Om Køer / On Cows

Forestil dig et liv hvor alt gøres op i køer. Sådan er livet i Jiech, og mange andre steder i Syd Sudan. Efter at have arbejdet blandt Nuer-folket i flere omgange, er jeg ved at forstå systemet. En ko er det mest værdifulde man kan eje. Har man mange køer er man en heldig og vigtig mand. Man slagter sjældent en ko, det er den for værdifuld til. Men man kan drikke mælken. Langt de fleste slagsmål mellem klaner og stammer drejer sig også om køer. Om at stjæle køer, eller tilbage stjæle de køer der blev stjålet fra en ved tidligere lejlighed. 

Det koster 25 køer for en mand at få sig en kone. Køerne deles ofte mellem alle pigens slægtninge, da man må bestikke onkler og tanter til at godkende ægteskabet. Hele familien spæder nemlig også til hvis man er en ung mand der skal giftes. Man er således heldig hvis man føder et pigebarn. Det er nemlig lig indkomst. Piger er ofte omkring 14 år når de bliver gift, mændene ældre. Gifter man sig med en kvinde som ikke bliver gravid, kan man levere hende tilbage, og få sine køer igen. Dør kvinden uden at have fået børn, får man også sine køer igen. Hvis man bliver træt af sin konen, og vil skilles, får man sine køer igen, minus 4 køer for hvert barn hun har født en (og manden beholder børnene)

Hvis man kommer til at dele leje med en anden mands hustru, og bliver grebet heri, skal man betale kvindens mand en ko, og ægtefællen beholder konen. Og hvis man skal tro historierne der fortælles, så er der par der spekulerer heri, for det er jo en hel god forretning. Historierne går alle om mænd der sender deres unge smukke konen ud for at forføre de rige og betydningsfulde mænd i byen. Kvinden fortæller så sin ægtefæle hvor hun skal mødes med elskeren, og vupti han dukker op, tager dem på fersk gerning og har skaffet sig endnu en ko. -Hvis han laver det nummer 25 gange har han råd til at skaffe sig endnu en hustru til samlingen.

-Så hvordan fungerer det i Danmark?

-Når en mand ser en kvinde han gerne vil giftes med køber han en ring til hende

-En ring? her er ringe lavet af ko-horn og ikke af en særlig værdi.

-Altså det er en meget speciel og dyr ring!

-Og hvad med familien, får de ingen ting?

-Nej de er ikke en del af handlen

-Og hvis kvinden forlader manden, får han så sin ring igen?

-Måske... Nogle gange beholder hun ringen og får den smeltet om til et andet smykke.

-Hvad hvis hun dør uden at have givet dig afkom? 

-Så græder du

-Og hvis du sover med en anden mands kone?

-Så kan du få hende gratis, ægtefællen vil ikke have hende tilbage.

Jeg ved snart ikke hvilket system der er bedst....

English: Imagine a life where everything is counted in cows. That is how life is in Jiech, and many other places in South Sudan. After having spend considerable time working among the Nuer-tripe this last year, I am getting an understanding of the system. A cow is the most valuable you can own. If you have many cows, you are a lucky man. You seldom slaughter a cow, it is to valuable to be eaten on normal occasions. But drinking the milk is okay. Most of the fights between clans and tribes is also about cows. About stealing cows or stealing back your cows that was taken on an earlier account.
It costs 25 cows for a man to get a wife. The cows is often shared among the family. you need to pay of the aunts and uncles for them to accept the proposal, as marriage is a family affair. All of the family will also help gathering the necessary amount of cows if a young man from the family wants to marry. In this way, you are lucky if you give birth to a girl, because that equals income. Normal age of marriage for girls is 14 years, the men are older. If you marry a woman who does not conceive, you can take her back, and you get all your cows back. If the woman dies without giving you offspring, you will also get your cows back. If you are tired of your wife, and want a divorce, you will get back your cows minus 4 cows for each live child she has given you (and the man keeps the children)
If you by accident ends up sharing a bed with a woman who belongs to another man, and are caught doing so, you pay a cow to the spouse, and the husband keeps the wife. And if we are to believe the stories told, there is couples who takes advantage of this system. The stories are about men who send their young and beautiful wives out to seduce rich and influential men in town. She tells her husband where she is going to be meeting the lover, and “bam” he shows up out of the blue, catching them in the act, and has earned a cow. If they do that 25 times, he can afford taking another wife.

-So how is the system in Denmark?

 -Well when a man has laid eyes on a woman he wants to marry, he buys her a ring.

-Just a ring? (here rings are made of cow horn and not that expensive)

-Well a very special and expensive ring.

-And the family, do they not get anything?

-No they are not part of the trade

-what if the woman leaves the man? does he then get his ring back?

-Sometimes, other times she keeps it and has it melted into some other jewellery

-And if she dies without giving birth?

-Then you cry

-And if you sleep with someone else's wife?

-Well most likely you can have her for free, as the husband would not like to have her back.

I am just questioning which system is the best?

Rhoda Nyakan

Rhoda Nyakan har endnu ikke fået sit navn da hun først kommer til mig. Hendes bedstemor og far kommer med hende da hun er blot 5 dage gammel. Hendes mor havde Kala Azar og døde kort efter fødslen. Familien aldrig hørt om et barn født for tidligt, men det er tydeligt at se at Nykan ikke er født til termin. Jeg vurdere at hun er født omkring 30 uge, og vejer blot 0.9kg da jeg ser hende. Jeg forklarer familien at moderen var så syg, at barnet kunne mærke at det måtte komme ud før tid, for ikke at dø sammen med moderen. Hun er lille bitte. Alt er småt på hende, og familien har haft problemer med at få hende til at spise. De medbringer en  sutteflaske der er alt for stor til hendes lille mund. Vi blander mælk til hende, og bedstemoderen lærer at give hende mælk på en ske, som hun fint drikker de første par dage. Men efter 4 dage vil hun pludselig ikke tage mælken mere. Hun er også kold, og jeg vurdere at hun kan være løbet på en luftvejs infektion. Jeg anlægger en sonde, og vi oplærer bedstemoderen i at give hende 10 ml mælk hveranden time i sonden, og hun får antibiotika. Hun retter sig på behandlingen, og efter en uge begynder hun så småt at drikke mælk fra skeen igen, og begynder at tage på i vægt.

