Gift of Revelation (11 page)

After two days on the front lines, I didn't know what to make of this Sudan madness, of what my eyes had seen, what my heart had witnessed, what my soul had experienced. This was beyond a struggle between good and evil. The sheer cruelty that this part of Africa was enduring went completely beyond a blood match between the believers of Allah and of Jesus Christ or the absurd cost of war.

Sweating like a pig in the tropics, I sat on my cot in one of the tents in the Doctors Without Borders camp, adjusted my mosquito net, and started contemplating what I would say in a letter to Owen, whose encouragement had brought us to this place. And before I lifted my pen, Elsa poked her head in the tent and yelled that she had a surprise for me tonight. I wondered what foolishness lay in store for me and how I could get out of anything that involved her. Addie was keeping a close eye on us. My assurances to her meant nothing.

Elsa was gone before I could say anything, so I went back to writing the letter. Hopefully, with no further interruptions, I could get this letter done, because I had no idea when I would get some downtime again.

For the first time in Sudan, I suffered a bout of belly sickness, possibly from something I ate. Or drank. I spent the rest of the day nursing cramps and nausea and the ever-present runs. The doc gave me something for the symptoms, and by the start of the evening, I was feeling better. I gave the letter to Owen to the truck drivers to post. I lay there, listening to the roar of truck after truck bringing loads of refugees to the camps.

“Clint, the show's on!” Elsa exclaimed, squatting over me. “Come on. You can't miss this. You said you want to see things for yourself. Well, this is it! Now you'll see what everything is all about.”

I sat up, my face a little green. “Can't you see that I'm sick?”

The journalist shook her head, taunting me. “Don't be a wimp. I'm tired of all your big talk. Go out on a limb for once and put your Christ to the test. He'll protect you. He's your lucky charm, right?”

If you wanted to provoke a Christian, all you had to do was have a nonbeliever ask you to put the Lord to the test. I knew what I had to do. I swung my legs over the edge of the cot, stretched my arms overhead, and asked Elsa to give me my pants. Compared to the refugees on the cots in the tents, I felt like a fraud, with only a slight fever, a sore throat, and a bellyache. These other folks were so much worse off; some were fighting for their lives due to malnutrition, dysentery, or gunshot wounds.

“I'll be back for you,” Elsa said cheerily. “The truck will park out front. I'm taking just you. Addie doesn't want to go.”

After she left, I put on my clothes, sprayed myself with bug spray, and placed two handkerchiefs in my pocket.

The sound of a horn interrupted any thoughts that I should be concerned or even alarmed about this next “adventure” with Elsa. I stepped out into the furnace, the oppressive heat of the African summer, immediately sweating beneath my shirt and pants. I hopped into the bed of the truck. In it were four armed men, two locals, and Elsa with her customary Nikon camera.

We drove off through the dark, our headlights providing the only illumination through the bush. I looked around at the blackness that had swallowed us up. Elsa was entertaining the men with flirtatious smiles, ribald talk, and humorous hand gestures. Two of the guys checked their weapons, making sure that they were properly loaded and would not jam when the moment happened.

Out of the darkness, a young girl ran toward the truck, her arms windmilling, her screams high-pitched. Elsa quieted instantly. The guns pointed at the panicked girl, who collapsed almost under the truck. One of the men in the truck jumped out and lifted her unconscious body. Her face was covered with deep cuts and bruises, her dress was torn, and blood was running down her thin black legs.

“Who would do this to her?” I asked aloud.

The others glanced at me and frowned. Everyone knew who had done this. After the man placed the girl gently in the truck and jumped in, we continued on for a short distance, until we could see the bright flashes of an inferno through the trees. We listened to the yells and screams coming from that direction, the pleas for help, the shrill sounds of loud whistles, and we smelled the acrid odor of wood burning. The truck pulled into a clearing, and we leaped from it to the hard ground. Elsa crouched down while the leader of this expedition told us not to bunch up, to keep low, and not to let them see us.

“We want to look, but we don't want to get involved,” he explained. “If they see us, they will kill us. No doubt about that.” He also warned us to watch out for land mines and booby traps. Sometimes the enemy set them around a camp to prevent villagers from escaping, thereby sealing them in and sending them to their doom.

While someone stayed with the injured girl, our group walked quietly through the trees, guided by the bright blaze and the gunfire. We moved from tree to tree, a few bullets whizzing by us in the air, cutting through the smoke.

“Keep down,” the leader cautioned when another explosion shook the earth. Probably a mortar round.

Now we were close enough to see and hear the madness clearly—the enemy shooting every living thing, urgent shouts again, running between the huts. Some of the enemy troops threw grenades into some of the huts, sending people yelling and fleeing in all directions. The siege had begun in earnest. My face dripped with sweat. I could not stop my hands from trembling.

