“Sudan is a nation of numerous tribes, both Arabic and African. The tribal differences are the root cause of much of the conflict found in Sudan. In many parts of the Mideast, the dynamics of tribal conflict have been misunderstood by westerners, I’m afraid,” the priest told Hanley.
“A friend of mine, Sister O’Brien, told me the American government discounts the role tribal conflict plays in all of this and blames religion and economics as the leading causes of the strife that has lasted hundreds of years,” Hanley said. He knew from his discussions with Sister O’Brien that tribal ethnicity and the related issue of control caused much of the conflict in this region of the world, from Sudan to Iraq. The Muslim-controlled government in Khartoum faced strong opposition from the rebels in southern Sudan. She told Hanley the South was a source for wealth for the arid and unproductive north. Minerals, food and now, possibly oil caused the Arab controlled government to want the native African population to disappear, in whatever manner necessary. Genocide was as good a method as any to the Sudanese government, she believed.
“Come, let me take you to the dining room. You must be hungry,” Father Robineau said.
“Yes, in fact I am. I could use some food and a drink if you have one.”
“Unfortunately, the doctors smuggle in alcohol and not always what we need to tend to patients,” the priest said.
A sudden wave of exhaustion overcame him, his knees bent slightly as he rocked back a bit, small waves of nausea pushed a small amount of acid up into his throat. His head ached. What a day this had been. He experienced some of what this part of the world could offer. He knew it might be much worse. Americans are so naive, he thought; unless they’re from the inner cities or maybe Native American reservations, most escape poverty and persecution.
“Let me show you where you will be taking most of your meals. I’m not sure what you are used to, but I doubt it is this,” Father Jean-Robert said. “After which, I am certain you will want to sleep.”
The priest led Hanley to a large circular hut, perhaps thirty feet across. It was at least fifty yards from the sleeping quarters. The noises of the African night were not dissimilar from those of rural Indiana, only more intense. Bug sounds, tree frog songs and a steady wind through the trees covered the southern Sudanese savanna with a layer of life more striking than Hanley had expected. A slight breeze cooled Hanley’s face as they crossed the compound. Suddenly, he was hit by an object just above his right ear, toward his temple. Whatever it was, it felt to be about the size and consistency of a wad of bubble gum. Hanley stopped and said, “Shit, what was that?” He looked about him, but could see nothing in the darkness. The priest turned and asked what was wrong. Hanley explained that he had been struck by something, something large and then asked the priest how large the bugs were in Mapuordit. “Very large,” Father Jean-Robert said and they continued on. Hanley could hear voices coming from the hut.
A dark wooden screen door set in a frame surrounded by small rough timbers allowed light and voices to reach Hanley as he approached the building. The light was a dull white, making the faces and hands below it glow while obscuring everything else in the room from view. As they entered, Hanley was surprised to see the hut had a wooden floor. In the center of the hut was a large, rectangular table. Several men and women were sitting, talking. They were eating, or had just finished. Two bottles sat near the center of the table; one was a bottle of what appeared to be red wine, the other a large bottle of water. As Hanley and Father Robineau entered, the talking stopped and everyone’s eyes turned toward the door. This feels like the first day at a new school, Hanley thought.
“My friends, let me introduce our newest staff member. This is Hanley Martin,” the priest said. Turning back to Hanley, he said, “There is really no need to introduce you. Everyone knows your name and where you are from. Father Bertrand provided us with some information about you. Yours is an interesting story.”
One of the men stood and walked around the table toward Hanley with his hand extended. He appeared to be in his late thirties, dark with black hair and the heaviest five o’clock shadow Hanley could remember having seen. You must shave three times a day, Hanley thought.
“I’m Stasio Dzyak. I am a doctor from Slovakia. Three of us are from there. We came together to do the surgeries for the people here in Sudan. The war has brought more of a need for our work, I am afraid. You have brought a plane, no? Very dangerous, no?”
The priest interrupted. “Why don’t we allow our new friend to sit and have something to eat and drink? He is very tired and hungry, are you not?”
Hanley took the initiative and walked around the table to introduce himself. There were three other doctors, two nurses and a social worker. Two of the doctors were those from Slovakia, the nurses from France and the social worker from Kenya. Another doctor was from Ireland. Hanley had been told there would be three nurses; the missing nurse was Sister Marie Claire.
Dr Thomas O’Connell’s resemblance to his brother Tim was remarkable. Looking at the young doctor from Ireland was like looking at the bartender in Galway. A planned overnight in