Det så så godt ud, men ville virkelig have været et mirakel hvis hun kunne overleve så tidlig en fødsel, i en landsby hvor der ingen kuvøser er, ingen special afdelinger for fortidligt fødte. men 14 dage efter jeg er rejst fra landsbyen omkommer hun, da hun påny får lungebetændelse. Men bedstemoderens omsorg for dette lille væsen der trods alt fik 4 uger her på jorden var stor, og den indsats hun lagde for dagen for at holde liv i den lille størrelse var stor. Hun havde et navn, hun var.  Jeg ville ønske at vi kunne gøre mere, men nogle gange så er det utroligt hvad man kan gøre med de få midler man har til rådighed. 

English: Rhoda Nyakan has not yet been named when I see her the first time. her grandmother and her father has brought her to me when she is 5 days old. Her mother passed away short after giving birth to her, she had Kala Azar. The family has never before heard of a child born to early, and just consider her very small. I is quite clear that this child is pre term, properly around 30 gestation weeks, only 0.9 kg’s when they come. I explain to the family that the mother was so sick, that the child could feel that it had to come out if it should not die with the mother. She is tiny. Everything is small on her. The family has had trouble feeding her. They bring a bottle, but the mouth of the child is simply too small. I teach them to feed her on a spoon, from which she is joyfully sucking the first couple of days. But after 4 days she stops eating. She has also grown cold and passive, and I start treatment for pneumonia and have to give her a N-G tube for feeding. We teach the grandmother to mix and give her 10 ml’s of  milk every 2 hours, and she gets better on the treatment, starts to gain weight again and after a week she can again take part of the food on the spoon.

It looked very encouraging, and it would have been a miracle if such a small child could have survived in the bush where there is no incubators, no specialised wards for pre term babies. But a forth night after I have left the village, she again catches pneumonia and leaves this world. But the grandmothers care, and hard work for this little being gave her 4 weeks on earth. She had a name, she was.

i wish that we could do more, but sometimes it is amazing what can be done with the few remedies available. 

Deng

Deng er en helt normal 13 årig dreng. Men hans liv er ikke helt normal. Også han er fra en af de mange landsbyer der er hårdt ramt af Kala Azar. Begge hans forældre er døde, han er ene barn, og tilbage har han blot en bedstemor, der tager sig af ham. Desværre bliver også han bedstemor syg af Kala Azar, og da der kun er hende og Deng tilbage, må han træde i til og tage sig af hende. 

Da de ankommer til klinikken, kan hun ikke gå, og hvordan han har fået hende fragtet den 8 timer lange tur til fods er et mysterie. 

Fra starten af er Deng meget om sig. Så snart jeg viser mig på afdeling for at gå stuegang, griber han min hånd og fører mig til sin bedstemor, for at sikre sig at hun bliver set. Hvis han er den mindste smule bekymret henter han mig, og gør med tegnsprog og en blanding af arabisk og nuer forståeligt hvad problemet er. Engang i mellem giver vi ham lidt penge så han kan købe brænde og mad og tilbrede et måltid til ham og hans bedstemor. Det rører mig dybt at se denne knægt tage så godt vare på sin bedstemor, og heldigvis kommer hun sig hurtigt. Efter et par uger er hun igen i stand til at gå en lille tur rund om klinikken, støttet til sit barnebarn, da vi deler myggenet og tæpper ud sørger Deng igen for at hun også får sin ration. Og når vi skal have båret borde og stole og andet materialle fra vores lager, er han der staks for at give en hånd med.

English: Deng is a normal 13 year old boy. But his life is not normal. He is from one of the villages that have been hit by the outbreak of Kala Azar. Both his parents has passed away, he is the only child, and left is only a grandmother, who is taking care of him. Unfortunate also she falls ill of the Kala Azar, and as it is only the two of them left, he has to take care of her. 

When they arrive at the clinic, she is not capable of walking, and it is a mystery how they have reached the clinic, as it is 8 hours away on foot from their village. 

From the beginning Deng is very aware of his grandmother making sure she gets the best treatment. When I arrive to do the rounds in the ward, he is there immediately, pulling my hand to his grandmothers bed, making sure she is seen and gets the best treatment. If he is worried, he comes and finds me, and with a mixture of sign language and arabic / nuer makes it understood what his worries are. Once in a while we give him some money to go to the market to by firewood and food to make a meal for him and his grandmother. I am deeply touched seeing this kid, taking so good care of his grandmother, and luckily she quickly recovers. After a couple of weeks I see her and Deng walking around the clinic arm in arm, and when we do a mosquito-net and blanket distribution Deng is there making sure his grandmother gets what belongs to her. And when I need help carrying tables and chairs to our storage he is there giving a hand with the work.

