Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Sudan Now, Sudan Then Part III

Our people have no drinking water, education or healthcare. I do not mean that we do not have government provided/subsidized drinking water, education or healthcare – I mean it does not exist in Sudan. Does not exist by virtue of the fact that the majority of Sudan has no access to them.
 
I studied in private schools during an era where private schools were a necessity for some (in my case, having English as a mother tongue). In this catholic school, I met my lifelong friend whose mother had sent her there, to create structure and discipline in the absence of her father, a national legend, who had passed away. Others came for other reasons.
 
When we were growing up (in the 80s), Sudanese perceived private schools as the place where students went after flunking out of public schools. I will show you here what some of our “public schools” look like now.
 
Public Healthcare? You may ask. Well, that would require public hospitals, one would assume. If your fate lands you in a public hospital, be prepared to bring your own gauze, cotton, injections, the works. You will require a relative to “donate” blood, although there is no guarantee that you will receive blood if required. (True story: Friend’s mom needed blood. Her daughter donated. Afterwards, blood bank stated that mom’s blood type unavailable. Daughter was universal donor, so just asked for her own blood. Blood bank refused as it hadn’t been subjected to mandatory testing. Daughter no blood, Momma no blood. Happens all the time. Welcome to Sudan.)
 
Services? Electricity is pre-paid in Sudan. One would assume that one could expect uninterrupted service since it was already paid for. In full. One assumes wrong. Speaking of prepaid power and public hospitals, recently, a public hospital went three days without power because there was no money to “buy electricity”. (While the Private Hospital owned by the Minister of Health had all the power it needed. Thanks for asking)
 
There is no standby generator in public hospitals, so if you are unlucky enough to be in the middle of an operation when the power goes out, we will pray for you in heaven, and know that you are in a better place.
 
Water? In the land of the Nile, those of us fortunate enough to have access to the outdated water supply network, are very often left high and dry. The day after giving birth, I was forced to drive to my parents’ home because there was no water in the house. (You will understand the ramifications and magnitude of this drive if you are Sudanese, and I bet one or two of you gasped).
 
Ironically, if there is no water in the house, there is a very large possibility that within a certain radius, there is an artificial lake gushing out on to the streets, rivaling Lake Volta.
 
So, what happens if you do not fall within water coverage? (This refers to almost everybody in Sudan, since networks only cover cities, and by no means is this coverage complete) You buy water, that’s what you do. You wait for someone in a donkey-driven cart, equipped with a rusty blue-painted barrel, and you contract him to fill your plastic jerry cans and tin buckets. The quality of the water is indescribable. Suffice to say that the source of the water is broken water network pipes or irrigation channels. Bottoms up.
 
So, I sit in my site office, building towers and watch workers walking in with shoes wired together. Because it is part of my job, I tell them that they cannot work without proper shoes. I tell them it is for their safety, for their protection – they tell me I am taking food out of their children’s mouths.
 
In a perfect world, their employers would make sure that they were fitted out, but in Sudan, the employers defect on their commitment and only those with shoes can work that day. I go make a scene, urging the contractor to do what’s right by his people, and he laughs, “They got to you? Melted your heart and you come talking to me.” Hitting people is bad. We frown upon it. Move on.
 
The joy when the workers get their shoes is heart breaking. They come to thank me for being their advocate. What breaks my heart is that they shouldn’t need advocates. They shouldn’t miss work because they were not given the proper tools. And, in this, lies the story of my country. We have reached a point where no one has rights. Everything is treated like some sort of gratuity.
 
You are SUPPOSED to make sure your people have food to eat. You are SUPPOSED to give people access to clean water. You are SUPPOSED to provide basic healthcare for your people. You are SUPPOSED to provide jobs for people with various skills (not mock college graduates as recent reports quoted the President stating that college graduates were unskilled and unhireable – translation: useless parasites).
 
Before this government, some people say our fathers’ generation was spoiled – primed with a sense of entitlement. They got the best education and healthcare for free. Truth is, the haves and the have nots were in the same quarters, lived the same lives. The differences were superficial and superfluous.
 
In the Sudan of today, the haves have food. The have nots have nothing.
 
I am a professional with umpteen years of experience under my belt. I walked away from a job in Dubai because I wanted to be part of building my country. I deserve to have a few bottles of perfume and the occasional facial. I deserve a vacation and the option to splurge on an “impulse buy”. My children deserve the occasional treat for being left alone while we seek the means to make school payments, rent and groceries. Disposable income. That quaint term. Wonder what that’s like.
 
However, since I live in Sudan, I see too much. I see the anemic look in the malnourished people on the streets, I see the people that have cracked under the unbearable pressure. I see the struggle of children working to feed families and women working desperately to subsidize their income, selling bed sheets and thermos flasks. I see the suffering, I see the pain and harden my heart so it does not break in two.
 
I will try to buy treats for my children, and turn off the AC in my car (taking advice from A Tree Grows In Brooklyn). I will not buy an anniversary present for my husband, so I can pay for the exam I need to take abroad. I will not go to the doctor this month because maybe the pain will go away on its own. I will give the money to the sick mother who needs to get well to take care of her children. I will have a basic breakfast, so the little girl in the ICU can get the heart scan she needs. I will not get a facial so I can pay for the kids’ school bus and give my husband one less thing to worry about.
 
I will do what I have to do. Our family will do all it can. But I wonder. When do I tell my children that the struggle I put them through was optional - not how it's supposed to be? When do I make the decision that as my country suffers, my family may have a shot at a better life? When do I close my eyes and heart to the hurt that is Sudan and become another refugee, a guest in a more accommodating land that may provide me with that most elusive of dreams, a disposable income?
 
This is my land. This is my home. This is my country. These are my people.
 
Cry, beloved country.

2 comments:

noorlight said...

MashAllah Tagreed, i stumbled on your blog and i found myself reading article after article your writing is simply captivating, your style is peculiar and your tone is so colloquial it feels like your conversing..
I'm tempted to start my own blog now you think you can give me a few tips and pointers? :-)

Tagreed Abdin said...

I'm glad you liked it. Allah maa dharaak :)
When I write, I follow my heart and meandering thoughts. If I were more professional, I would advise the writing to be more structured. Good luck!