Write, Just Write - It's All You Have

Months have passed since I wrote anything more than a briefing paper or an assessment of protection concerns in some far-flung region of South Sudan that few have ever heard of, fewer still have ever been to.

I don’t mean that to sound romantic. In the past several months, I’ve been to villages named Mading, Buaw, Gorwai, Pulturuk, Waat, Mathiang, Koch – each one different in so many ways and yet so similar. In nearly every one, markets are shadows of their former selves or gone altogether. Families crowd into ever more fully-packed shelters as they welcome distant relatives or complete strangers who have fled conflict in a neighboring county or village, their condition ranging from dire to “normal for South Sudan,” a state that is rarely normal for anywhere else in the world.

And yet many cope. They continue to get by, as millions of humans who have lived and loved and lost, survived and died, for thousands of years. What choice does one have, in the end? Give up or keep going. We’ll all die eventually, and the only choice that many have in such hard circumstances is to wake up with the resolve to say, “Not today.”

One would think it would be easy to write in such conditions – to record the stories of those who have said, “I’m still here, and I plan to remain as long as I can.” To speak of one of Sudan’s top marathoners, a man who, though old now, told me of finishing 60^th out of 1000 in a race outside Addis Ababa thirty or more years ago. I, amazed, had to smile a bit, incredulous at his disappointment. In the swamps and the desert heat of Sudan, he was unbeatable, but take him to the mountaintop, where the air ran cold and thin, and suddenly, his career was over.

My mother was the first to notice the long stretch where I was no longer writing. It worried her, but I brushed off her concerns like so many others she’s raised throughout the years. Not because she was wrong, but because I was afraid of all that was right in her worry. I’ve seen so many of my friends and colleagues take up habits that signal an unhealthy amount of stress. Juba is full of them. Those who drink too much, smoke too much, work too much, fuck too much – the city is a seedy hive of empty relations and forced joviality. All to keep darker emotions at arm’s length.

I don’t go in for that, and for most of my time here, I thought I was immune. Everyone likes to think that they’re stronger than they actually are. All of these vices are an avoidance trick, a way to keep from looking in the mirror. You dance and turn circles, faster and faster, hoping that the momentum can keep the world blurred until you break the cycle with R&R, or until you break down.

I don’t smoke. I haven’t taken up drinking. My avoidance trick was just to never look inwards, and to do that, I had to give up writing.

Because writing, for me, takes strength. It takes an ability to live alongside my inner self and communicate freely with those emotions that are hidden from the everyday. That act can be profoundly spiritual, in a way, but it’s also profoundly vulnerable.

In our work, especially amongst protection actors, we have to cultivate empathy. Without it, it is impossible to cultivate the trust and relationships necessary to speak openly and candidly about where an individual or community’s concerns, fears, and hopes lie.

But it’s a razor’s edge, both for me and the person I’m interviewing, and it’s often one that I’m walking blindfolded. Think of it like this – a person has been displaced from her home. She has no idea if or when she will go back. She is, more often than not, missing a child, probably more than one, or a sister, brother, husband. By opening myself up, I may open her up, and she may relive darker moments – a grandchild murdered while she watched, his throat slit. Rape. A friend who died of thirst in the bush, unburied.

That’s what I’m avoiding when I don’t write. I’ve been maintaining my distance from some of the darkest stories I’ve ever encountered. They’re not the same as those written up in a report from Amnesty or Human Rights Watch or the UN. Those are words on paper, able to move someone, but ultimately unable to truly reflect the pain in an old woman’s voice or the vacant look in a teenager’s eyes.

Even now, I want to push this away, close the computer, and delete this file. I don’t want anyone to know that in hearing these stories, I’ve absorbed some of the darkness. However much I’ve tried to protect myself, I still need to empathize, and that means leaving the door unlocked for a whole range of emotions, not least trauma and loss. Even if it’s not my own, I as a human being can picture my own family, my own friends, those I’ve lost and those who are safe at home, unaware of all these…these things.