Nyajang

Nyajang, while being feed in a tube

Hun kommer sammen med sin mor. Hun er 2 år gammel, hendes kjole er beskidt, det er hendes eneste kjole, moderen er gravid igen, og har et trist glimt i øjet. Pigen er syg. Hun er ramt af den Kala Azar epidemi der fortiden hærger dette hjørne af Sudan. Hun er også svært underernæret, og har der til tabt et halvt kilo siden hu besøgte klinikken sidste uge. Hun er lilla om munden, ikke på grund af vejrtrækningsbesvær, men fordi hun har fået Gentian Violet på de sår der fylder hendes mundvig. Savlet står ud af munden på hende, og hun nægter at lukke munden. Da jeg kigger i munden ser jeg at hun i også har svamp.  Jeg insistere på at se hende spise en pakke plumpy Nut, vores terapeutiske føde-produkt, og da jeg tænker at grunden til hendes vægttab sikkert skal findes i de smertefulde sår der fylder hendes mund. Jeg får ret i min mistanke, Pigen vil ikke spise. Jeg forsøger nu at overtale moderen til at lade mig give barnet en sonde. Med en vægt på nu blot 5.8 kg, og intet væske eller fødeindtag, er det væsentligt at få noget i ernæring i hende hvis hun skal overleve. Moderen er skeptisk, synes ikke det er en god ide. Her er døden noget man er vant til, og moderen har allerede opgivet. Men min tolk er lige så insisterende som jeg, og under skrål, og nogen kamp lykkedes det at få anlagt en sonde. Jeg blander og giver mælk, bandagere barnets hænder med gaze for at hindre hende i at hive sonden ud. Og efter at have fodre barnet 2 gange, giver jeg moderen lov til at gå hjem. Hospitalet er alligevel øde om natten, ingen af de ansatte syes at have vagt. Jeg tvivler på at jeg får dem at se igen, for moderen er stadig meget skeptisk. Men næste morgen dukker de op igen, jeg blander mere mælk, giver barnet mælk flere gange i løbet af dagen. Og efterhånden som barnet bliver mere aktivt, begynder moderen at smile til mig. Hun kommer trofast til alle aftalte fødetidspunkter, og en gammel bedstemor fortæller os, at uden vores hjælp var dette barn ikke i live, hun var allerede død, men nu er hun i live. Efter fem dage på sonde mælk, og behandling af mund infektionen fjerner jeg sonden, giver dem 3 små poser med Plumpy Nut og håber at hun vil få nok appetit til at spise dem når hun kommer hjem. Og det gør hun. Da de kommer tilbage, kommer Nyajang gående imod mig med strakte arme for at blive løftet op.

Jeg så hende igen  3 uger efter første besøg. Nu vejer hun 7,3 kilo, er stadig meget tynd, men helt sikkert stærkere og gladere.

Nyajang 3 weeks later

English: She comes with her mother. She is 2 years old, her orange dress is dirty, it is the only dress she has, her mother is expecting again, and she looks sad. The Girl is sick. She has been hit by the Kala azar outbreak that currently ravages this corner of Sudan. She is also severely malnourished, and has lost half a kilo since she visited the clinic the week before. She is purple around the mouth, not because she suffers from difficulties in breathing, but because she has been given gentian violet on the wounds that surrounds her mouth. When I look in the mouth I see that she also has oral thrush. I insist on watching her eat a sachet of plumpy nut, the therapeutic food we use, as I am thinking that the reason she is loosing weight is properly related to the painful wounds in her mouth. And I am right, the girl will not eat. I try to convince the mother to give permission for a feeding tube. The girl is weighing 5.8kg, and not taking food or fluid, it is therefore essential that she get some nourishment, if she shall survive. The mother is sceptical, she does not like my idea. People here are used to death, and the mother has already given up. But my translator is as persistent as I am, and while the child is screaming and fighting me, I place a N-G-tube, mix the milk and start the feeding. And after feeding the child twice with a couple of hours between I allow the mother to take the child home. The Hospital is without staff at night anyway, so it does not make sense to leave the patients there. I am doubting that I will see them again, because the mother is still not happy, and asking if I can remove the tube. But next morning they show up, and the following days the child is feed 4 times a day in the clinic. With time the child becomes more alive, the mother starts smiling to me when she arrives, and she shows up faithfully when ever we have an appointment. And old grandmother tells us, that without our help this girl would not have been alive, that she was already death, but now she is alive. After 5 days on milk in the tube, and treatment of the infection, I decide to remove the tube to see if the child can feed on plumpy nut, giving her 3 sachets to bring home. And she eats. When she returns, Nyajang comes walking towards me, stretching out her arms to be lifted up.

 I saw her again 3 weeks after the first visit. She is nowI 7.3 kg, still thin but a lot stronger and happier than she used to be.

En uge i Sumpen / A week in the Swamp

Jeg sidder foran den mudderhytte, der den seneste uge har fungeret som mit hjem. Overfor mig ligger den lokale radio-station. De sender ikke pop-musik, men det er hele landsbyens kommunikations station. Her er ikke noget telefon netværk, intet postvæsen, ingen veje der leder til byen. Jeg befinder mig midt i “the Swamp” -sumpen som i mange år var årsag til at man ikke kunne finde Nilens udspring. Og det er forståeligt. Her er et netværk af floder, store områder af langt græs der står under vand. Øer af græs river sig løs, og driver med strømmen. Tilsammen danner floderne et netværk som mest af alt minder om en labyrint. Floderne har forbindelse via få meter brede kanaler, der til tider helt lukkes til af en flydende græsø.

Jeg er her fordi der er en epidemi af Kala Azar (visceral leishmaniasis), en parasitsygdom der spredes af sandfluerne, og forårsager langvarig feber, stor milt og lever, blodmangel, og ubehandlet helt sikkert betyder døden. Det er hovedsagligt små børn der er syge, og der er ikke mange behandlings centre i landet. Men i Old Fangak driver en amerikansk ildsjæl og læge (Dr. Jill) et center. Hun arbejder halvdelen af året i Alaska for at tjene penge til at drive centeret, og tilbringer resten af året her. Der er fortiden 400 patienter der skal have daglige injektioner i 1 måned for at blive raske. Der er ingen andre der hjælper i området, ingen organisationer der driver sundhedscentre, og derfor kommer der i tilgift 3000 patienter hver måned som bruger centeret som praktiserende læge. Udover Kala Azar centeret betaler Dr. jill også lønninger til to Clinical health workers, der hver driver en lille klinik i to nabo Payamer. Mens Dr. Jill er i USA leder en Sudanesisk sygeplejerske centeret.

Min opgave her er at se hvordan vi i Medair kan hjælpe dette arbejde. Der er langt flere syge i år end vanligt. Centeret er overvældet, og de har påskyndet at der i denne uge har været 2 ekstra læger på stedet. En stor del af tiden har vi brugt på at have konsultationer med patienterne, revurdere de patienter som sygeplejersken var i tvivl om, give en hånd med ny-indlæggelserne. Det har været fantastisk at få lov at diagnostisere igen, og lære så meget om en sygdom jeg aldrig har set før.

