Halima—Dignity and Desperation

We had the necessary equipment and drugs for our planned clinics, but we needed local staff to run the clinics on a day-to-day basis. The MoH and the local government labor office arranged interviews with potential staff. On a hot, cloudless day, we met the candidates proposed by the MoH.

One of these was a tiny, bone-thin woman applying for a nursing position. Considering that most Sudanese women were tall and stately, this woman stood out due to her diminutive size. Dressed in the traditional full veil, she was lost in the plentiful folds of fabric. Her skin was a rich cocoa brown, her eyes the deep sparkling black of a freshly polished onyx. Her delicate features, her thin brows, the slant of her nose, gave her an almost regal appearance. She stepped forward slowly, a hesitation in the shuffle of her feet, her eyes firmly on the ground in front of her. Through the interpreter, and after introductions, I motioned her to sit across from me. She stumbled, her foot catching on the folds of her dress. She caught herself and slid onto the seat, busying herself with smoothing the fabric of her dress. Her anxiety was palpable.

“Shwaya,” ‘Easy,’ I said gently.

Halima had come a long way for this interview. She was from Kabkabiya, the village beyond Tawila, about seven or eight hours away if the roads were good on a given day. Kabkabyia usually had a relatively small population of about sixteen thousand but was then home to a population of sixty-two thousand IDPs who had fled attacks on their own nearby villages. The newcomers were straining the meager resources of that already isolated town. Food and medical supplies were dwindling, and there were no job prospects. Starvation was near at hand until the WFP, Action Contre La Faim (Action Against Hunger, or ACF), and other NGOs stepped in to actively assess the situation and begin food and health programs.

Although Kabkabiya was home to a Sudanese government military garrison and should have been safe, the Janjaweed, acting on behalf of the government, had identified, attacked and killed rebel sympathizers there. They also continued to strike nearby villages, likely with the help of those soldiers stationed in Kabkabiya. The IDPs there had hoped to find protection from the Janjaweed in the soldiers’ very presence, but it was those same soldiers who often directed the when, where, and how of the Janjaweed attacks. The Janjaweed attacked two IDP camps in Kabkabiya in December 2003 right under the nose of the Sudanese military.¹ Those IDP camps had been abandoned; the fearful inhabitants had sought refuge with family and friends in the area. The Janjaweed continued to be positioned right outside the town, ready to attack anywhere at the government’s direction.

Halima knew, as most in North Darfur did, that the government was still confining NGOs to the provincial capitals. In North Darfur, we were all based in Al Fasher, and those looking for help, food, medical care, protection, or just a job came to Al Fasher for help.

“Are you a nurse?” I asked her.

She smiled tentatively and started to speak. “Well, I studied to be one but only finished one year of school.”

She paused, drew a deep, steadying breath and continued. “I married,” she said softly, “and so I had work to do at home and then quickly I had babies. I could not finish school with babies at home. My husband, Ismael, took care of us. He worked repairing motors and he earned enough to support all of us; even my mother lived with us.” She smiled at the memories.

She was describing what was surely a cozy life in this bleak region. No fields to plow or cultivate, a steady source of income, no “hungry season” in her house.

“My Ismael supported the SLA against the Janjaweed and government, and once the government had his name, he was a marked man. I begged him to stop, to leave Kabkabiya so that he would be safe.”

Halima hesitated, taking time to catch her breath and compose herself. In a rush of words, she continued her story. “Ismael refused to leave, and one day, not so long ago, the Janjaweed caught him. I was told that he tried to run, but the Janjaweed shot him in the back and he fell, bleeding and dying, and still the Janjaweed tormented him in his last moments.” A sob caught in her throat. “Their horses surrounded him and they kicked and stabbed him until he finally died.”

Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, and she dabbed at them with the end of her veil. “We have all moved here, to be safe,” she said softly. “We are staying with my cousin’s family, but their house is small and the food is not enough. If I can get a job, I can support my own children and my mother.”

She looked at me with pleading in her eyes. “I am not a nurse,” she said, “but I can learn. I will do anything.” She leaned toward me and grasped my hands in hers. “Please,” she whispered, “help me.”

My heart broke for her. I looked at my list of jobs and saw “registrar” among them. “You can read and write?” I asked.

Halima smiled broadly. “Of course,” she replied.

“I will see what we can do,” I said, hoping that Adam would agree to hire her.

Her eyes filled with tears and she hugged me. “Shukran,” she murmured.

Her thanks humbled me; I had done nothing aside from giving her hope, yet to her it was everything.

But we had to place her hiring on hold; the clinic was delayed again.