The Women of Darfur

Dawn always seemed to break swiftly over Darfur. There was no easing into the day, no lingering over tea, no time for morning reflection. The women were up and working long before dawn. Their silhouettes, an endless line of single-file figures, could be seen on the horizon as they strode out at dawn to gather the day’s firewood.

Although the women of Darfur had been the traditional firewood gatherers and water collectors, here in the camps, away from the safety of their own villages, those acts were filled with great danger. The gathering of firewood required the women to leave the relative safety of the camp and venture further beyond to find fuel. The greenery that I’d seen when I’d first arrived grew scarcer each day, and as the women wandered farther out, they were targeted, for it was then, when they were alone or in small groups, that the Janjaweed and others came out of hiding to rape and torment these women.

Rape, a traditional weapon of war, had been used in Darfur to further frighten and dominate this already fearful and vulnerable people. There was little they could do to protect themselves, which was why they cried for protection as their first need. The refugees sent out the elderly and “ugly” to collect wood, thinking that they would not be raped. But rape has nothing to do with attraction, it has everything to do with creating an atmosphere of fear, a strategy at which the Janjaweed excelled.

Each morning, as I arrived at the clinic, I caught sight of the women as they filed out of the camp in search of fuel. I feared for their safety and wished we could hire escorts. To be honest, I’m not sure why we didn’t. It seemed such a simple solution, though things, I suppose, are never as simple as they seem at the time. Early one morning, as we drove along the long, windy road to the camp, I saw a lone elderly woman struggling to cut limbs from near-naked trees. I cringed, knowing the risk her solitary figure represented. I asked if we could stop. The driver shook his head. He had other staff to ferry.

For the women, there was more than firewood to be gathered. They collected the day’s water from tap stands located throughout the camp. The taps were sturdy, stand-alone mechanisms that required great effort and great strength before the first drops of water could be coaxed out. Once the collection cans were filled, they were hoisted onto thin, bony shoulders or stooped heads and carried back to little huts, where there was still more to do. Food had to be prepared for hungry little mouths. There were children and clothes to be washed. There was always something waiting to be done.

It was the women of Darfur who, through relentless suffering, struggled to create a life for their families here in camp. These extraordinary women had been terrorized during this cruel war. They had been forced to watch as their children and husbands had been murdered, as their homes had burned to the ground, as friends and family had simply disappeared.

Their lives had been decimated. Everything familiar was gone. They lived in crowded camps where everything—where they lived, how they lived, what they ate—was all decided for them. Yet for all the horrors they’d witnessed, they still managed a smile, a wave, sometimes a hearty handshake when they met newcomers or greeted old friends. There were tens of thousands of women in that camp. They struggled each day to gather firewood, collect water, cook their rations, wash their clothes, and give hope to their children. For most, there were no extras in their tiny huts.

But some, like Seetna, saw opportunity where others saw only misery. I met her when she came to our clinic looking for work. Though dressed in the fresh, bright colors of her village, her mouth was drawn, her eyes firmly on the ground, her step slow and measured. Through an interpreter, she timidly asked about work and explained that her husband had been killed during an attack on her village. Her eyes filled up as she described a sadly familiar story of how he’d run until a bullet had torn through his back, killing him instantly. She’d had no time to mourn, and though her home and her very life had been reduced to ashes that morning, she’d had three small children to save. She’d quickly gathered them up and fled to this refugee camp, where she was provided with shelter, food, and water.

And nothing else.

Her family’s food rations consisted of sorghum, beans, oil, sugar, and tea. There were no eggs, no plump chickens, and no meat—nothing special to feed a young family. Every day had been, as it was for everyone here, a dreary recitation of the day before. Only a job would allow her the chance to get some small extras for her family. She was one of hundreds who would appear at our clinic hoping that a job awaited them, but Seetna was among the very first. After we spoke, I asked her to come back in a week or so, when I would have a better idea of the clinic’s needs.

I watched her leave that day, her back a little straighter, her step a little brisker, and it occurred to me that for the first time in many months, she likely felt as though she had something to look forward to, something to wish for. She returned exactly one week later. She must have counted the days and minutes until she could return.

She was shown into our rustic clinic, where we greeted each other warmly. “I need someone to clean the clinic,” I asked through an interpreter. “Can you do that?”

The silver flecks in Seetna’s deep black eyes sparkled; she took my hand in both of hers and smiled. She never asked about her salary or her responsibilities. She started that day and continued long after I had gone. With a broom, she swept, with rags she dusted, with joy she carried out her duties. She became one of our best employees. Even the earth floor of our clinic was spotless. She was lucky to have found us, and we her, but luck is elusive for most people in Darfur.

We had many other impressive female staff, as well as patients. Though Darfur was easily the world’s most tormented region, there were moments of pure magic there, and it was often the women who quite literally delivered them.

I remember one dreary morning when a young woman, visibly pregnant, came to our clinic in the throes of labor. She was young, perhaps just twenty years old, and, aside from her pregnant belly, she was all bones and hard angles. She’d already given birth to four babies, of whom only two had survived. She came to our clinic to deliver this newest baby in the hopes that we might help this one to survive.

We ushered her into our midwife’s room, where she curled onto her side and quickly fell fast asleep. I smiled each time I passed her there, for sleep was surely blissful to a young refugee mother. Perhaps she was dreaming of her village, her lost babies, her life before the madness set in. We expected fairly swift progression to birth, since these babies are so often so tiny. But the hours passed, the young mother only occasionally stirred, and still no baby. Then, finally, late in the afternoon, the young mother called to us and the lusty wail of a baby filled the air. She had delivered, with our midwife’s help, a healthy girl.

With hardly a moment to spare, we were called to the latrine just outside the clinic, where another young woman had given birth to a plump boy. Both babies appeared to be healthy, and both shrieked in protest at their new surroundings. The staff and patients in the clinic all smiled at the news and the sound of healthy newborn cries. There is no joy quite like that of the promise of a healthy newborn, especially in a place like Darfur.

Our senior midwife, a warm and smiling woman named Zina, her gray hair peeking from under her veil, supervised the care of these women and their babies, a role for which she was well suited. “Come,” she said one day, throwing her arm over my shoulder, “I will show you my room.” Her room was the small space cordoned off with canvas sheeting, which allowed women to labor and give birth in privacy. With little more than forceps to help, she’d been delivering babies long before there was trouble here, and she still expected that one day, the fighting would end, the residents of Kalma would go home, and all would be well again.

“You will see,” she said. “The government will tire of this. It will end soon.” Perhaps she’d forgotten the civil war in the south that had raged for years, and she had no way of knowing that years later, the unrest and misery would linger there. For Zina, it was the new mothers and babies that mattered, and I followed her one busy day as she made her rounds.

One young woman, about twenty-five years old and six months pregnant, presented to our clinic bleeding profusely. She was clearly losing this baby. She had already lost three other pregnancies and had yet to bring a baby to term. Beads of sweat dotted her brow as Zina scurried about and helped the woman deliver a tiny stillborn baby. She draped a sheet about the lifeless infant, then quietly wrapped the young woman in a compassionate embrace. The young woman finally gave way to her sadness and cried softly in Zina’s arms. I stepped back, not wanting to break the chain of love in that tiny room.

Amidst the dirt and dust and darkness of Darfur, Zina brought a kind of magic and endless optimism to her work, to those people. The lives she welcomed, saved, influenced, or prayed over were all the better for her very presence.

I’ve always included myself in that number.