“I’d prefer you not refer to these people that way,” she said
“Sorry, I get cranky when I’m dying of thirst,” he said. “It’s hard not to think about it around here. I’m learning not to worry about it. But, I’ve not really died of thirst yet, have I?”
“Not yet.”
“I understand that the Diocese of Rumbek is sending a new priest to replace Father Robineau next month. Are you upset? How long has he been here?”
“A long time.”
“Will the people be troubled by his leaving; I mean, will they see it as a bad sign?” Hanley turned and gathered the brushes, tools and rags he used to battle the dust as it tried to take over his airplane. Kamikaze Spores, he once called them when he and the nun were talking of the work it took to maintain the plane.
“No, they know we are here for only a set amount of time. We tell them so. They do not expect much of anything in their lives to last, I would guess,” the nun responded.
Hanley said, “I wonder if this is a sign the church will become more active in the process of protecting its people. Between you and me, I’ve always thought it was bullshit to claim to be a shepherd guarding the flock, only to stand by while the wolves carry off the sheep. The Catholic Church does a great job at helping themselves, but not the people, not here.”
The nun watched as the American folded the rags into squares, bundled the brushes and tools together and walked to the rear of the plane, climbing through the rear door, to store his cleaning tools. Sister Marie Claire took down the ladder and carried it to the old shack and put it inside.
Walking back, the nun found the American sitting in the doorway of the plane, staring off into the distance. when she turned to follow his gaze, she saw people moving across the land. They were walking toward the mission. There were perhaps eight or ten of them, a line that varied in height, both adults and children. There was now a steady flow of the refugees coming to the Lakes Province in Southern Darfur and Western Bar El Ghazal. The number was small compared to those who had been forced to migrate elsewhere to places like Chad or the Central African Republic. Driven from their farms by Nomadic Arab militias and the Sudanese government, refugees were appearing every day in the region, they were woman and children, as it was mostly the men of Darfur who were being killed. Those villages fortunate enough to receive prior warning sent their women and children out into the countryside to hide in the brush or behind rock formations, anywhere sparse country provided concealment. The men remained behind to face the militias who were often supported and protected by government troops. Outnumbered and barely armed, they became easy prey for the murderous raiding parties. The women caught were raped and sometimes murdered. Young girls were also raped. Sister Marie Claire said to Hanley, “A United Nations aid worker told me of a young woman who fought back and was killed and left dead and naked in the road as a message to other women not to resist when molested.”
“How old was she?” Hanley asked.
“Just a child.”
“This won’t stop soon, will it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Everyone I see here is young, very young. When people look at me, they appear to be dumbstruck. You once said it’s because they seldom see someone my age and because I look older than I really am. You also said whites look older anyway. You said I must look ‘biblically old’ to the Sudanese. You mangled the word biblically, by the way, but I kept my mouth shut.”
“What is mangled?”
“Twisted, badly pronounced.”
“Oh. Then, thank you.” She smiled and said, “You think you are humorous, but you are not. It’s not your fault. You are not French and, therefore, don’t really understand humor.”
The American wiped his eyes and forehead against his sleeve again and squinted into the distance. The line of refugees was gone. “Sister, do you think God has abandoned us here in Sudan?” he asked.
“I think he is busy elsewhere. It is a big universe, you know, and we are so small.”
“Many an anxiously rationalizing theologian would disagree with you. I was raised to believe my soul was the focus of God’s attention every second of every day. It appears he’s lost interest. Kind of like my ex-wife, I suppose, and not just in my soul either. I hope to hell there is something really catastrophically bad happening on the other side of the universe that keeps God so busy, he or she or it has forgotten about us.”
“She?”
Squinting in the sunlight, Hanley said, “When I was a kid, my grandmother said that I must believe there are more good people than bad in the world. She saw that particular bit of faith as necessary if we were all to carry on each day. Basically, I think she was right. She was one of those thin and fierce little Irish women that kept their families together through all manner of difficulties, who understood how fleeting the good times would be when they came. I know, and I don’t know how I know, but I know there are thousands of women just like her in Sudan; different cultures, different experiences, different circumstances, but the same. They have the same dedication and commitment to their children and their loved ones. I keep thinking that maybe God is here in the women. He certainly isn’t here in the men. That’s what has always struck me as bullshit about God being a man, you know, a father figure. God can be found in the women and children if here on earth at all. Or in dogs.”
A small wind
