Does silence indeed speak louder than words?

I suppose I am keeping to the policy that if you have nothing nice to say, it is best not to say anything at all.

But that isn’t fair, or is it?

Yes, things are tough. In the middle of the afternoon one can be startled by the deafening noise of Chadian-manned French fighter planes zooming over the town en route to hunt out army defectors who have crossed into Sudan. Or, after kissing up to one self-righteous, selfish WFP worker, get on-line to find an email detailing the banditry of “rebels” who broke into the hospital and the prefect of the other town where I am working, stealing vehicles. Then there is that one occasion where I am invited for a visit at another NGO, only to find that the driver has left with the key to the car. Fine, I walk, taking a guard and his friend with me only to find that when I arrived at my destination, there was a special alert out for the town and that nobody should be out. And there I am showing up, clear from the other side of town, with my flashlight and French 1664 beers in my backpack. What can I do?

I missed another Thanksgiving, my third African one in a row. Tilapia in Kigali, meatless chicken in Gulu, and Chad? Well, I thought I might make something given the lack of restaurants but instead resigned myself to a packet of Quaker Maple and Brown Sugar Instant Oatmeal. Funny how the childhood comforts never leave us. And the best part of the week? Two mysterious packs of Starbursts delivered from Abeche. They never tasted so good. I’m still saving the strawberries.

What else has happened? The water pump was broken for several days, hurting my dearly prized bathing ritual (those good smelling hair compliments don’t come easy!) and causing most residents to keep a safe distance from one another. Humanitarian workers had to ask the question, “is it bad to take water from the camps where the water is plenty?” The last time I flew to Abeche I realized that the planes have a direct view into my latrine/bathing cubicle, leading to extreme vigilance on my part. Yet on one unfortunate morning, the plane arrived early: )

Work continues, as does my head banging. I wish I could talk more about it, but…

As is increasingly the case, I find that I cannot write about what my life is really about. It’s frustrating, leaving me to wonder why I even bother with this blog. There is just something about the increasing responsibility and need to be careful these days. It’s a small world after all.

I must have something to say about Chad, the refugees from Darfur, something! What is wrong with me? I suppose what stands out most in my mind this week, was that during a meeting with women leaders in one of the camps, they wanted to know what we were doing to end the conflict in Darfur so they could go home. It jolted me awake, after hours of discussing the hardships facing women and girls in the camps (sexual and physical abuse by the local population when they go to get firewood, female genital mutilation, early/forced marriage, etc.). What can I say? Especially when I know that any and all Darfur peace talks are flailing and that violence is increasing in the region? That not only is the outlook dim in Darfur, but Chad isn’t looking so hot either? Can’t we all just start over again?

My cynicism is palpable, yet I am supposed to be the idealistic humanitarian, right?

Many questions this week.

Sometimes I spend time, just staring at the mud walls of my room, especially where the mud is dripping, and wonder if the whole mud house will collapse. What would it take? And how do those darn chickens find their way onto the tin roof – and why at such an ungodly hour?? While chicken has been the only form of meat that I would stomach, I find myself resigning even from that important source of protein. Is this because I see and hear them prancing around the compound, thus unable to bring myself to enjoy their untimely death? Chad…