When the tears came

EL GENIENA, Western Darfur, Sudan
I HAVE BEEN here for three months and haven't cried until today.

ADVERTISEMENT

Ironically, it wasn't a situation that one would think would inspire tears. It wasn't for the man on our nutrition team who lost his two brothers in an attack on the road going north; and it wasn't for the woman who was raped nine months ago and then driven out of her home, with her eight children, by her husband because her child was born with Arab features. It wasn't for the baby who couldn't open her eyes because her conjunctivitis had gotten so bad, and her mother did not possess the knowledge or the resources to treat her; and it wasn't for the fragile little grandmother who was caring for her two orphaned handicapped grandchildren -- carrying the 7-year-old on her back because he had never learned to walk.

I felt so sorry for all of these people, but I never cried. Ridiculously enough, I cried during a demonstration of how to make Corn Soya Blend into porridge.

The national staff members were well into a demonstration for a small group of mothers -- laughing and chatting as they waited for the porridge to thicken. I was a bit distracted. As the mothers and staff chatted away in Arabic, I was contentedly watching four little boys outside of our shelter. Knowing they were being watched, they were waving and shouting and jumping off things, as little boys do.

When the porridge was done we decided to invite the boys inside to eat. Amani, our health educator, called them inside, and, slightly unsure, they conceded.

Using a mug full of water and a sandy bar of soap, Amani washed their hands and faces, sat them down on a grass mat, and placed the plate of porridge in front of them. I sat in the corner, idioticly beaming and thinking, "This is what it is all about." And I watched them eat in silence.

They ate with their hands -- as they do here -- the 5-year-old scooping up a handful and putting it into the hand of his 2-year-old brother before taking another handful for himself. I watched as silently they scraped the plate clean and then allowed Amani to wash their hands and faces again. Then the 5-year-old stooped down to allow the 2-year-old to climb on his back, and silently the boys walked away.

It was such a lovely thing to witness, and I don't know at what point it all became so sad to me. I just started thinking about the children at home and comparing them to these four boys, and suddenly I had a lump in my throat.   Continued...