But if I close myself off to the bad, I also shut out the good. I shut out the amazing men and women of South Sudan who have acted as translators, facilitators, and friends in this last year. People who have lived through horror and yet are full to bursting with energy and humor. People whose lives have been full of tragedy but also full of adventure and life – like the marathoner whose legs took him from a rural village to the regional capital, from secondary school to university, and let him see places many here can’t even imagine. Or the school teacher, who chooses to remain in a small town with his family rather than move to a city several hours away for the safety and security of an NGO job. To him, the presence of his family in an emergency outweighs any monetary gain.

I don’t know about others, but for me, writing, especially when I can evoke feelings that are true and pure and deep and real to me, can carve me out and make me feel like I’m bleeding from a thousand emotional cuts. But the hope that it brings, the hope that soothes the pain, sets me on a stronger foundation.

                

I have to write again, and I want this to be the start.

Leaving Redemption along the Road to Peace

The car jostled over footpaths and pushed through the encroaching greenery, emerging into a clearing dominated by neem trees, a water pump, and a long, multi-room school. The few women around the pump eyed us warily. Children hid behind their mothers. There were no men to be seen.

Our team leader, Rocky, explained, “You see, these men have fled into the bush, but they are close. Even the others, we asked, ‘how do you protect the women,’ and they said that they are just near.” Sure enough, a short distance on we met five men armed with Kalashnikovs. A small radio pumped music out of tinny speakers. These were the Thiiyic Galweng, the heavily-armed cattle keepers who keep watch over their community’s herds.

They watch not for lions or hyenas, though those beasts are sometimes found here in South Sudan, but for other men who come raiding for the cows that in Dinka and Nuer culture denote wealth, prestige, and power.

Now, however, these men were on heightened alert. One of their Thiiyic (pronounced Teach) kinsmen had killed the paramount chief from the Gony (Goyng) side and gone on the run. The Gony had responded in kind, storming through Thiiyic territory on a campaign of rape and retributive violence that they vowed would last until the murderer was apprehended.

The police officer who traveled with us exited the vehicle cautiously and spoke with the youth, who led us several hundred meters down a path and to another clearing encircled by several dozen additional heavily-armed men. They were here in hiding, they said. They wanted peace, and they knew that if they showed themselves it would lead only to more violence.

Nonviolent Peaceforce has been conducting peacebuilding activities in and around Lakes State for the majority of its existence in South Sudan. This is despite the fact that the state is overwhelmingly Dinka and does not, therefore, fit neatly into the international narrative of an ongoing ethnic civil war between the Dinka and Nuer. If everyone is Dinka, what is there to fight over?

Quite a bit, it seems, as the state is one of the most volatile in the entire country. The Dinka in Lakes belong to clans – the Gak, Agaar, Atuot, Ciec, and Aliab. Within this clan structure are sub-clans, and a multitude of conflicts have arisen over the years, typically related to cattle, grazing land, and women.

In Lakes, still waters run deep. Conflicts can last for years without any violence and suddenly flare up without warning. This latest, between the Thiyiic and the Gony sub-clans of Dinka Agaar, is a perfect example.

In 1997, Thiiyic youth murdered the son of the Gony Paramount Chief. Five years later, in 2002, the Gony struck back and killed the Deputy Paramount Chief of Thiiyic side. A Gony soldier, who is now a high-ranking government official, killed two of his own family in order to appease the Thiiyic, prevent retribution, and end the conflict. However, in early August of this year, seventeen years after the initial killing, the son of the murdered Thiiyic elder, who was only a child at the time of his father’s death, took his revenge by murdering the Gony Paramount Chief and fleeing into the bush.

The heavily-armed men we met deep in the bush were Thiiyic. They were angry and afraid. They had fled to avoid collective retribution, but the Gony had targeted their women, something unprecedented in the inter-clan conflict. Women and children had always been considered off-limits.

Perhaps in the context of the civil war, where an unknown number of women have been raped and where children are regularly abducted and pressed into military service, the rules of war are changing. What was once unthinkable becomes common. The rules have been broken, and one fears they may not be repaired.

In this context as well, when tensions are high, anything can be considered a further affront, and there is no such thing as an individual crime. A woman killed her nine-month pregnant neighbor in a dispute over a goat. Both were Gony, but the dead woman was married to a Thiiyic. In Dinka culture, dominated by patriarchy, a woman upon marriage loses her identity and takes that of her husband. In addition, the crimes of one person can often easily become those of the entire community.

