The Children of Darfur

A reporter for ABC News arrived to do a follow-up on little Hossein, the boy who’d been so scarred by the burns he’d suffered. The doctors in Khartoum had decided there was nothing to be done for him, so instead of heading to the United States, as the donor had hoped, he was back in the camp, his scars like ropes around his legs, no surgery in his future.

The reporter and cameraman arrived at the camp, took their equipment from the back of the SUV, and began to set up for an opening scene. The reporter donned a fresh shirt, ran a wipe over his face, climbed to the roof of the vehicle, and began to speak into a microphone, the view of Kalma as a backdrop. Within minutes, almost as though they’d been lying in wait, the authorities and camp policemen appeared.

“Stop,” they shouted, motioning for the reporter to climb down and the cameraman to stop filming. “You need papers, you need permission. You cannot just come here and take pictures.” The policeman, a scowl on his face, looked at each of us in turn. I wanted to scowl back, but I stood there politely instead.

The man who’d been introduced to me as the producer quickly pulled out a cell phone, punched in some numbers, and began speaking in a mixture of languages, throwing in a little Arabic for good measure. “Hmm,” he said, nodding his head before passing the phone to the policeman. “He wants to speak to you.”

The policeman, his brows raised, took the phone and held it to his ear. “Hello,” he bellowed. “I am—” But whoever was on the other end cut him off. I could just make out a raised voice barking orders. The policeman shrank a little as he held the phone tight to his ear.

“Who is it?” I whispered to the producer.

“The head of the government commission,” he answered loudly so that the other policeman and authorities would hear.

What government commission? I wondered. The phone was handed back to the producer, who tucked it into his pocket while the policemen and authorities conferred. “Well, then,” one of the men said, “let us know if you need help.” Another motioned to the camera and then to himself.

The producer shook his head. “Another time, maybe.”

The reporter climbed back onto the SUV and resumed his report. When he was done, they followed me on foot to Hossein’s hut. Already a crowd had gathered, most of them children, and they began to trail us along the alleys and roads of the camp.

“So, I have to ask,” I said to the producer as he walked alongside me. “Who did you call?”

He laughed. “A friend in Khartoum.”

“But . . .”

“I’m more fixer than producer,” he said. “My job is to fix problems however I can. Today, it meant calling a friend who never actually told them who he was. He just shouted that we had permission to be here, and if they wanted to keep their jobs, they should leave us alone to do what we came to do.”

I don’t know if I’d ever been more impressed.

We arrived at Hossein’s hut, but he was on his way to school, and despite the crowd and the presence of the cameras, he didn’t want to be late. He spoke to the reporter quickly. A clinic interpreter shared what he said.

“I want to be a doctor someday,” he said shyly, a tight smile stretching through the scars on his face. “But first, I’d like a soccer ball.”

That was an almost impossible wish. There were no toys here in Kalma, no soccer balls, no toy trucks. The children had learned to fashion their own playthings from the trash that lay in piles around the camp. Kites, crafted from worn and fraying colored plastic bags, were tied to simple bits of string. As the children ran, the little kites took magnificent flight and colored the bleak landscape.

But Hossein’s wish would come true, thanks to the reporter, who left money behind—a soccer ball for Hossein and a little help for the tailor, he said. That simple generous gesture changed things for both—Hossein took to running after his ball, one small step at a time, and the tailor learned to smile again. The reporter had only one stipulation—that no one be told it was he who had provided the gifts.

I kept his secret and the truth of his kindness to myself.

Until now.