Ugen har også budt på besøg i de to satellit sundheds centre. Rejsen dertil foregår med båd. Det ene center kunne dog ikke nås i speedbåd, da floden endnu er for lav. Vi måtte derfor stå af båden og vandre gennem bushen, på knap synlige stier, og endte i en kano lavet af en udhulet træstamme (præsis som dem de har på stenalder musset i Lejre). Vi fik straks serveret te ved ankomsten og mødte landsbyens ledere og ældste. Derefter blev vi vist til sundhedscenteret, der bestod af 4 runde hytter (tukuls). Kun Sundhedsarbejderen får løn, men 3 traditionelle fødselshjælpere, en assistent og en rengøringsdame arbejder fortsat frivilligt på stedet. De ser ca 20 patienter om dagen, og kan behandle de mest almindelige til (diarre, malaria, lungebetændelse, øjenbetændelse) og henviser resten til Old Fangak (en 8 timers gåtur gennem sumpen) Vi samler 3 kvinder med syge børn op på vejen tilbage til båden og tilbyder dem en lift til Old Fangak.

Det har også været ugen hvor jeg har bevist at jeg kan antænde og lave mad på et kul “brænder” og klare mig helt uden elektricitet i en hel uge (jeg er glad for mit 6 timer lange computer batteri, og en lygte med sol-panel )

Dette sted har en fantastisk unik natur, og jeg undres igen og igen over at det er muligt at leve her. Der fiskes, og der avles kvæg, og livet fortsætter her som det altid har gjort. Engang imellem forstyrres idyllen af en kommerciel båd der bringer  varer til det lokale marked og fungere som bus. 

English:I am sitting in front of the hut made of mud, that has been functioning as my home the last week. Opposite the hut, is the local radio station. They do not play pop-music, but it is a communication station for the whole village. There is no phone network here, no post-office, no roads are leading to this village. I am in the middle of the “Swamp”, the place where the explores lost track of the Nile, when trying to find it’s source. And i understand it.  There is a network of rivers, big areas of long grass growing in the river, islands of grass is floating on the river with the current. Together it all creates a labyrinth. The rivers are connected by tiny channels, that occasionally is closed by a flooding island of grass.

I am here because there is an epidemic of Kala Azar. (also known as visceral leishmaniasis) a parasite carried disease, spread by the sand-flies, and causing longstanding fevers, huge spleen and liver, anaemia, and if untreated surely will cause death in the end. 

It is mainly small children being sick, and the centres that treats this disease are few in the country. But in Old Fangak there is a such centre, lead and run by a fiery american doctor (Dr. Jill). She works half of the year in Alaska, raising money to run the centre, and spend the rest of year here in Old Fangak. At the moment there is more than 400 patients on treatment for Kala Azar, all needing daily injections for at least a month to recover. There is no other NGO’s helping in the area, no one running the health facilities, and there fore there is also 3000 general patients a month seeking help in the centre, and Dr Jill is also supporting 2 health workers in neighbouring payams with salaries. While Dr. Jill is in america, a sudanese nurse is running the centre.

My teams assignment is to see how we in Medair can support this centre. The case load this year exceeds expectations, and the centre is overwhelmed, and they are appreciating the hands of 2 extra doctors on ground. A big part of the time has been spend on doing consultations, in-patient rounds, and help with new admissions. For me as a Doctor it is fantastic to such clinical work again, and also to learn about this disease, that to be honest I had never seen before.

The week has also offered a visit to the 2 satellite health centres. To travel there you go by boat. One of the health facilities could not be reached in speed boat as the water was too low in the river. We had to get out of the boat, hike through the bush, and then climb into a hallowed tree-trunk, used as a canoe (like the once they have in the stone-age museum in Denmark) When reaching the village, we were immediately served a cup of tea, and met the local authorities and village elders. Then we were led to the health centre, consisting of 4 tukuls (clay-huts). Only the health worker is no a salary, but 3 traditional birth attendants, an assistant and a cleaner is volunteering in the centre. Everyday the treat around 20 patients for the most common diseases (diarrhoea, malaria, pneumonia, eye infection) and refer  the rest to Old Fangak (which is an 8 hour walk through the swamp away) We collect  3 woman and their sick children on the way back, offering them a ride to the clinic.

It has also been the week where I have proved that I can light a charcoal-stove and cook on it, manage with out electricity at all for a whole week ( I appreciate my 6 hour battery on my laptop and my solar panel torch the more now)

This place has an unique nature, and I wonder again and again how it is possible to live here. There is fishing, and breading of cattle, and life continues as it has always been lived here. Once in a while the peace is disturbed by a commercial boat, bringing in supplies for the local market. The boat is at the same time the local bus service bringing people back and forth to the big city a days travel away.

Jeg er taknemelig / I am grateful

Jeg er i denne uge blevet rørt over mine medmenneskers medfølelse og evne til at give af den smule de har.  Jeg befinder mig igen i Jongelei, en af de mest fattige og underudviklede stater i Sudan. Et resultat af den lange borgerkrig her  landet er at folk har været tvunget til at flytte rundt. Stammer har bevæget sig fra deres fædrene jord, i håbet om at finde fred, og nu da krigen er ovre er de ikke altid velkomne gæster mere. De bliver bedt om at tage hjem. Nogle gange meget pludseligt og bestemt. Det er sket her. Fra den ene dag til den anden blev hele landsbyer bedt om at finde et andet sted at bo. De fik ikke muligheden for at pakke, kunne ikke medbringe nogen ejendele. De har nu søgt tilflugt på deres fædrene jord, i nogle landsbyer 1 1/2 times sejlads op ad floden nord for Akobo. (eller 6 timers travetur i raskt tempo) 

De er ankommet tomhændet, uden mad, har intet andet at søge i ly for solensstråler eller den massive regn under end de få træer der står langs flodbredden. De er nødsaget til at drikke vandet direkte fra floden, der er ikke andet drikkevand, mange har allerede diarre, mange er børnene hoster og har en lungebetændelse på vej grundet det skiftende vejr, og manglene ly. De sidder tæt sammen under træerne, for at udnytte skyggen.  Det er her jeg møder dem, har muligheden for at tale med dem, høre deres historie, høre om deres behov. Men det er også her jeg møder denne gavmildhed, og overvældes af værts-befolkningens imødekommenhed. De nye flygtninge overgår i antal værtsfamilierne, alligevel har de delt deres mad med dem, inviteret dem indenfor i hytter og stalde da regnen blev for stærk, og selvom de helt har overtaget hver et ledigt hjørne i landsbyen  har de ingen intentioner om at jage dem bort, eller bede dem om at søge ly et andet sted. Jeg spørger mig selv hvad jeg ville gøre hvis 1 million flygtninge pludselig dukkede op I København? Ville jeg give en familie husly i min lejlighed? Ville jeg gå i Netto og købe en måltid til dem? Eller ville jeg bygge et hegn om vores by, fortælle dem at de ikke var velkomne, at det vil koste mig for meget af min velfærd hvis jeg lukker dem ind? 

