We just had to leave

by Pumla Rulashe in Dore camp, Upper Nile state



Banat Umar is relieved that tonight, she and her family of six will, for the first time in weeks, have a place to call their own—a tent in Doro refugee settlement. Her youngest child is just 10 weeks old. Her family now has a regular supply of food and water, as well as access to health services.

Umar is one of 1,500 newly arrived Sudanese refugees who fled Dereng, a village situated between Kurmuk and Damazin in Blue Nile state nine weeks ago. Community leaders had decided that people should start to leave as the spreading conflict came closer their village. Umar and her husband decided to go.

“We couldn’t continue living that way,” Umar says. “There was hunger. I had just had a baby. How was I to feed my children?”

But her parents and siblings chose to remain behind; the elderly folks were too old to make the journey.

The villagers spent weeks hiding in Jebel Mugum, a mountainous zone in Blue Nile state, well out of the firing line between the warring sides. That time in the wilderness took its toll on the young and infirm. Soon enough they were down to the last of their staple, sorghum, with which they prepared Kisra, a wafer like bread on which they sprinkled salt to eat.

"I worried about my children," she recalls. "The bombardment came closer to where we were hiding. We could not go deeper into the mountains. We moved through grassland and forest until we reached Elfoj."

Umar rocks baby Zainab thoughtfully. The journey was fraught with uncertainty. By the time they crossed the border at Elfoj, they were exhausted, hungry and dehydrated.

In Doro camp, concerns about food and safety are a thing of the past. But Umar is not at ease. She is deeply worried about the parents and siblings who remained behind. She does not know if she will ever see them again. She has no means to communicate with them.

* * *

Som Komdan, 80, thought he would die during the escape from

Blue Nile state. [Photo: UNHCR/P.Rulashe, May 2012]

Som Komdan’s story offers a different perspective. He grins toothlessly as he recounts the events that led him to escape his homestead.

The rheumy eyed old man recalls watching his 25 year old son flee into the sorghum fields, as bullets whizzed through the air. That time the soldiers drove off the family’s herd of 10 goats, leaving them traumatised, humiliated and destitute.

“Soldiers surrounded our village a number of times. They looted our food, burnt our tukuls (huts) and destroyed our way of life, leaving us with nothing.”

"I could not take it anymore," says Komdan’s son, Denka. ‘I told my father we had to leave. We would go the same way Sudanese from other villages had gone before us."

Father, son, their spouses and children began a journey from Mugum to Sama on foot. The seven day trek was too much for the eighty year old. His ankles swelled. He got diarrhoea from drinking water that they skimmed off murky pools and drying streams.

“When we reached Sama, I felt the time had come to meet my Maker.” Komdon swallows, fighting tears as he recalls the ordeal.

As he composes himself, Denka interjects, ‘I refused to let him give up. We would stop for as long as it took for him to recover, and then we would continue, slowly.’

Komdom is calm now. ‘I am grateful that my son forced me to come this far. Here we have a place to sleep peacefully.” The family’s worldly goods lie scattered around stuffed in sorghum bags.

* * *

These are stories of thousands of families who had no choice but to leave their homes because of conflict and hunger. It was a matter of life and death.

Women still recuperating from childbirth endure the exodus. Others give birth on the way. Elderly persons are egged on by anxious relatives, who risk their own lives by slowing down. Will we ever know how many perish along the way.

These are the stories of thousands of Sudanese citizens who are starting a new life as refugees in South Sudan, not knowing whether they will ever see their homes and loved ones again.

They just had to leave.

Strength of a woman: the story of Chirke

By Pumla Rulashe in Doro refugee settlement, Upper Nile state

I met Chirke Kwodja in Doro refugee settlement, in the tent (see photo) that she shares with her mother and eight young children. By modern standards her slender frame would make her the envy of many women.

But there is little in Chirke’s circumstances to envy, apart perhaps from the sheer resilience with which she and her mother deal with the challenges life throws at them.

Ruefully Chirke recalled the incident in November last year that changed her life forever.

