Sudan Power Blackouts: Lost Productivity - Let me count the ways

Sudan Blackouts: Lost productivity - Let me count the ways

Sudan blackouts continue, with most of Khartoum waking up to no power these days while outside the capital, power supply can be MIA for days.

What does this mean to a normal person trying to go about their day in Khartoum? Let me count the ways:

1. Wrinkled clothes - for people in say, dress shirts, a lot of morning scrambling will occur, with alternatives ranging from spritzing with water to a charcoal iron, to admitting defeat and throwing on a casual t-shirt.

2. Telecommunication signals lost. No phone calls, no emails, which also means no work/conference calls or online meetings. Missed deadlines and information gaps and delayed action.

3. Traffic lights stop working. The law of the jungle becomes the rule of the land. Best case scenario, slowed traffic from congestion, worst case scenarios, traffic accidents at every intersection, resulting in missed appointments and high tensions.

4. Productivity and Operations Halt. Computers won't compute and phone batteries will run out and back-up power supplies won't be turned on all day, every day, in most work places.

5.  Elevators won’t elevate… For many of us, living and working on higher floors means re-thinking going out or staying in, with some people now avoiding elevators altogether, in case of a sudden blackout, they worry about becoming trapped :-/

6. Food – with an acute shortage of cooking gas in Sudan (ostensibly due to a maintenance issue with the national supply) electrical alternatives are also dismissed when there’s a blackout. I was just reading a post in a mother’s group, one member asking what she could prepare for her children to eat when they come home from school, that won't require gas or power, a dilemma harking back to ancient times.

7.  Doorbells. A friend just texted to call her when visiting, in case the power is out and doorbell isn’t working. This won’t just impact our social lives – but many offices in commercial buildings will now leave their doors open, and bear the associated security consequences.

8.  Air conditioning and ventilation systems. Sudan is a hot country. Right now, in the midst of winter, it’s 38°C. Add to this mosquitoes (and flies) and many a Sudanese family will be up all night, drenched in sweat, swatting at pests.

9.  The National Water Corporation is struggling to provide water to residents, in light (excuse the pun) of the continuous blackouts. Not to mention that individual water pumps don’t work without power. Some people will have plastic barrels, jerry cans, buckets or pitchers strategically located in kitchens and bathrooms, as a backup supply. Showers, laundry, dishwashing and drinking water, in addition to the obvious toilet run, need to be strategized.

10. Radio channels go off the air. So, even if, by some miracle, you're in an air-conditioned vehicle, they take away your jam (or news update) leaving you with the sound of silence. 

11. Last but not least, light. The dark… Navigating spaces via phone lights, if charged, dangerous candles or lamps, or nothing at all, if not. Things that go bump in the night will be your shins and knees.

 

 

All these factors, come together, chipping away at your day and your energy; resulting in lost work and lost sleep and lost time and a sleep deprived, irritable, exhausted populace. We’re trying, we’re trying but some days, it's just too hard.

Note: This is the case in the capital, Khartoum... the peripheries have it much, much worse, which why my day job consists of sustainable development towards improving the lived reality of Sudanese citizens all over the country. 

 

 

 

Sudan Internet Blackout

There is no internet in Sudan. Why? You may ask. The short answer is mass censorship. The long answer is that this is a response to accusations of horrifying atrocities and human rights violations by saying, "Pictures or it didn't happen but no internet in case there are pictures" applied with a glaring lack of understanding of how the internet works. 

Why is this a big deal? Why we need the internet is a ridiculous question in 2019 but I still want to make a list, of daily grievances inflicted upon us by a petty and vindictive government. 

  

1. No email. 

We can't send letters. Reports. Information. Requests. Instructions. Work. We can't work. Even if one end has internet, chances are the other end doesn't. 

2. No Google. 

You can't Google an actor while binge watching shows since you're stuck at home - not knowing if the Game of Thrones Dad King is good or evil in this movie. Names. What ARE their names? I've shown remarkable restraint by not popping over to the credits when watching on my laptop but the itch remains. (On the upside, I've developed recognition superpowers. Who among you mere mortals recognized Dr. Kalu from the top of his head in Me Before You?). 

You can't answer your kids' random questions with scientific illustrations, resorting to crude sketches to explain the relationship between daylight and the seasons. Also, there's no physical option where you hand someone a jumble of words to make sense of. That would've been convenient. While writing this, I realized the person my sister and I were talking about was Lenny Kravitz, the actor in that random movie was Channing Tatum and the movie title I was trying to remember that best describes the events of the past few weeks was The Purge. By a stroke of luck we had an offline temperature convertor so we can't blame the burnt food on the oven settings. 

3. No news. 

This, of course, is the whole point of the blackout. You don't get news, you don't send news. Nothing scares an authoritarian (is that even the right word I need? I'll never know) regime more than people armed with knowledge and conviction, spreading it far and wide. Our only recourse is to pick which satellite channel to watch, adjusting their skewed coverage of current events for yourself. 