Luckily, in this case, the Thiiyic weren’t seeing it that way. In the team’s meeting with the Thiiyic elders, under a tree in a clearing surrounded by armed men, they recognized the woman’s murder as an individual crime, one that needed to be resolved by the courts. They wanted peace, a chance to return to their homes.

Turning these issues over to the courts is an important extension of trust towards national institutions, and a big step towards reconciliation. That’s what we strive for – local solutions to local problems.

The team meeting with the Gony leadership.

It is unclear whether the Thiiyic feel wholly comfortable petitioning their local government. Without going too much into the intricacies of South Sudanese politics, several high-ranking state officials in Lakes belong to the Gony sub-clan. These officials were already under pressure for the continuing intra-ethnic conflict in the state, and now that the violence is hitting closer to home, they’re under increasing pressure from state and national actors. It is just another reminder of how easily a local grievance can transform into a national issue, and how important it is when two sides can solve their problems peacefully and amicably.

The Thiiyic and Gony are not there yet, but the NP team in Rumbek is used to hard, arduous roads. As we left the clearing and the armed men behind, the team felt that we had made an important first step in reconciliation. The next day, the alleged murderer was turned over to the police.

It is only one step in along a long road to peace, but even the longest journey begins with a single step. 

Cowboys

It’s been a slow couple weeks in Juba. I was supposed to be out on mission earlier in the week, but due to circumstances outside of my control, I was never manifested on the flight and found myself grounded for another week in the capital.

I’m on the mobile protection team – a new approach to protection mainstreaming that is being led by my organization, Nonviolent Peaceforce. The idea is to integrate the protection of civilians into the overall humanitarian response in a sustained, meaningful way.

The problem is that the humanitarian sector is often preoccupied with logistics – how to get food from A to B, how many households need mosquito nets, and how to target vulnerable populations who have fled to the bush, those who are relying on emergency food strategies and sheltering under trees or in disused cattle camps.

My team will be there to make sure these logistics are incorporated in a way that humanizes the populations. Our main concern is to measure the capacities, vulnerabilities, and resiliencies of the host population in order to foster ownership and build long-lasting relationships with influential local actors.

We build the networks. We’re what Malcolm Gladwell calls “Connectors.” Ideally, those of us doing mobile protection are the “first in, last out.” We’ve joked that we’re the cowboys of the organization, flying wherever there’s need and busting our hump to establish a presence.

We don’t, however, just ride off into the sunset. When we hit the ground, we’re establishing relationships, not only with local leadership but with influential actors in the community – religious leaders, doctors, elders, teachers, business people, and women.

When a distribution finishes, we stick around to make sure that the systems serve everyone effectively, especially the most vulnerable – women, children, the elderly, and the infirm.

So you can understand the frustration that for the last week, I’ve been grounded. Insert Top Gun reference here –

I want the clip where they take away Maverick's wings for going below the hard deck, but you take what you can get, I guess. 

In all seriousness, it’s been a bit of a blessing in disguise. We’ve done a lot of the ground work that is necessary when building a team. We’ve been able to meet with others in the protection cluster to establish our mission and our responsibilities. We’ve also been able to outfit the team so that we can hit the ground running.

You’d be surprised how important this ground work is, and how little opportunity you have to do it in an emergency situation.

It’s also allowed me to spend time researching the human rights situation in the country and gain an understanding of what we will be facing in different areas of the country. Amnesty International published their report Nowhere Safe: Civilians underAttack in South Sudan a few weeks ago, around the same time that the United Nations Mission in South Sudan (UNMISS) published their Conflict in South Sudan: A Human Rights Report.

Both make for pretty grim reading. In the nearly six months since the conflict started, both government and opposition forces have committed grave human rights violations including rape, murder, targeted attacks on civilian areas of refuge including churches and medical facilities, attacks on humanitarian actors including the UN mission, and looting. Worse, these violations seem to be institutionalized on a scale and level of organization that represent crimes against humanity.

We can’t forget what that means. These are crimes so deplorable that they actually shock the conscience of humanity. They target civilian populations and serve no military objective other than to terrify and destroy innocent life.