Then pregnant with her youngest child, Chirke was at the market in her home village of Bilatuma in Blue Nile state contemplating the meal she would prepare for her family. Early that morning, an airplane had circled over the village. People hardly paid attention. Bilatuma was removed from the fighting that was raging in other parts of Blue Nile state.

Suddenly, bombs rained on the market. Nine people were killed instantly. The force of the explosion shattered Chirke’s left leg below the knee. Broken bone and tattered flesh was all she could see. The scene degenerated into a frenzied panic. Chirke lost consciousness.

Later she learned that her aging mother had hurried through the confusion at the souk to search for her, fearing the worst. Chirke was rescued. In due course she was brought to Bunj Hospital in Upper Nile state. She has no recollection of the journey that took her across the border into South Sudan. Later she was referred to Malakal Hospital in the capital of Upper Nile state. Her badly damaged limb had to be amputated below the knee. Miraculously, her unborn baby remained unharmed.

               

Chirke recovered slowly and painfully. In Doro refugee settlement her elderly mother assumed guardianship of the children. The grandmother became the family’s principal care giver and surrogate mother as Chirke struggled to deal with her new disability. 

One night Chirke went into labour, in the tent they now call home. Her mother aided her as women in the community do, while the children slept. Chirke had a difficult labour, compounded by the effects of the amputation from which she has still not recovered. She must have passed out. She remembers nothing of the delivery. She believes she survived her baby's birth by God’s grace and by her mother’s determination that both daughter and granddaughter must survive.

And survive they did. Three month old Sunday, is a healthy bouncy baby.

Chirke struggles to cope with her disability. Getting up to do the smallest task requires the assistance of another person. Her aging mother is devoted to helping, but she tires easily. Meanwhile, the energetic brood of seven is pretty much left to parent one another, with the older children assuming responsibility for the younger ones.

As fate would have it Chirke's husband had fled Blue Nile state a few months before the Bilatuma incident. Although he now knows, he was mercifully unaware of his wife's ordeal and his family's upheaval when it happened. A spate of aerial bombings in Kurmuk, where he worked, had forced him to escape eastwards into Ethiopia. He is registered by UNHCR in Tongo refugee camp in Benishangul Gumuz province.

This story is about Chirke's experience. Yet, every line conveys the impressive determination of the woman who is her mother -- a paragon of strength. One imagines the frantic search for her daughter in Bilatuma market. Where were her grandchildren were at that moment? How did she gather them together? And the journey across the border into South Sudan? What did they eat? How fast could they have moved with such young children? I imagine the anxiety over her pregnant daughter, and the very real prospect that her grandchildren could be orphaned.

I have nothing but admiration for the unshakable resilience that is the story of these two women. Thrust by destiny into the unfamiliar world of refugees they continue take each challenge in their stride.

Extracts from Gordana's diaries

By Gordana Popovic in Maban, Upper Nile state

Because of very hot weather, too much dust and the fact that our office is in the tukul (open space with a thatch roof) it is hard to stay focussed... Heat, flies, sweat and noise of numerous communications.

Add the outdoor noise of chickens, dogs, donkeys and children from the nearby village. Colleagues from NGOs that don't have internet access come to our office to send reports and make phone calls.

It feels as if we are sitting in the middle of a very busy market.

* * *

I stare up at the thatched roof.

A few days ago I participated in a meeting in this tukul. A guy came in. Paying no attention to us, he lay down on a wooden traditional bed with knitted rope as a base, and had a nap. Right in the middle of our meeting!  I could not believe my eyes...

I am in the same tukul waiting for a ride back to the office. I'm uncomfortable in my chair. Time is passing slowly. It's extremely hot.

My colleague lays on the traditional bed. I watch her as my discomfort grows. I hesitate. Then I decide to give it a try.

Slowly I lay down on the bed, as if I'm doing something terribly wrong. Wow, what a pleasure! It feels so good... so right!

My colleague gets up and leaves. I am alone reclining in the middle of the meeting room! People walk past. They look at me.

At first I'm a bit uncomfortable. Then I'm less uncomfortable. In the end, I'm not uncomfortable at all. It doesn't matter.

