Gift of Revelation (4 page)

But the other bombshell she dropped on me was that she planned to go to Sudan, which, according to the UN, was facing the worst humanitarian crisis in the world at that moment. She explained that she wanted to do some good over there, that we needed more time to make a commitment to each other, and that she didn't want to lose any days as she waited for me to make up my mind whether I wanted her or not.

This was the first time I'd ever heard Addie mention Sudan or Darfur. I wondered how she first came to the conclusion that she needed to be in that accursed place. Everything was the Congo this, the Congo that. But she decided Sudan was the place to go. I went on the computer and researched Sudan, and what I read stunned me with fear. Sudan, the largest African country, had a bloody history of conflict and had been immersed in a violent civil war for over two decades. Since its independence from Britain in 1956, there had been bloodshed since 1983, with the northern Sudanese, largely Arab and Muslim tribes, clashing with the southern Sudanese, who were mostly Christian. I was shocked that this recent civil war had cost more than two million deaths, despite a supposed truce signed by Sudan and South Sudan a short time ago. Although I continued to research the crisis in Sudan, there was so much I did not know.

“Why would you want to go to Sudan when wholesale killing is going on there?” I asked Addie while we were walking two days after the meeting through Marcus Garvey Park in Harlem.

“Why?” She turned and made a face. “I want to go because there's suffering there. I think I can make a difference.”

I came to a halt and just stood there, looking at her incredulously. “There's suffering here. There's suffering here in Harlem. Why can't you make a difference here in the States?”

She put her hands on her hips, taking a defiant stance. “I saw your notes on the kitchen table. If you read all the Google entries about Sudan, then you read that the Sudanese have no money, no schools, no hospitals, nothing. Also, the war has driven more than four million people from their land. I've got to help out in some way.”

“What can you do?” I asked when we finally resumed our walk.

“Clint, I know this sounds crazy, but I must go there.” She grinned. “I can't ask you to come along,because you have your life to live here. Let me go. I might learn something.”

“Who has been filling your head with this tripe?” I asked.

“Mr. Gomes has been talking to me since the meeting about how it's so important to volunteer our services there since they have so little,” she replied, reaching the curb. “He said he will make all the arrangements for me to get there. He knew I would go. The need there is so great.”

However, that was not the end of it. The following week, Addie did her best to avoid me, until I caught her leaving her place one morning. I rushed up to her, grabbed her by the elbow. She gave me a nasty look.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” I asked.

“I've been busy,” she answered. “I've got so much to do.”

Having cornered her, I made the most of it. “This is not a cruise. This trip to Sudan is life and death, complete with bombings, kidnappings, hijackings, and shootings. Do you really know what you are going into?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, nodding. I noticed lines in her brown face that I hadn't noticed before. She was dressed in jogging clothes, so I guessed I'd interrupted her morning run.

“I talked to Gomes as well,” I mentioned.

“What did he say, Clint?”

“Gomes said Sudan is heating up, with all kinds of acts of terrorism,” I said while crossing the street. “He also said there are extremists who are kidnapping senior government officials, expatriates, foreign travelers, and demanding ransoms. There have been kidnappings of peacekeepers and volunteers in Darfur and in areas near Chad and the Central African Republic. Sudan is a most dangerous place.”

She put her hands up and trotted off down the street. Her mind was made up. She had decided to make the trip, and that was that. I stood there for a moment and simply watched her as she put distance between us, then turned and headed home.

Upon my return to my apartment, I settled in front of my computer and consulted a list of local laws and customs for Sudan, noting that the country's dominant authority was Muslim. A Web site geared to foreign travelers said that they should respect all local traditions, customs, laws, and, most of all, religions. In Sudan, the tenets of the holy month of Ramadan had to be respected, and since the chief law practiced was sharia law, that meant no alcohol, no carousing with a woman other than your wife—meaning no females could be invited into your hotel room—and no homosexual acts, ever. The law stipulated that a non-Muslim woman didn't have to wear a veil or cover her head, but she could never dress in a wanton manner. I took this to mean that short skirts, tight pants, and breasts spilling out of a seductive blouse were forbidden.

What did Addie think she would do in a restrictive situation like this? How was she going to help? Even if she followed every rule, every law, she could still get into trouble with the moral police, Sudan's National Intelligence and Security Service. They had plenty of plainclothes agents everywhere, waiting, watching for one false step.

The Web site provided a list of recommended vaccinations for foreign travelers and noted that the health-care facilities in Khartoum, Sudan's capital, were fair, but the hospitals were not prepared to handle serious medical problems. It advised anyone traveling to the country to get adequate travel health insurance and have enough money on hand to cover the costs of any medical treatment, evacuation, and a flight home.

