Finding Hope in Goz Diga
"Amshi warra! Warra!" Move back! Back! "Yalla, kullu fi saf, o ma fi tasjil" Let's go, everyone in line, or there is no registration. "Dageega habuba, dageega. Al nass mah carrut al awal, badein, al nass maa aindu carrut. Inshalla, Inshalla." Wait grandmother, just wait. First, everyone with ration cards, then, God willing, we will serve those who don't have cards. God willing, God willing…
The people in Goz Diga were gathering firewood for money, living in homes built of twigs, eating leaves from the trees, and praying that someone would arrive before the rains start in July. Photo by CRS Staff
These are the words that I find myself repeating over and over in my broken Arabic on food distribution days. Well, not really repeating, so much as shouting. Of all of the contradictions that I have found here in West Darfur — the unending generosity of people who have absolutely nothing, the surreal beauty of an utterly desolate, war-torn landscape, the impossible complexity of what is generally portrayed as a fairly straightforward struggle between good and evil- perhaps none has struck me more than this: that in order to serve the people who are the sole reason that I am here, I must first spend enormous amounts of time shouting, arguing, and struggling with them. In order to do what we do, which is essentially preventing tremendous numbers of innocent people from dying horrible, meaningless deaths, my colleagues and I must constantly give up on the smiles, hugs, and handshakes, and be completely hard-nosed.
This is not easy. Nothing about what we do is easy. Food delivery trucks break down and then turn up in the wrong location. Ration cards are lost, stolen, or destroyed. The midday sun is like a recurring slap in the face. Attacks on convoys shut down operations in the whole of West Darfur for two weeks, leaving us six days to distribute food to 80,000 people. Frustrated community members accuse me of being in the employ of sinister forces. And on, and on.
But somehow, it works. National staff give up weekends and international staff delay home leaves. We work twelve hour days, stopping only to inhale 1.5 liter bottles of water. The local sheikhs organize a food distribution in an area that is off limits because of security threats. And the people do listen: they back up, they form lines, and the habubas wait, knowing that we are sincere, that we genuinely are here for no reason other than to help. Generally though, it is just hard, thankless, unending work.
CRS food distribution in Darfur. Photo by Lana Slezic for CRS
But every once in a while, something like Goz Diga happens. Goz Diga is a shorthand reference for two resettlements of Sudanese refugees from 17 villages who fled to Chad in August 2003. They began returning to Sudan in January 2004, and many ended up near the village of Goz Diga, about 20 kilometers north of what had previously been the northernmost limit of CRS operations in West Darfur. Even in a land of desperation and irrevocable loss, the plight of the people living in Goz Diga is something beyond.
When we first arrived there in early April, there was no food, no medicine, no school, no livestock, and no promise of external assistance. The people in Goz Diga were gathering firewood for money, living in homes built of twigs, eating leaves from the trees, and praying that someone would arrive before the rains start in July. The situation was intolerable, and rapidly deteriorating.
Within one month, CRS staff had registered the entire population — more than 4,000 individuals — to receive a monthly food ration from the World Food Program. The food was distributed days later, followed by other essential items. Before the rains, CRS provided 750 vulnerable households with the materials and technical assistance to construct sturdy, dignified shelters, and rolled out agriculture programs to provide the seeds necessary to transfer back into a normal life.
The change in Goz Diga was palpable. Desperation was replaced by hope, and smiles spread across faces on which I'd seen only blank stares. As we move forward, working with local leaders and their communities to address their most pressing needs, we will continue to assist people who had everything taken from them to rebuild their lives. Clearly, we haven't solved all of the community's troubles, or even come close to doing so. But the progress we've seen at Goz Diga is something of which I am immensely proud.
If you are reading this, you probably support CRS' work in some way, through your work, a check mailed to Baltimore, a letter to your Congressman urging him or her not to forget about the people of West Darfur, or the invaluable gift of your thoughts and prayers. Your support matters. It makes a difference. There are people in Goz Diga who would not be alive next year if CRS had not been able to reach out, and CRS would not have that ability without your support. Thank you. God willing, we will be able to continue serving people like those in Darfur. Inshalla, Inshalla…