I stare up at the roof... such a beautiful sight.

* * *

I am impressed by women in Maban. They are always dressed up, their hair groomed. The cloth they wear is beautiful, colourful, light... flowing in the wind. The colours are unbelievable. I haven't yet seen one in dull colours. No browns, no greys, no backs...

The beauty in this photo lives in a thatched house with mud floors. She has many children. There is no running water. Like all women here, she spends several hours a day fetching water, collecting firewood, cooking and attending to her kids. And always, she looks fabulous!

A hair raising experience

By a staff member in Bentiu

After a two hour and ten minute flight from Juba, I find myself in Rubkona near Bentiu, capital of Unity state. Things look good, until I start to hear scary stories about aerial bombardment.

"Every time you hear the sound of a plane flying over," they say, "everyone goes out to check whether it is a fighter jet or an Antonov."

Thank God, my first days are ok, although I worry constantly about what might happen. 

* * *

23 April. This day is not good at all. I have just entered the office. I am connecting my laptop to the power supply, when suddenly we hear the sound of fighter jets.

We all run out of the office. Immediately the sound of heavy bombardment. Smoke rises above Rubkona and other parts in Bentiu. The fighter jets are flying over us. I take cover underneath the parked water tanker near the office. Suddenly, we hear gunshots.  



The drama lasts about 15 minutes. I almost die of a heart attack. This is the first such experience in my life. I used to see such things on video, and movies.

I thank God that we survived. We are ok.

Fire rages at the market in Bentiu following the bombing raid on 23 April. [Photo: Michael Onyiego/AFP]

South Sudan border town Bentiu bombed

Local people ran for their lives during the air raid

Continue reading the main story

Several bombs have been dropped on the South Sudanese border town of Bentiu, amid fears of all-out war with Sudan. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-17811174

The nightmare of falling into the abyss

By Hezekiah Abuya in Renk, Upper Nile state



Teta rarely leaves her mother's side in Renk, perhaps
hoping to stave off the unexpected, the nightmare of falling
into the abyss.

Teta's story warms my heart as I contemplate the crowds of people in Renk, South Sudan's northern-most river port along the Nile.

Teta is one of the masses, the thousands of people from all corners of South Sudan, who linger among their worldly belongings in Renk, waiting patiently for the day when they will travel home.

For most South Sudanese, it is an epic journey. It is the realization of a dream, a return to the homeland, an adventure into the unknown. The majority do not have the means to pay for the journey from Khartoum and other parts of Sudan. For them it is an odyssey and often, simply, a waiting game. Weeks and sometimes months are spent at one departure point and then another, waiting to board a bus, train or barge that will bring them closer to home. In that eternity, the unexpected becomes the norm.

Teta, her mother and her four year old sister left Khartoum in March. They traveled on the much publicized convoy, organized by the Government of South Sudan just before fighting broke out in Heglig. Five buses crowded with passengers and several trucks carrying their belongings snaked their way along the south westerly route. Teta was looking forward to joining her elder sister who lives with their grandmother in their home village in Warrap state. The girls' father works in Juba.

Unexpectedly war flared in Heglig as they traversed the oil-rich area in Southern Kordofan. The convoy was attacked. People scattered into the bush. Mother and child were separated.

The prospect of an all-out war loomed large. For a while, the whereabouts of the passengers of the ill-fated convoy remained unknown, even as tensions between South Sudan and Sudan escalated.

Weary and badly shaken, passengers started to appear in Kadugli, capital of Southern Kordofan. The Government of South Sudan organized buses to transport them as they emerged from the bush, taking them to safety through El Obeid (Northern Kordofan),  Kosti (White Nile) and across the border to Renk. That is how we met Teta's distraught mother.

In Renk, protection monitors comb the bus terminus and the shanty settlements that have become temporary homes for the thousands who wait to continue the journey home. These volunteers are trained to identify and report cases. They are equipped with mobile telephones to transmit information rapidly, so that action can be taken to respond to incidents.