I reached for my phone and dialed a former relief worker I knew, a friend of Dr. Smart. He provided me with a phone number for emergency medical assistance at Fedail Hospital in Khartoum: 083 741 426 (press #241 for English). He also advised me to avoid eating contaminated food and to drink water that was safe. And he warned me not to share bodily fluids, and cautioned me to reduce my exposure to germs and to know where to get effective medical care while traveling. Before hanging up, he said, “Travel safe and be aware of your surroundings.”

Yes, I was going. I was going to be with her. I loved her. I wanted to keep her safe. I wanted to watch over her.

I devoted the next few days to learning everything I needed to do before embarking on this journey. Some people who worked for the International Red Cross advised me to work out my travel arrangements, get my documents current, and make sure my visa was up to date in case I had to leave quickly. The people at the British Embassy could assist me in a time of crisis, but their response might be very limited. I wondered about the status of our embassy over there.

Sudan was not a pleasing tribute to the liberation movements of such leaders as Kwame Nkrumah and Jomo Kenyatta. It was not a prime example of Africa for Africans. And what was I, a Christian minister, going to do there? With a message of love and hope, some ministers, conscious of their global obligations, talked about the notion of church building in the poorest lands. Through Him, Jesus Christ, I'd learn to understand suffering, not like what I saw in Harlem or in the Deep South, but in the violence of Sudan by spreading the Gospel like water on the embers of misery.

Watching high-powered ministers on TV sell themselves from their mega-churches, I realized that we in the church were more concerned with ministering to the saved and the membership than with showing compassion or acceptance to the lost and the broken. We stepped over the poor and the needy. We didn't look on mercy as a blessed gift. We didn't realize that mercy required hard work. We didn't know the fruits of mercy were hard earned. I remembered the framed quotation from Mother Teresa on the wall of Dr. Smart's office: “We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked, and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for is the greatest poverty.”

Once I had an idea of what the trip entailed, I called Addie one evening and notified her that I was coming with her. She laughed and said she had figured I would do that.

“You can't let me out of your sight for one moment, huh?” she joked, and then she asked if I had begun preparing for the Sudan trip.

“There's so much to do.” My voice betrayed the fatigue that had come with trying to nail down all the requirements of this journey over the past few days. I was almost completely worn out.

She coughed harshly. “Don't bring one of those disposable cameras. The authorities don't like cameras or anyone taking pictures in Sudan. You can't take pictures near government buildings, military bases, bridges, or airports. They're very nervous about that kind of thing.”

“Think about the chaos of that place,” I said. “Maybe we need to reconsider this trip. If we break any of their rules , they can throw us out for visa irregularities or impose severe penalties, such as imprisonment. Or we could get shot.”

Her laugh echoed through the phone. “You're not going to punk out on me. I thought you were going to go with me so you could protect me from myself. You sound like a fraidy cat. After all we went through during our last adventure, during our Mason-Dixon journey, this should be as easy as cherry pie. Promise me that you'll come.”

“You have my word,” I replied, a chill going up my spine. I heard her laugh real nasty before I hung up the phone.

The flight to Khartoum took over fourteen hours because of bad weather, equipment failure, the loss of luggage, and civil disobedience. Addie loved all of it, while I went nuts over these glitches in our trip. Under the blazing African sun, the airport was bustling. People were walking everywhere, guarded by an unit of government soldiers carrying sidearms, Through the windows I saw vans loaded with tourists stopped at checkpoints that led to a slew of airlines, such as Emirates, Badr Airlines, EgyptAir, Kenya Airways, Etihad Airways, Saudia, Royal Jordanian Airlines, and Sudan Airways. I could feel eyes on me.

A greeting committee met us inside the airport, with lots of laughter and promises of good food and restful hours before we headed south. I talked to a representative of the Sudanese government, who assured us of safe passage anywhere and said he would provide us with security when we drove to our hotel.

A man, a regal-looking gent dressed in a sleek white Italian suit, tugged at my sleeve outside of the air terminal. He introduced himself as an editor of the Sudanese newspaper
Al-Tayar
, which was published in the nation's capital. He wondered if I could find time for him before I went on a tour of the refugee camps. I was very curious about what he had to say. Two men in civilian clothes and shades lurked nearby as we spoke.

“I might have trouble with this heat,” I said, wiping my forehead.

The editor laughed. “This is nothing. Wait until you go south.”

“Let's go to the hotel,” Addie said, smiling, when our car pulled up to the curb. “I feel so grimy and sweaty. The sun is just beating down on me so strongly.”

I pivoted to the editor, having forgotten his name that quickly, and told him that I'd meet with him after we got settled at the hotel. The staff put our things in the rear of a new white Land Rover, slammed the doors after we climbed in, and off we went to the modest three-story hotel that would serve as our temporary residence.