There are, however, some gems of humanity that shine through the horror. Stories of survival buried in the narrative that allow you to believe that this conflict is anything other than madness and carnage.

From the Amnesty report –

“In the afternoon of 16 December 2013, I was at home, in the Mia Saba neighborhood, with my family. My wife and our five children were in our house and I was sitting outside under a tree with seven (male) relatives. We heard shooting nearby and I ran to a neighbour’s house. He is a Dinka soldier and a good friend. I stayed hiding in his house and we saw two Toyota pick-up trucks full of soldiers. We heard them shooting by my house… [After the soldiers left] we found that my seven relatives had been shot dead… We found my wife and children cowering terrified in the house. The soldiers had gone in and taken money, several telephones, a computer, and a TV. My neighbour took us to his home for the night and the following day he drove me, my wife and my children to the UNMISS base; he saved our lives. He knew that his colleagues had come to kill Nuer and he could not stop them but saved us by hiding us in his home” (emphasis mine).

In the midst of complete chaos, a friend helped a friend, a neighbor stood up for a neighbor despite ethnic differences. He did it at great risk to himself. There’s danger in being a ‘collaborator,’ a serious risk to your short-term well-being to preserve your own humanity.

It is ultimately why I have faith that a solution can be found in this conflict. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that. Sometimes it’s hard to see, but then I think of two of my colleagues, national staff, one Dinka, the other Nuer. Over the course of our training, they became fast friends. We never saw one without the other. Two women who developed a bond that will long outlast the politics of the day.

It’s what gives me hope. It’s what allows me to read reports filled with horror, to suffer abuse from aggravated IDPs in the camps, men and women who have experienced traumas far outside anything I could imagine.

It is what allows me to keep going, even when I’m stuck on the ground, longing to fly.

Bringing West Africa to South Sudan

"No! You don't eat it. You just chew it."

Three of our national staff had each just taken a piece of kola nut, the hard, pink fruit that I thought was ubiquitous across Africa and cut it with a chunk of bubble gum. Three South Sudanese men, all in their late twenties, examining a chunk of kola like it was some new experimental drug.

"But it makes you drunk?" one of them asked.

"No, no. It gives you energy. Like Red Bull."

"Yes, it gives you energy!" the vendor echoed.

"But what do you do with it?"

"You chew it. But it's very bitter. And it turns your teeth orange."

"No," the vendor corrected me. "You see, it turns your teeth orange if you don't brush."

"Spit it out like gum when you're finished."

"When you're feeling it," the vendor added.

"But you don't eat it?" my colleague asked. All three were looking at me with curiosity.

"No! Guys, how am I more African than you?"

They laughed. "We don't have this one. This comes from Congo!"

"Even me," our Kenyan colleague said, "I have never had this one."

"Never?!" I asked, "But this is everywhere in West Africa!"

And suddenly, all of us were reminded of the continent's sprawling size and rich diversity.

Some of us learned that kola nuts are, in fact, disgusting.

Crossing Cultures

West Africa was my entrance to Africa. I spent nearly three years there before going anywhere else. I see similarities across the continent wherever I go. I see similar art - an 'African' aesthetic that is plied mostly to the tourist trade, wear similar fabric - the 'pagnes' that I first encountered in Niger are seen as 'traditional' throughout the continent (despite their manufacture in Hong Kong or Amsterdam), and hear similar music - the rumba rhythms from Kinshasa and hip hop beats from the likes of Nigerian group P-Square - 

The remix of P-Square's 'Chop My Money,' featuring Akon and May-D, is one of the hottest tracks in Juba at the moment. You hear it everywhere.

Despite that, I decided to ask my South Sudanese colleagues, "Do you know what they're singing about?"

They didn't, and why should they? Nigerian pidgin hasn't permeated the rest of the continent, outside the 'Little Nigeria' neighborhoods that you sometimes come across in South Africa.

Chop is a perfect example. In Nigerian (and Ghanaian) pidgin, chop means to eat. In the case of the above video, 'chop my money' means that the woman all these men are interested in excels at spending their money. 

