Finding Hope in Darfur
by Dr. Jill John-Kall
Hope is defined as a feeling that events will turn out for the best. I sometimes wonder if hope will ever return to Darfur. I caught a glimpse of it last year from about February to May 2006. Of course, once the Darfur Peace Agreement was signed, it ironically seemed to signal the end of hope. Since then, the security situation in Darfur has worsened steadily and shows no signs of improving. The humanitarian space has become severely restricted and attacks on aid workers have increased. According to a joint statement released by the UN Country Team in Sudan in January 2007, in December alone, 430 humanitarian workers were relocated, 29 vehicles were hijacked and more relief workers were killed in the last six months than in the previous two years combined.
In mid-January, an NGO house was raided by police on a Friday afternoon. Twenty people were arrested, the police used excessive force and several of the people, especially the women, were severely beaten. The police allowed locals to come into the compound and join in the beatings.
During a recent trip to our field sites with a visiting colleague from Washington, D.C., the insecurity arrived at IMC’s doorstep. That Sunday, an IMC compound was hit by armed men who stole a vehicle and attempted to kidnap staff. Although no staff was hurt, all of us were quite shaken. We had left that site just hours before. What if we had decided to stay? Would things have been different if the armed men saw two women in the compound?
Since my return to Darfur in early January, the one question on the minds of every NGO and UN agency is “What is our threshold?” At what point do we say enough is enough and pull out? When do we say the risk to ourselves is greater than the benefits to our patients? One French NGO has already pulled out citing increased insecurity and that it could no longer risk the lives of its staff. But we all are thinking the same thing: if we pull out, we take with us the last shred of protection that the humanitarian presence gives the people we serve, exposing them to the brutalities that displaced them in the first place.
Still, the violence continues to escalate. If anything, the perpetrators are becoming bolder, now directly targeting NGOs, even in broad daylight. As access to beneficiaries is at its lowest point since 2004, the number of conflict-affected persons needing assistance has nearly doubled. Last year, many of us feared that the situation in Darfur would get worse. Tragically, we were right.
Despite the increasing insecurity, the IMC-Darfur team continues to work in the most neglected areas. Some have asked me why IMC hasn’t pulled out. After this most recent incident I was starting to wonder myself. On the helicopter flight back to our base, I looked out the window and saw five trucks loaded with men, some were thought to be armed. I viewed the remains of several burned villages as I recalled the stories told by our patients and staff about the atrocities they had endured at the hands of the “Janjaweed”. In the distance, I spotted smoke billowing from the side of a mountain. The smoke was rising rapidly and I could see no one. If there were people running away, where would they go? Were some family members already dead? Would they be considered a “female-headed household” or a “child-headed household” once they arrived somewhere safely? It was too difficult to think about.
I remembered speaking with one staff member who told me of his “simple” life in his village as a farmer. He didn’t want for much and was even able to catch fish from a small river near his house. It was an idyllic life until the Janjaweed came and he was forced to flee his village with his family. Months later, on the way back to his village, he witnessed more than 100 men being lined up and shot. That was March 4, 2005. It’s been almost two years since then and even now the camps see new arrivals every day.
Today, I visited Al Salaam camp. Placed strategically by the government in the middle of nowhere, it is a vast, barren land prone to flooding in the rains and insecurity throughout the year. There were new arrivals who were so scarred from their memories that they waited out the rainy season just to trek for miles to this camp. They had been waiting five days just to be registered. They had not received shelter, blankets, jerricans or food. They were defecating out in the open because there were no latrines available to them. Their only source of water was from the nearby IMC clinic.
I watched as the women cooked food out in the open for their families while our community health educators taught them how to keep the area clean and tried to find latrines for them. I watched men in despair because they could not support their families or keep them safe. I watched as the elderly sat and wondered whether they would see out their last days in this place, so far from home. I watched as older residents of the camp waited patiently in line for hours as the last of the food distribution took place. I watched as the new arrivals wondered when it would be their turn for food and shelter.
We drove to the northern part of the camp where we saw some new shelters, homes of those who arrived in December and did manage to get registered. The shelters weren’t more than three feet wide and three feet high but at least it was a roof over their heads. Parents were smiling and I even saw some children holding up their books and pencils given to them by UNICEF so that they could attend makeshift schools. I found myself hoping that the new arrivals would get help soon, that they too would have reason to smile. It was then that I realized why we aid workers stay on: we continue because the conflict continues, we continue because we cannot turn a blind eye to the escalating violence, we continue to give a voice to those who have none, we continue because even on the worst of days, we need to believe that it can get better, and we continue because of the slightest glimmer of hope in our patients eyes. We continue because there is no one else.
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Finding Hope in Darfur 