I Dengjok giver de den smule de har. I Europa giver vi nok et større beløb,  men ville du give hvis det virkelig kostede dig noget? Ville jeg?

Jeg er et priviligeret menneske! Jeg har et fantastisk job, hvor jeg gang på gang bliver mindet om dette. Jeg har muligheden for at rejse frivilligt, opleve, vælge mit liv. Jeg har økonomisk frihed, venner, famillie, kæreste.  Jeg har en uddannelse der åbner døre for mig, jeg har aldrig været rigtig sulten.  Mange af de mennesker jeg møder gennem mit job har ikke de samme muligheder, ikke de samme resourcer. De ting jeg tager for givet er ikke en selvfølgelighed,  jeg håber at jeg kan lære at værdsætte de ting, at være mere taknemlig i mit liv, og at dele ud af alt det der er mig givet her i livet.

English: This week I have been touched by  the compassion of fellow beings  and their ability to share the little they have. I am again in Jongelei state, one of the poorest and most underdeveloped states in Sudan. A result of the long civil-war here in the country is that people have been forced to move away. Tripes have moved away fro their fathers land, hoping to find peace somewhere else, and know as the war is over, they are not always welcome visitors anymore. They will be asked to go home again. Sometimes very sudden. That has happened here. From one day to another whole villages were asked to uproot and move to another place. They did not get the chance to pack their small belongings, they could not bring anything. They have now sought refuge on the land that used to belong to their fathers, in  small villages 1 1/2 hour by boat north of Akobo (or 6 hours walk) 

They have arrived with empty hands, they have no food, they have no other place no  to hide from the strong sun or the heavy rain than under the trees on the riverbank. They have no choice than to drink the water from the river, many is already suffering from diarrhoea, the children are coughing and many developing pneumonia from the sudden changes in weather, and the lacking shelters. they are sitting close together in the shadows of the trees. This is where I meet them, this is where I have the opportunity to talk to them, listen to their stories, hear about their needs. This is also where I meet this generosity, and where I am overwhelmed by the host-populations courtesy towards their neighbours. The new refugees are outnumbering the host population, but still they share their food with them, they invite them into their homes and stables when the rain becomes to strong, and even if the refugees has overtaken  every available spot in the village, they have no intentions of chasing them out.

I am questioning myself, what I would do if suddenly 1 million refugees turn up in Copenhagen? Would I give shelter to  a family in my apartment? Would I go and shop for groceries to cook them a meal? Or would I build a fence around the city, tell them that they are not welcome here, that it is costing me to much of my welfare if I welcome them? 

In Dengjok they give of the little they have. In Europe we might give a bigger amount, but would we give if it was a loss for yourself? Would I?

I am a privileged person. I have a fantastic job, where I again and again are reminded of this. I have the opportunity to travel freely, experience, choose my life. I have economic freedom, friends, familly, a boyfriend. I have an education that opens doors for me, and  I have never been really hungry. Alot of the people I meet through my job does not have the same opportunities or ressources. The things that I take for granted, should not be taken for granted, and I hope that I can learn to appreciate the things I have, be more grateful for the life I have, and learn to share of all that have been given me here in life. 

I mudderets land / In the land of the mud

Når det regner i Akobo, så regner det. En stor del af året er her tørt, og sidste år udeblev regnen næsten helt. Man ved at det snart bliver regn når der kommer skyer på himlen, temperaturen falder (til omkring 32 grader) og der pludselig blæser en mild vind. Også er det om at lukke sine vinduer og skifte klip-klapperne ud med et par solide gummistøvler, eller som mange af de lokale, vælge at gå barfodet omkring. For når det regner bliver alt omdannet til mudder. Forsøger man at gå på hovedgaden, synker man i til midt på skinnebenet. Det er ikke almindelig jord de har her, men en type jord der nærmest omdannes til splattet ler, der limer sig til gummistøvlerne, så man knapt kan løfte dem fra jorden. Det er rigtig god træning for balder og lår...

Man må jo nødvendigvis bevæge sig, og derfor ender man med at vade rundt i mudderet.(glem alt om at forsøge at køre i bil, medmindre du nyder at bruge timer på at skubbe din bil ud af mudderet igen)  For et par dage siden befandt jeg mig således gående rundt i Akobo med mudder til knæene sammen med min kollega  Claudia, og jeg kunne ikke lade være med at trække på smilebåndet; For hvor ville jeg have elsket dette som barn. Det er umuligt ikke at gå igennem en vandpyt, til tider er man lige ved at skride i mudderet, og ja jeg kan godt blive en lille smule fristet til at starte en rigtig god gammeldags mudderkamp (men har behersket mig indtilvidere.)

Og mudderet kalder da også kreativiteten frem i landsbyens børn. Ved flodbreden er der lavet mudder/vand rutsjebaner, som de suser ud i floden på, og der skabes små figurer af mudderet som der kan leges med.

så måske jeg også bare skal nyde det, glemme alt om at være voksen, og lade legebarnet titte frem... Jeg har jo trods alt hjælp til tøj-vask, og hvis tingene går lidt langsommere så når jeg jo nok stadig det jeg skal nå!

Og det er ikke engang slemt /  and this is not even bad...