Who were these men and boys? Who were these killers and rapists? I tried to recall what the doctor had said. He'd said that these were members of the Bahr-el Ghazal tribes, the Binga, Banda, Shatt, Feroghe, Gula, and Kara. These were the names of the Islamic warriors fighting to create an
umma,
an Islamic community of believers.

The dead and the seriously wounded were sprawled out in the dirt. I watched as a man tried to run with his wife. Suddenly he stopped running, his legs gave out, and a single shot went through his body. He grabbed his chest with its large wound, vomited blood, and dropped sideways. The enemy seized his wife and put her among the women gathered at the entrance to the village. They burned the remainder of the huts, gathered the men and women whom they had not killed, and forced them to undress. The enemy didn't think they were evil; they were following the will of Allah and the holy teachings of the Koran. Their goal was to wipe out all followers of Christ and his infidel religion. Laughing and joking, the soldiers took turns shooting the villagers and smoking cigarettes.

Elsa's face was a picture of bliss and happiness. This was what she wanted to see. She aimed her camera at the atrocity, stopping only when the leader waved at her to put it down. She had only one master, the allure of media celebrity and a huge headline.

A group of soldiers ordered a young woman to dance for them. She knew it would be her last time, the last occasion when she would move her body to an earthly beat. The soldiers clapped in an odd rhythm while she attempted to sway. While the woman hopped and bounced, her fat breasts jiggled, and the men touched her rudely. In a split second she snatched a machete from one man and swung it at him, severing his head, sending it dropping to the ground. She stood there for two seconds. The soldiers shot her dead after that, the bullets slamming into her nude flesh. Then they led several men to the rear of the scorched huts and lined them up. The men offered no resistance and accepted their fate.

I prayed for them. A few wrung their hands and looked skyward as divine help was on the way. They dropped face-first when they were shot. Then one soldier walked among them and fired a single shot into their heads to insure they would not get up. Some soldiers hacked at their bodies, splattering blood all over their clothes.

One village elder was splashed with kerosene and torched. The old man ran in a mad circle, the flames climbing his body in yellow and orange plumes of heat. He made no sound. He didn't scream. Nobody went to help him. The soldiers laughed and pointed at his fatal jig.

A group of villagers fought back on the far side, shooting at the marauders. The enemy went crazy, opening fire wildly, sending bullets not only into the areas of the resistance but near us as well. There was no hiding place. Shots crashed into trees, snapping branches, spraying leaves. Gunfire followed those who ran through the darkness. They ran as fast as they could, not waiting for their death. I knelt silently in the bush, watching with the others as the massacre played itself out.

Some of the enemy sat in a circle, smoking cigarettes, while others forced themselves on the young girls and women. One or two of them stood in shadow against the smoking embers of the huts, allowing the adrenaline to subside, that biochemical rush that comes after a kill.

In the darkness, the leader of the militia split up the brigade, using smaller groups to search the huts and track down the villagers who were hiding or trying to escape. Sometimes there was a barrage of gunshots, usually automatic weapon fire, and then silence, and then the gunfire started up again. Before the soldiers departed, they stood and fired their weapons into the night sky to celebrate their victory.

A few villagers were able to hide until the violence stopped. We came out of hiding when we saw the enemy walk through the village, carrying their loot and leading the captive girls and women to their camp. Stumbling over bodies and blood trails, we ran toward the smoldering huts, hoping to rescue survivors. My pulse never slowed. I'd never felt fear like this. I knew my head had been in the crosshairs of some enemy rifle, but now I could relax. Dying so far away from home was not for me.

“I can't believe this,” I muttered.

With a sudden surge of energy, Elsa began snapping pictures of the survivors and the massacre. She found a boy, who collapsed in her arms, looking at her with impassive eyes, his head full of weeping sores and third-degree burns. I walked away from her and discovered a body that appeared to have been eaten by some animal. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman.

I walked through the demolished village in the direction of the truck. I kept rubbing my eyes. My legs pained me to no end. None of this made sense. My clothes were stiff with splattered blood and dirt. I leaned over and puked in the weeds and wiped my mouth. I had trouble catching my breath.

As I staggered to the truck, I saw two boys carrying their dead grandmother. I guessed they thought she was still breathing, but she was dead. Her eyes possessed that fatal sheen. Both boys were soaked with blood. Two of the men helped them onto the truck, while Elsa snapped pictures of the boys with their beloved corpse.

During the long ride back to the camp, nobody said a word. I couldn't help but think that all this suffering and death were calculated, planned carefully. How could the survivors forget or forgive this? And how could they heal if they could not forgive?

Nelson Mandela was right indeed. He knew suffering firsthand.