussion on "Financial Costs of the War in Iraq."
This afternoon, they will cover the Democratic congressional candidates holding a telephone news briefing to announce a policy paper, "A Responsible Plan to End the War in Iraq," and covering a discussion with former House Speaker Newt Gingrich discussing Sen. Barack Obama's call for "change."