English: When it rains in Akobo, it really rains. For  more than half of the the year it is completely dry, and last year there was hardly any rain at all. You know that it will rain soon, when the sky becomes cloudy, temperature falls (to around 32 degrees) and there is a sudden breeze. Then it is time to close your windows and change from flip-flops to wellingtons, or as many of the locals do, walk barefooted. Because when it rains, everything becomes mud. If you try to walk down the main street, you will sink in to your mid calves. It is not normal soil here, but a kind of soil that becomes like slippery clay as soon as it gets wet, clinging to the wellies, so that you barely can lift them of the ground. It is good exercise for buttock and thighs...

But as movement it necessary, you do end up walking through it (don’t even dream of taking a car, unless you enjoy spending hours getting it out of the mud). A couple of days ago I found myself walking in mud to my knees together with my colleague Claudia, and it brought a smile to my face, as I was thinking how much I would have enjoyed this as a child. It is impossible not to pass through the big puddles of rainwater, sometimes you are almost slipping in the mud, and yes it is quite tempting to start a good old-fashioned mud-fight . (though I have restrained myself so far)

And the mud does call on all the creativity in the children of the village. At the river banks a mud/water slide has been created, that they are sliding into the water from, and small figures is created out of the mud that they play with.

So maybe I should also just enjoy it, forget about being a grown up for a moment, and let the playful child inside of me out for a day or two... I do after all have help to do the laundry, and if things move a bit slow for a day or to, I will most likely still end up doing things in the right time...

Ko lavet af mudder/ Cow made of Mud

Hvad er jeg?/ What am I?

Siden jeg ankom i Sudan har jeg måtte ligge øre til meget. Nogle af de steder jeg rejser til, får ikke ofte besøg af en blond kvinde, der bærer bukser, og det skaber forvirring hos de lokale. Her er bare et nogle af de kommentarer, som jeg har været heldig at få oversat, der er blevet sagt om mig, og som har fået mig til at trække på smilebåndet. Håber de også bringer et smil frem på dine læber:

• “Er det en hat hun har på, eller er det hendes hår?” hørt en dag jeg havde flettet håret i to fletninger
• “før var vi i tvivl om hun var en mand eller en kvinde, men nu ved vi hun er en kvinde” -efter at jeg havde iklædt my en malaya, den traditionelle klædedragt... 
• “ der går den gode kvinde” -hørt på gaden i Akobo, og et tilnavn jeg ikke har noget imod at bære
• “ hvor gammel tror du hun er? -det er svært at sige, de europæiske kvinder får jo ingen børn”

English: Since arriving in Sudan, my ears have heard a lot. Some of the places I travel to, does not often have a blond lady visiting, that dresses in trousers, and it does seem to confuse people. Here is a few of the comments that I have been lucky enough to have translated for me (sure many other things are said that never reaches my ears) They have made me smile, and I hope they will also bring a smile on your lips.

• “Is that a hat she is wearing or is it her hair?”
• “Before we did not know if she was a man or a woman, but now we see that she is a woman”  - after i dressed in a malaya, the local fashion
• “ there goes the good woman” -heard on the streets of Akobo, and I name that I happily carry
• “how old do you think she is? - it is difficult to say, the Europeans do not have children”

Opdatering af mit liv / Update on my life...

Efter en stykke tids pause, er det vist tid at opdatere jer her på bloggen. Jeg har foradt Akobo, men er nu tilbage igen. Vores Ernærrings program er nu hændet over til Red Barnet. Den sidste måned har stået på lidt tid på kontoret i Juba, en ferie 2 ugersferie med fødselsdag i Holland, Københavner besøg, bryllup i England, en uge i sommerhus i Gedesby og et endags visit i Rostock.

Grill hygge på planen ved sommerhuset / BBQ'ing at the summerhouse

Jeg indrømmer gerne at jeg var en smule træt da jeg kom tilbage til Sudan, men har haft en fantastisk ferie.

Efter ferien har jeg været på en 5 dages “joint assessment” til Kajo-Kegi i den sydlige del af sydsudan. En gruppe mennesker, der i 1970‘erne flyttede til grænseområdet mellem Sudan og Uganda, er nu blevet smidt ud af deres hjem, husene er brændt ned og deres landbrugsredskaber og øvrige ejendele taget fra dem. Uganda hævder at jorden er deres, og vil lave et skov reservat. Så menneskerne søger nu tilbage til deres fædrene jord, for at slå sig ned, og starte forfra. Min opgave var at vurdere sundheds og ernærings forholdene bland disse folk. Vi kørte i bil, og vejene er mildest talt i en forfærdelig tilstand. Der var tidspunkter hvor jeg tvivlede på at vores landcruisere overhovedet ville kunne forcere vejene,  men det lykkedes. Og det var skønt at se landet fra vejen. Der findes faktisk smukke grønne områder i Sudan!

Det er også blevet til en tur til Northern Bari for at verificere Internt fordrevne (flygtninge i eget land) så at vi senere kan uddele “non food Items” til dem. Det er i sig selv lidt af en process, da Sudaneserne selvfølgelig ikke er dummere end resten af os, og selvfølge prøver at blive registreret mere end en gang... 

Og nu er jeg så tilbage i Akobo, hvor 5000 mennesker på flugt fra lokale stamme opgør har slået sig ned.(og 9000 flere forventes at følge dem denne uge) Det er meningen at jeg skal besøge det område de bor i, tale med dem, se hvad der er af behov for at holde dem sunde, men det har vist sig svært at komme til dem, tildels fordi de er taget til Akobo by for at få mad, og tildels for de det regner (og så stopper alt...) -men i skal nok høre mere herom senere

English: After not writing for a while, I think it is time to update my blog. I have left Akobo, so that I could return! The nutrition program has been handed over to save the children. The last month has been spend with some time in the office in Juba, followed by a 2 weeks break including a birthday party in the Netherlands, Copenhagen visits, Wedding in England, a week in the family summer house in Gedesby and a one day trip to Rostock.

I admit that I was quite tired when returning to Sudan, but had a wonderful holiday.

Og dronningen hilste selvfølgelig på når jeg nu var på hjemme visit...