And they don't care, because "It's your seduction that makes sure we stay in line / sexual corruption cuz I'll kill anyone for your time." There's some additional pidgin - "I know dey lie" vs "you no go believe" playing on the homonym (knowledge vs. negation) as well as a Yoruba verse that slides back into slang "Omo ele I get pepper" (Pretty baby, I'll find money).

Expanding Worlds

Let's put it this way - it is over 4000km as the crow flies from Juba to Lagos. For an American, that's roughly the same as walking New York to Los Angeles. For Europeans, imagine driving from London to Syria. Americans will likely be listening to the same music, wearing similar clothes, and eating similar foods (though I've never had California's famous Jack-in-the-Box burgers nor do I understand all the references on Portlandia). For Europeans, the differences in culture, food, history, and politics is like night and day.

For Africans, it's somewhere in the middle, I think. Similar experiences with colonialism, arbitrary borders imposed at independence, but with a few dominant cities churning out pop culture for the rest of the continent - Lagos and Nairobi being the most obvious Anglophone megacities while Abidjan, Dakar, and Kinshasa take care of the Francophone nations.

I've been lucky enough, over the past several years, to travel and explore these various worlds, and now I'm finding myself in the position of a bridge between various cultures. 

I don't by any means think I know even one percent of these various cultures I've visited, but I've picked up a little along the way. Like my wallet, I'm holding cultural currencies with bills from over twenty African nations. On my last assessment, I was equally comfortable speaking Zarma with the Nigerien security professional accompanying the UNICEF mission as I was identifying the Zimbabwean on the same mission as Shona, reminiscing about the beauty of Chimanimani, and laughing at the tragic absurdity of the hyperinflation that collapsed his country's economy.

Jack of All Trades, Master of None

Of course, there are trade-offs. As I learn more and more about the various places I've called home, I've become further disengaged from many of the cultural touchstones of people from my own world. I don't know about the latest Top 40 hit unless it crosses oceans to get played on Turkish radio. I haven't tried the newest pop-up gin bar, nor have I heard about whatever new app is allowing overburdened twenty-something professionals to find love without having to speak to strangers. 

It's alienating, but you know what? I don't think I'd have it any other way.

The First Mission

He came to us at night, half-naked, covered in dust, and breathing heavily.

"Help me! Please! They want to kill me! Please!"

I had just fallen asleep, so I was awake again in a flash.

"Zandro! Get up!" I shouted as three men ran in after him.

The largest grabbed him by the arm, was pulling on him, trying to pull him away from us.

"Wait, wait!" I shouted. I felt the stick the large man carried whip past my face as he tried to strike the man I was trying to protect. "MY FRIEND. WAIT! You've nearly hit me now."

When the belt nearly hit me, I placed myself directly between the two. One man on the ground, trying to shield his face from the blows, the other in a murderous rage.

What I didn't realize was the man doing the beating had several inches and at least 45 pounds on me. If it had been daylight, I don't know if I'd have been as quick to intervene.

___________________

It was supposed to be an easy assessment mission. We'd be providing protection support for the International Organization for Migration (IOM) in their distribution of non-food items (NFIs). IOM delivered the mosquito nets and blankets. We made sure the little old ladies didn't have to stand out in the sun too long in one of the biggest swamps in the world.

At least it's green.

Early on in our stay, however, we were approached by the local ICRC representative, who brought us a Kenyan man and a Ugandan husband and wife. They were looking to be repatriated to their home countries after months of fleeing the conflict around Malakal.

_____________________

There are things that must remain confidential. Things we know cannot be said. Things we see cannot be reported, if for no other reason then that they might put others at risk.

The Ugandan had been a merchant. He had money. Through a very circuitous path, the Ugandan found himself beaten, a gun in his mouth, forcibly marched out to the bush.

I've read far too many stories of human rights abuses in Africa to know that his story ended in anything other than murder. In Côte d'Ivoire, outside Man, I heard firsthand that both government and rebel forces had executed men outside town. Nigeria is notorious for police and military abuses that end with a "thief" shot while "trying to escape" even if his hands were bound and the bullet went through the back of his skull.

It was suicide for our Ugandan to push and try to run. It was suicide to stay and die in the bush. His potential executioners tried to wrestle him to the ground. He ran. They caught him near the river. He slipped his shirt and jumped our fence, where he'd found the people who'd promised his safety.

