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!