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.