Four days later, we helped extract him, his wife, and the Kenyan. We got them safely aboard a helicopter to Rumbek and a plane to Juba.

At the airport, the Ugandan and the wife thanked us with shy smiles. The Kenyan, however, hugged each of us tight. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I'll never forget you. You saved my life. I'll never forget you."

He was a driver. A young guy who'd been caught up in the violence and had been running from it since. He was finally on his way back home.

__________________________

They're safe now. The three of them. There are others who aren't so lucky, who are still trapped in a sea of violence, trying to get home.

Imagine having no access to the outside world. The network is down. You haven't spoken to your family in months. They have no way of knowing whether you're alive or dead.

That's the fate of thousands throughout South Sudan at the moment, both foreign and domestic.

With this mission, we helped three find their way home.

For me, it was my first mission, a baptism by fire, as my partner Zandro put it.

I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Practice Makes Perfect

Nine and a half hours of training in the sweltering heat of Juba’s early rains is probably more than enough for most people.

But for the twenty-one of us who came to do unarmed, nonviolent civilian peacekeeping in South Sudan, in the middle of a civil war, there’s a bit more to worry about than the humidity.

We’ve spent these first few days going a bit through security risks – abductions, grenades, targeted attacks, and the near-constant presence of small arms such as pistols and assault rifles. In this, we’ve learned that much like martial arts, the best defense against these risks is to avoid confrontation in the first place.

As unarmed civilian peacekeepers, our duty is to the communities we serve. We’re not content to wait patiently behind massive walls edged with razor wire. We don’t carry weapons to defend ourselves, nor do we travel in convoys with force protection accompaniment.

Rather, we rely on our relationships within the community to keep us safe and help us in our work. If the Bible teaches to “Love thy neighbor,” then the training so far has definitely focused on “Know thy neighbor…and make sure she knows you.”

Not just your neighbor, but your community – the various shop owners in various towns, the district government officials, the police, the military, the boys in the cattle camps, the women at the well, even the armed actors on the other side.

Indeed, the guys with guns, from either side, are some of the most important contacts we have. It’s important not only that we remain nonpartisan in our work, but that we remind others of our nonpartisanship. We do this not only by working with all sides but by making sure everyone knows we work with all sides.

There are definitely performative aspects in this. It’s not enough to be nonpartisan and nonviolent. Instead, we have to broadcast – through our words and deeds in every aspect of every day to as many people as possible – that we are dedicated to reducing violent potential and safeguarding vulnerable populations.

Practicing Fear

Everyone has to start somewhere, and on our second day of training, that start was with us, as individuals. We had to break ourselves down to build ourselves up.

That’s because one of the greatest dangers to the organization and to our personal safety will most likely not come through an external threat, but through personal mistake. It is all too possible, after weeks in the field, after bearing witness to fights, death, displacement, and extreme trauma, that it will all get too much. That instead of bending, we will break.

The first step is controlling oneself in the face of danger. Focus on the breath, reduce the pulse. Above all, remain calm. The second is to recognize the danger within you, the levels that can build and build until trauma has forced you so far into a corner that you have no choice but to lash out.

Without going into too much detail, we were pushed, hit, threatened – put in simulated situations that should frighten us and asked to remain calm. It’s the training that hopefully will prepare us for similar threats in the field.

There is fear in these scenarios, even if they’re just simulations. But by focusing on one’s breath, by turning inward, by finding that core inside of you, that the threats, the hits, the abuse and humility becomes so much white noise.

Practicing Trauma

Indeed, fear was easier to confront – the external – compared to what came next. We had to face down our demons and thank them for hurting us.

Each of us was asked to remember previous trauma. Something someone said to us that hurt so deeply, that even if we forgave or forgot long ago, left a spiritual scar in its place.

We shared simple phrases with the team that we associated with those events, and then we had to walk the gauntlet.

Think of some of the most hurtful things you’ve ever heard, and then think of some of the most hurtful you yourself have ever said, whether intentionally or not.

You’re stupid. You’re lazy. You’re fucking useless. I don’t want to see you again. I never cared for you.