The protection monitors came across Teta’s mother at Zero Point, the bus terminus in Renk. She was in despair. Fellow travelers tried to comfort her, pleading with her to have faith in God, that all would be well. She wept inconsolably, resigned to the fear that her beloved daughter was dead.

Teta's mother recounted the ordeal that led to their separation. During the ambush she had scrambled out of the bus carrying her four year old daughter, Teta’s sister. People scattered into the bush. With others, she spent two days walking and begging for food in different villages. Along the way a kindly Sudanese soldier asked a passing truck driver to give the disoriented weary party a lift to Kadugli Road Junction. The buses organized by the Government of South Sudan brought them to Renk.

Teta was recorded as a missing child. Information about her disappearance was disseminated through the protection monitoring network which, in addition to the community-based volunteers, includes UNHCR and NGO staff. A few days later, we received information that a child meeting that description was in Gargal, 27 km from Renk. Immediately we dispatched a team to verify her identity.

And so Teta, a shy ten year old, was reunited with her mother and her little sister. Their joy was moving. Teta was counseled by child specialist social workers. Life has pretty much gone back to normal… well, normal in the sense of waiting. The village in Warrap state, the grandmother, the older sister are still a long way off.

Teta rarely leaves her mother's side. The family is living in Payuer, one of the shanty settlements that have mushroomed in Renk, distinct for the piles of baggage, the mishmash of precious household items that are essential assets to start a new life. Teta's mother sells tea at Payuer. She needs the income to support her children. Initiative and resourcefulness are vital for returnees’ survival during the odyssey.

The number of people waiting in Renk exceeds available transport in colossal proportions. Soon the rains will start. The waiting continues.

A grandmother's torment

Story: Bona Bak
Photos: Pablo Vizcaino

"The attackers came from Unity state through the swamps. Some were dressed in civilian clothes; others wore camouflage clothing. They had AK47 rifles and machine guns."

Achol Akot Bak was describing the ordeal that forced her to flee her home in Turalei, Warrap state. The 50 year old widow comes from a tribe of cattle herders.

"As they raided our cattle, I fled with my grandchildren to this boma," she said, speaking in the local dialect. A boma is the lowest administrative entity in South Sudan.

"My eldest son and three grandchildren disappeared during the raid." She was quiet for a moment. "We don't know if they are alive."


The date was 4 April 2012. I was part of a UNHCR team assessing the humanitarian impact of the cattle raid in Turalei together with local authorities, UNICEF and UNOCHA. We had learned about the displaced persons through the local authorities and community-based Protection Networks.

According to the community, 20 to 30 raiders had attacked a cattle camp, killed two people and injured four. The attackers made off with 3,000 heads of cattle. South Sudan Police and Community Police gave the chase and recovered the livestock.


We had driven for three hours from Kwajok, capital of Warrap state, to Magak boma where Achol and others had found refuge, covering nearly 170 kilometres over rocky terrain in scorching heat.


We found Achol and other displaced persons living in makeshift structures made from palm leaves. There were women and children feeding on tamarind and other wild fruits. Some of them had received small amounts of food from the local population.

Adult males were out grazing the cattle and fishing. They would return at night. In the dry season, herders routinely travel long distances in search of tok (pastureland).


Together with the local authorities and UN colleagues, we assessed the humanitarian needs of the affected population.

They did not want to remain in these conditions. Already several days had gone by. Achol said to me, "We are waiting for the police to confirm that we can go back home to our tukuls (huts). We want security in our village so that we can return home.

Inter-agency Clusters (coordination forums) dealing with food, non-food items, water and health would race against time to deliver humanitarian aid to affected communities before the start of the rains in May. During the five-month rainy season, access to remote areas like Turalei will be cut off as roads become impassable.

As the agency that leads the Protection Cluster, UNHCR would embarked on efforts to locate Achol's missing son and grandchildren. Family tracing and reunification involves local authorities (including security forces) as well as specialized UN and NGO protection actors. We hoped Achol's kin had not perished in the raid. 

As we departed the makeshift settlement in Magak boma, Achol's grandson ran after me.

"I am ready to go back to my village," he said. "There, I can fish and provide food for the family. I just need to know that we will be safe."