And naturally the Queen came by (it is her boat) as I was on a homevisit...

After the Holiday I have done a 5 days joint assessment with the UN to Kajo-Kegi in the southern part of South Sudan. A group of people, who in the 1970’s moved to the border area of Sudan and Uganda due to the civil war, has now been kicked out of their houses, that has been burned down, and their farming tools and other personal items taken from them. Uganda claims that they were on Ugandan soil, and it is now being turned into a forest reserve. So the people are now forced to move back to their ancestral land, to start life all over again. My job was to assess the health and nutrition needs amoung these people. We were driving in cars, and the roads was in so poor condition, that I had moment where I was doubting that our land-cruisers would be able to make the trip (it toke 2 1/2 hours to drive 20km) but we succeeded. And it was wonderful to see the country from the roads, believe it or not, there is actually beatiful green areas in Sudan!

I have also been on a trip to Northern Bari, to verify Internaly displaced People (IDP’S), so that we later can distribute non food items to them. It is a challenge in it self, as the sudaneese is not more stupid than the rest of us, and naturally tries to get on the list more than once...

And now I am back in Akobo, where 5000 people who are fleeing inter tribal clashes have settled north of town.(and 9000 more are expected within thhis next week) I was intended to be visiting the sights where they have settled, talk to them, see what help is needed to keep them healthy, but it has turned out that it is difficult to get there and meet them. Apparently they are all gone to Akobo to get food (but I do not see them here???) and it has been raining so they will have taken refuge in the host community, so we sill not find them (rain stops everything from happening here) -but you will hear more of this later, I promise.

Kirke-tid / Visiting the Church

Søndag morgen er kirketid, det ved enhver. Her starter gudstjenesten klokken 8, så der er ikke noget med at sove længe søndag morgen. Akobo er tidligere missionsstation for den prebytarianske  kirke, og har fortsat en stor menighed her. Tidligere rummede missionsstationen også et stort landbrugs projekt og hospitalet. Hospitalet drives idag af en anden organisation, og landbrugsprojektet døde da missionærerne forlod byen da krigen brød ud, og ingen har siden fundet det nødvendigt at genoptage aktiviteterne. Tilbage står dog nogle mangotræer der vidner om frugtbar jord. Det er ellers tæt på umuligt at opdrive friske frugt og grøntsager på markedet her, folk lever tilsyneladende af kød og sughrum Som hvid besøgende i kirken er jeg æresgæst. Jeg bliver henvist til en stol ved siden af de ældste, helt oppe foran. Alt foregår på Nuer-sproget, som jeg ikke taler. Kirken er ikke blot et åndeligt center, men kirke tiden bruges også til at opfordre folk til at give blod på hospitalet, da der er en kvinde der har brug for det, der oplyses om andre tiltag i byen, og pludselig kigger de på mig, og spørger om jeg ikke har et budskab jeg gerne vil dele. Der er ikke rigtigt nogen vej uden om. Jeg burde vide det, og møde forberedt, det er jo trods alt ikke første gang jeg rejser i Afrika. Jeg har heldigvis brug for en tolk, så der er tid til at improvisere.

Kirken fyldes mellem alle indslagene af salmesang. Men det er ikke orgel-klang der akkompagnerer   sangene, men derimod to trommer, lavet af blikdåser med gedeskind, som der slås rytmisk på med med et stykke afskåret bildæk. Det lyder overraskende godt. Sangen er flerstemmig, hver fugl synger med sit næb, så det er nemt at falde ind da jeg får stukket et sanghæfte i hånden.

En præst går på talerstolen, og taler om at tilgive sine fjender, jeg hører order Murle, fjende-stammen,  blandt de andre gloser, men forstår selvsagt ikke meget. Efter prædiken samles der ind. Nogle ligger penge i indsamlingen, andre medbringer en smugle olie, eller korn. Alt er velkomment. Efter gudstjenesten forlader menigheden kirken på række. Man bliver stående når man kommer ud, så at alle i menigheden giver hånd til alle. Det danner en fin procession.

English:

Sunday morning is Church-time, everyone knows that. Here the church service starts at 8 o’clock, so you can only dream of sleeping in Sunday mornings. Akobo used to be the presbyterian churches mission-station, and there is still a big congregation here. earlier on the mission also included a big farm, and the hospital. The Hospital is today supported by another NGO, and the farm-project died with the civil-war, when the missionaries left town, and no one has ever since considered it worth while to resume the activities. Left, barring testimony is only a few Mango-trees showing that the soil is fertile here. Amazing in an area where it is impossible to find fresh fruits and vegetables in the market. People here seem to live of Sughrum and meat alone.

As a white visitor to the church, I am a guest of honour. I am given a chair next to the elders, right on the platform. Everything is in the Nuer-tongue, I do not understand a thing. The church is not just a spiritual centre, but connects the whole community. There is a plea  for a blood donation needed in the hospital, other things going on in the village is mentioned, and suddenly they look at me, and ask if I don’t have a message to share. I can not get out of this one.  As it is not the first time I travel to Africa, I should have seen this coming, and been prepared. Luckily I was in need of a translator, and could improvise as I was being translated.

In between all the announcements the church building is filled with the singing of hymns. But it is not the pipes of an organ that that resounds to the songs, but the beats of two drums made of old tins and goatskin, the rhythm being beaten with a piece of cut rubber-tire. It sounds surprisingly well. The song is song in many tunes, each bird singing with his beak, so it is easy to join in, when someone passes me the hymnbook. 

A pastor stands up and preaches on forgiving your enemy, I recognise the word “murle”, the tripe of enmity, amongst the other words, but understand nothing. After the sermon, it is time for the collection. Some bring money, others a small bag of oil, or corn as their offering. Everything is welcome. After the service everyone leaves the church in a line, turning around greeting everyone behind them on the way out, creating a fine procession. 

Krigens affald / the waste of war

Så er det blevet tid til en mere alvorlig blog. Inspireret af en begivenhed der rystede hele landsbyen i fredags, og som for alvor mindede mig on at jeg arbejder i et land der er ødelagt af 45 års borgerkrig.