We each had our phrase, and we had to walk between the lines of our team members while they looked us dead in the eye and repeated the phrase back to us. Twenty other people reminding you of your trauma and throwing it in your face, and after each one, we had to thank them for the pain.

For me, the anxiety skyrocketed the closer I drew to my turn. As I began the walk, each word cut deep. But as I continued on, it had less and less of an effect on me. The trauma was still there, but it no longer owned me like it once had.

And that’s important. Because the most dangerous time could come from when someone inadvertently touches that trauma. We lash out, and conflict ensues. By accepting trauma, being grateful for it, it can no longer hurt us.

Practicing Meaning

Finally, I’ll leave with a question that was asked of us. “What is one action you have done in your life that left you feeling content and helped you to feel real meaning?”

It’s a question we can all ask ourselves, something that we don’t often do. When was that last time? What was it that you did?

Chances are, it came about through helping someone. Humans are social creatures. We thrive in our relationships and connecting with one another.

So ask yourself, “When was the last time I did something that made me feel I had done something meaningful?”

Then ask, “What’s the next thing I can do to feel that again?”

No News, Good News

I’ve spent the last five days in South Sudan, sweating my way through stiflingly hot, humid afternoons, waiting for rains that rush in on tempest winds and unleash the full force of the sky in torrential downpours.

I've been lucky to have a bit of time to adjust to the jet lag that has dogged me, a byproduct of humanity’s hubris – traveling halfway around the world in a steel tube while Disney’s Frozen plays itself out on a six by eight inch screen embedded in the seat back in front of you.

Training started unofficially with Psychological First Aid(PFA), a technique for first responders to a crisis or disaster situation. Much like physical first aid, PFA assesses needs and tries to create a safe space for victims. It is not counseling, just as first aid isn't surgery. Instead, it’s an attempt to staunch the bleeding and stabilize the individual for future healing.

The training has brought in several international staff new to the game as well as a few who have already spent several months in the field. We’re also joined by a handful of nationals, South Sudanese who are our links to other displaced persons through language, culture, and kinship.

A Good Time

I keep being told that I've ‘come at a good time.’ The rains are coming on, and for a few months at least, I’ll be battling mud and mosquitos more than sun and sand.

‘Good’ might be an overstatement though as far as work is concerned. The rainy season is coming on strong, and in only another month or so, much of the country will turn into a swampy mess. Roads flood, vehicles get stuck and break down, and incidences of malaria and water-borne diseases will rise drastically, not least in the numerous, overcrowded camps where we’ll be working.

This next month will also see some of the most intense conflict, as the opposing factions fight for land and control of key towns, bargaining chips for future negotiations. With one million or more already displaced, there will be no shortage of humanitarian need.

Indeed, the conflict has now been labeled a Level 3 humanitarian emergency, on par with the Central African Republic and Syria, which is why it has only recently landed on the international media’s radar, mercifully (I hope) displacing an extended search for a missing plane.

Safety and Security

Some have contacted me in the past few days because the recent violence has finally reached the threshold where it can be considered a ‘developing story.’

The past two weeks saw attacks and counterattacks on Bor and Bentiu, with dozens to several hundred killed. I’d just like to say that I am safe in Juba, and although there are always rumors that the rebels will make a move on the capital, I’ve been told that it is pretty unlikely at this point.

Though I will eventually ship out to a field site, and the dangers will be real, they are nothing compared to those faced by the vast majority of South Sudanese fleeing the fighting. We tend to think about bullets and bombs in conflict, but exponentially more people are killed by the hunger,disease, and lack of shelter that accompanies displacement.

What I’m trying to emphasize then is “Don’t worry about me,” and while I know that’s small consolation to those who hold me close to their hearts (here’s looking at you, family), it should also come as somewhat of a ray of light.

I have food. I have water. I have shelter. And for that, I am unbelievably lucky. More fortunate than many who have faced so much and have a long road back to normalcy, if that’s even a place that exists after civil war.

If you hear about an attack in the international media, you can rest assured that I’m fine. Because by the time it’s hit the airwaves back home, it’s already old news here. And if it’s been a while since you've heard from me or since I've last written, just tell yourself that no news is good news.