We checked in quickly, and then I walked Addie to her room.

“I'll talk to you as soon as I wash up,” Addie said, then disappeared into her room. That was the last I saw of her that day.

I found my room and placed my luggage on the table next to my bed. Then I sat down on a chair and put my head on top of my suitcase. Sweat had soaked my shirt and pants. Yes, there was a rickety fan, which was battling to keep a decent breeze blowing in the small room. I looked around and saw a tiny refrigerator, a telephone, a portable TV, and a short stack of local magazines. With great effort, I pulled myself up and went to the window, which looked out on a busy side street.

It was like a
National Geographic
photograph, rich with dark people in colorful clothing, who were going every which way, carrying fruit or crates. I had noticed on the way here that there were jeeps stationed all throughout the city, filled with heavily armed soldiers. Owen had warned me that undercover agents of the police also monitored the civilians, as well as the tourists.

The telephone rang. It was Addie.

“It's wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Just like I imagined it.”

I was less impressed. “I guess.”

She wasn't going to let me dampen her enthusiasm. “Well, I could be in a New York City schoolroom with a bunch of snotty kids. Delores, one of the teachers I know in the city, told me how the kids all think they are special. They don't think they have to study or act civilly in the classroom. You, as a teacher, have to play parent or cop. You can't yell at them. You can't discipline them. I didn't think I was ready for that.”

“Was that a part of your decision to come here?” I asked.

“Yes, a part of it.” Her voice quivered.

“Can't you work at a charter school? That would be better than a public school. I hear some of the public schools are pretty crummy.”

She sniffed. “Charters are no better than the public schools. That's what national studies show. And what edge they have has to do with the fact that they accept fewer special education students and foreign students who have to learn English as a second language.”

“If you feel this way, then maybe it was best that you didn't try to get hired as a public school teacher,” I replied. “Also, I guess it's a big adjustment, going from a small rural school to a big city public school. The requirements are totally different.”

I could hear her swallow in frustration. “No, I disagree. The goal of teaching is to prepare the kids for life, to give them the proper skills to hit the ground running. Delores says these kids in the public schools are so sure of themselves, so confident, but when they are compared to kids around the world, especially Asians, they come up short academically. They lag behind. They don't know everything you need to know to compete in this high-tech world.”

Pulling the chair over to where I stood by the window, I straddled it. “So what are you going to do after our Sudan adventure? Have you thought about that?”

“I don't know, Clint,” she said softly.

“Well, that's fair enough,” I answered. “Who knows what will happen here. I hope we don't have a repeat of our Dixie journey. My goal is to get through this in one piece.”

I heard her crumpling up newspaper or something, and then she spoke quietly. “We will. Well, I'm worn out. Serious jet lag. I'm going to get some sleep. What are you going to do?”

I wished I had a cigarette. “I'm supposed to meet a man about our trip to the refugee camps. He's going to give me the lowdown on this place, the dos and don'ts, so we don't take a wrong step.”

“Okay, Well, I'm too tired to talk anymore. I'll see you later, Clint,” Addie said.

As soon as we hung up, the telephone rang again. It was the front desk, asking me if they could put through a call from the editor Addie and I had met at the airport. The man was impatient and wanted to make sure that we would have our meeting. I wondered what was so important. The government had its people planted everywhere.

The call, when we finally got through, wasn't taken by the editor himself, but by one of his aides, who alerted me that a car would come for me in half an hour. The editor was assuming I would be ready. To tell the truth, I was totally bushed, so tired that I'd probably fall asleep in the meeting. I could barely keep my eyes open.

However, I managed to shower and shave. After drinking two cups of black coffee, I was ready for action, almost alert. I dressed in my white suit and a light yellow shirt, then donned my sandals. Maybe I shouldn't have done this, but my feet were aching from the long flight, so regular shoes were out of the question.

When I went down to the street ten minutes later, accompanied by one of the editor's staff, who, I noticed, wore a gun, I saw three plainclothes guys, possibly from the government's security forces. They made no effort to conceal the fact that they were watching me closely. In fact, once the staffer and I got in the car, they followed us directly to the newspaper offices and parked at the curb, near the front of the English-designed building.

I walked behind the staffer through the halls, trying to match his quick strides. He opened the reinforced door and stood inside to let me pass. The editor, dressed in a gray business suit, met me at the door and shook my hand vigorously. Then he led me into his office. Two of his aides followed us into the room. Introductions were made. He smoked cigarettes, English cigarettes, and tried to avoid blowing the fumes in my face.

“How do you like it so far?” he asked, the tobacco stains on his teeth showing as he spoke.

I laughed, then replied, “I'll tell you in a couple of weeks.”