Vi var ved 8 tiden samlet for at indtage aftensmåltidet, da der pludselig lød et kæmpe drøn. Vi for sammen, blev i huset, for at afvente om der kom mere. Var det et skud (nej alt for højt, og blot et af slagsen) Der var ingen tvivl om at braget kom fra nabo grunden, og vi  listede os ud af døren for at finde ud af hvad der var sket. Vi kunne nu  høre vilde skrig og skrål, blandet med forvirrede stemmer der råbte. Folk kom løbende til, og dommen lød nu, det må være en mine eller en granat.

Det er bælg mørkt klokken 8 her, og i en landsby uden elektricitet er det svært at se hvad der er sket. Men eftersom jeg bor i samme compound som stedets Kirurg, var der ingen tvivl om at vi ville blive informeret om ulykken meget snart. 

En kvinde var kommet alvorligt tilskade, og fik senere amputeret begge ben, og 2 børn og en voksen var omkommet,  lød meldingen. Hullet var stort, så der var nok tale om en anti-køretøjs-mine (hjælp mig her, jeg har ingen militær baggrund, og mit mine kursus var på engelsk). Famillien var ved at konstruere en ny Tukul, havde flyttet køkkenet derhen, og eksplotionen formentlig forårsaget af varmen fra bålet.

En hyppig kommentar hørt i Akobo dagen efter var “vi går alle sammen rundt på miner uden at vide det”, en kommentar som nok desværre er sand. 

Ifølge mine kollegaer, der begge var soldater under krigen, skyldes halvdelen af dødsfaldene under krigen mellem syd og nord miner. 

Mineryderne gør et fantastisk arbejde her, der iden grad kalder på heltemod. Men i et land hvor borgerkrigen har været så langvarig, fronterne, og krigsherrene så utallige er der ingen der ved hvor minerne er, og det er umuligt at finkæmme et helt land med metaldetektorer. Går du en tur ned af hovedgaden er der garanti for at møde mindst en benamputeret, som bærer vidne om problemets omfang. Utallige huse står stadig som skaller efter at være blevet bombet, og der findes talrige ueksploderede bomber i området.

Desværre rammer miner ikke kun soldater, de kender ikke forskel på den fod, der tilfældigt betræder dem. De forældes heller ikke når krigen ophører, men kan ligge i jorden i 70 år før de pludselig eksploderer når en uskyldig kører over dem. det er et yders uretfærdigt og fejt våben, og jeg fristes til at skrive at jeg længes efter de tider hvor krig blev udkæmpet af soldater med mandsmod, hvor krig gik ud på at mødes på slagmarken, kæmpe mod hinanden, ansigt til ansigt. (ja okay jeg har set en ridderfilm eller to )

Jeg kunne ende historien her. Det er tragisk, uretfærdigt og berører ihvertfald mine følelser. Men historien om mine viste sig ikke at være hele sandheden. Kvinden kunne efter at hun kom sig oven på operationen fortælle, at en af landsbyens tosser (ja det hedder de altså stadig her) havde foræret hende et stykke metal. Hun havde i et stykke tid brugt det som stol i køkkenet, men da der var et problem med en kogesten, valgte hun at bruge dette stykke metal til at støtte gryden. Desværre var metallet en antikøretøjs mine... 

Altså er dette ikke bare en historie om krigens affalds problem, men også en historie hvordan uvidenhed og manglende uddannelse forårsager unødig død.

English:

It is time for a more important blog. Inspired by an incident that chocked the whole village Friday evening, and that became a serious reminder for me, that I am working in a land that is broken as a result of 45 years of civil-war.

We were gathering to have dinner at 8 p.m.., when suddenly  a mighty boom was heard. We were shaken, stayed in the house a while, expecting more to come. was it a gun shot? no too laud and only one. there was no doubt that it came from the neighbour compound, and we tip toed out of the door to investigate what had taken place. We could now hear screams and crying mixed with confused voices shouting. People came running, and the judgement now sounded that it had to be a mine explosion.

It is dark like hell here at 8 in the evening, and in a village without electricity it is impossible to see what is taking place. But as I am staying in the same compound as the hospitals surgeon, there was no doubt that I would hear of the accident soon if there were any casualties. 

A woman was severely injured, and had both her legs amputated later that night, and two children and an adult had died. The hole in the ground was big, so it was most likely caused by an anti-vehicle-mine. (please excuse me here, I have no military training) The family had been constructing a new tukul, and had moved the kitchen area to this tukul. The explosion was most likely caused by the heath from the fire.

An often heard remark in the streets of Akobo the next morning was “we are all walking on mines everyday” a comment that unfortunately is very true.

According to my colleagues, who both has been soldiers in the war, half of the casualties during the war between the south and the north, caused by mines.

The deminers is doing a fantastic job, calling for heroism. But in a country where the civil-war has been so long and the fronts and warlords so plenty, noone longer knows where all the mines are located, and it is impossible to search the whole country with a metal-detector. If you stroll down the main street of Akobo, you are sure to meet at least one victim of a mine accident, witnessing of the gravity and extent of the problem. an uncountable number of houses s left as shells after bombing, and there is many unexploded  ordnances laying around.

Unfortunately mines does not know the difference of the foot of a soldier and the foot of a mother. They do not grow old or out dated when the war is over, but can remain in the ground for 70 years, and then suddenly explode when an innocent car drives over it.  i am tempted to write that I am longing for the times when war was fought between soldiers with courage, where war was about meeting in the battlefield, fighting face to face. (Okay I have seen a movie or two about knights) 

I could end the story here. It is tragic, unjust and touching my emotions. But the story turned out to not be the  entire truth. When the woman recovered from the surgery, she could tell the full story; one of the mad-mens of the village (that is what they are called here) had brought her a piece of metal. she had been using it as a chair in the kitchen area, but as one of her cooking-stones got missing she pushed the metal in the fire to hold the pot while boiling the food. unfortunately the metal turned out to be an anti-vheicle mine..

 So this is not just a story on the waste of war, but also on how lack of knowledge and education is causing unecesary deaths.