Observing the niceties, he invited me to take a seat in a chair in front of his desk and then introduced himself again as Reik Hasseem, editor of one of the four newspapers in northern Sudan. I dropped into it and watched him. He sat down behind his desk and launched into a discussion of the current situation in Sudan. He told me that democracy would probably not take root in his country, because there are two major factors militating against it, one tribal and the other spiritual. Muslim against Christian. Then he addressed the role that the United States had played in Sudan.

“Like Clinton, Obama has no guts,” Hasseem remarked nastily in heavily accented English. “In two thousand ten Obama used the annual conference at the UN to bring attention to the crisis in my country. We thought he would bring peace. We thought he would do nothing like Clinton did with Rwanda. If he had pushed for a referendum to sever the country, to recognize the Islamist government in Khartoum and the largely Christian black population in the south, the current catastrophe could have been avoided.”

“I think the president was battling some enemies at home. The GOP in Congress was trying to prevent him from making any progress on his domestic agenda,” I answered. “He was also trying to fix the sick American economy. The previous president has wrecked it with two wars that the United States could not afford.”

“But Obama, as a black man, must have realized the importance of Africa,” the editor suggested. “After all, he's part African. This was a golden opportunity for him to do something great.”

“Obama had his hands full,” I said, watching his two aides, who were staring at me from their posts near the door. “He was putting his fingers into too many holes in the dyke. He ran out of fingers.”

Hasseem snorted. “At least Bush did something. His people got an agreement from both sides, ending the conflict between the government and the rebels. He also got assurances from us that we would allow the southerners to vote in five years on whether they would remain part of Sudan or would gain their independence.” I was starting to feel like a stupid American. “Do you know your Sudanese history, Reverend?”

I sat up in my seat, my expression betraying my surprise. “How did you know I was a pastor?”

The editor waved some press clippings at me and told me that they had done their homework. “I know everything about you, what happened to your family, what happened to you at your church in Harlem, what happened to you in Alabama. If I know all this about you, you can be assured the government's security forces know more.”

I was stunned. I smacked my hand against my sweaty forehead. “Oh, man, maybe that is why I was followed here.”

“As a Muslim, I support the government. Not in everything it does, but most of its actions,” he said, nodding his head at his aides. “You know about Darfur. Some terrible things have happened there, but still our president, Omar al-Bashir, must do what is necessary.”

“The West doesn't like it,” I countered. They especially didn't like it when the Islamic Sudanese government showed their might against Darfur's non-Arab people in 2003, launching a full-scale ethnic cleansing. The West called it genocide, which is what it was. Your president allowed it to happen.”

“He doesn't care about the West and what it says,” Hasseem answered. “Do you know why he doesn't, my American pastor friend?”

I shook my head. “I don't know.”

“ Our president still ignores the will of southern Sudan to govern itself. Also, there is oil there in the south. Some eighty percent of our country's oil reserves are there, so the war continues.”

“The UN doesn't like it, none of it,” I argued. “There is genocide occurring there, full-scale genocide.”

He leaned back, snapped his fingers, and one of the aides sprinted from the room. I noticed then that a portrait of a smiling president Omar al-Bashir had been strategically placed on the wall behind Hasseem, right over his head, and two leather-bound Korans sat on a shelf behind him.

“Obama is weak,” he said and smiled. “He tried to convince our president to end the conflict by saying that he would remove the ban on American investments in Sudanese oil exploration. That didn't work. Obama also offered to remove Sudan from the list of states sponsoring terrorism. We rejected him outright. We don't need American charity.”

I understood this cavalier attitude, because I'd read somewhere that China had been bankrolling Sudan's energy projects for some time. The Chinese really didn't care about human rights. Black Christians didn't matter when it came to potential profits. Also, several Arab moneymen had lined up to cash in. So Sudan was doing quite nicely without American investment.

“Also, America is worried about Yemen and Somalia, since they're very full of followers of Osama bin Laden,” he smirked. “Like Bush, Obama is nervous about national security matters . . . about terrorism and energy. Some of his advisers believe Africa is becoming an incubator for terror. What do you think?”

“I don't know,” I replied right before the aide returned with a tray containing two tall cups of chilled tea. “That's what I'm here to see. I want to see for myself before I draw any conclusions.”

“That's good,” he said, offering me a cup. “I'll help any way I can.”

“The Western media says there is possible genocide going on in South Sudan, which the government is permitting to go on,” I said boldly, watching his two aides nervously lean forward. “Do you know about that?”

“I hear things, but no decent Muslim would want to live next to a person who doesn't respect Allah,” Hasseem argued. “Before we had the British controlling us, forcing us to tolerate each other. That's not the case now. South Sudan got its freedom in two thousand eleven. The fighting broke out there between the supporters of their president and those of the former vice president. They say that thousands of people have been killed and that there have been massacres. I don't know about this.”