4. No YouTube. 

I'm low key hurt my late night shows didn't realize their most dedicated fan hasn't viewed their clips since #RamadanMassacre (I'm looking at you, Seth Meyers). Friends sent a lot of excited messages that Hasan Minhaj did a show about Sudan (a little too excited, if you ask me. Y'all know he's married, right?). Thank you, Hasan! No looking up golden oldies, or random recipes. No Minecraft or riddle videos for my boys. 

5. No WhatsApp. 

Sudan is a WhatsApp nation. The social app has long replaced phone calls, for convenience (images & audio) & security (encryption) for housewives and activists alike. We've leveled up and now a large chunk of work is done on WhatsApp. It's an invaluable reporting tool, especially in my field of work, supervising construction projects in remote villages in Darfur. Progress photos are non-negotiable. How are we going to old-school them apples?

6. No daily rewards. 

You may scoff but if you are a Candy Crush aficionado, you know this is huge. No extra moves, no additional lives. Just you and that candy and hours upon hours of mindless swiping. 

7. No apps. 

No online banking. Electricity (pre-paid) and phone credit are hoarded. No Uber. Flyers came up, individuals offering their services. No delivery apps. More and more hotlines are introduced as businesses struggle to stay relevant and communicable. 

No Waze, no Google Earth, no send me your location. We're back at the turn left at the third corner store on your right and we'll send one of the kids out so you know the place. 

8. No sharing. 

The isolation is crippling. All the horror that happened in Sudan was processed individually. 

While the internet was cut off, marauding militias roamed the streets, firing weapons and hankering for a fight. We were cut off from the world online and we were cut off from society on the ground. 

We did not walk in the funeral processions of our martyrs. We did not hold their mothers and weep. We didn't hug our bleeding friends. We didn't see our parents for Eid or visit our sick uncle in hospital or go to our neighbor's wedding. While the de facto curfew was in place, the entire nation suffered from cabin fever, stress and unspeakable grief. Alone. 

9. Rumors. 

Unverified and unverifiable. The absence of information creating an environment that is both toxic and fertile. Horrible stories. Unspeakable stories. Followed by a day or two of deafening silence until the rumor mill starts up again. What did they say? What did they do? What should we do? Obsessively cycling through news channels, then hiding for a day - or three. 

I read somewhere that the internet won't be back for 14 weeks. The telecom companies were instructed to suspend new applications for functioning connections needed for banking and government transactions. These connections obviously being tampered with, theoretically to avoid upload or download of horrific images and videos from the day of the massacre and the atrocities that continue. 

In the meantime, I'm receiving project reports by phone and conducting meetings about communication protocols. A suggestion that frequently comes up is facsimiles (Google it if you're younger than 40 and don’t live in Sudan or China). 

We're in a very strange place right now. Grief. Isolation. Numbness. Technological regression. 

But, wait. 

Our conviction remains unwavering. Our belief that we will be triumphant is unshakeable. Our faith in our country, our people, our youth, is stronger than ever. 

We will not be broken. We will rise. We will overcome. We will get the Sudan we deserve. 

Until then. We cry. We hold our children close. We play. We talk. We listen. We plan. We do. We hope. Repeat. 

Sudan, Are We Really Celebrating Women?

Now that it’s April, it’s time to take a moment and reflect – are we really celebrating women?

After the bells and whistles of International Women’s Day on March 8^th, followed by (Middle Eastern) Mother’s Day on March 21^st, we need to ask ourselves – what just happened here?

On the one hand, kudos to all Sudanese organizations that not only marked both events but actively celebrated them. Ubiquitous social media posts about events, awards and generous presents filled our time lines. Public figures and local celebrities were prominently featured – and a lot of cake.

On the other hand, what was conspicuously missing was the obvious. If we, as women, are to be acknowledged, appreciated, encouraged and celebrated, it needs to be in the form of action. We appreciate the accolades, but now organizations & governments, need to put their money where their mouth is.

Now that the cameras have stopped rolling, up next are policies, assurances and affirmative action. We need spaces to talk about our issues, we need forums to make our voices heard. We need a place to come together and make our voices heard.

There is a universal debate about gender income inequality and women’s issues in the workplace. Sudanese organizations need to sign up for real change and not just attempt to appease the womenfolk with beauty tips and flowers.

Now that we have established how essential women are throughout the month of March, I look forward to the seminars, workshops and legislation to come.

Historically, Sudan has been at the forefront of women’s development, with prominent pioneers in various areas. We need to step up and carry on the tradition, making sure that women are honored, with more than lip service, in the workplace and society.

It remains to be seen whether the Sudanese Government or Corporate Sudan will take the lead on this, but we all know that gender equality is good for economies and good for business. Your move.

The Cynical Human: What Social Media Means To Me

I rant and rave on Facebook. Nobody cares. Which is fine, because other people rant and rave on social media and I don't always care either. That's the beauty of Facebook, in a nutshell. You can find people with like-minded rants, judge people with different rants - or (my favorite) educate yourself and study human nature by following all the rants. 

The person that disagrees with you isn't always wrong and when they are (racist, misogynistic) if you look closely, you'll get an insight into the why. It's not that hard; most prejudice is ignorance. So what can we do with that information? We can educate ourselves and others. Easier said than done, but in a world of Google, blatant ignorance is inexcusable. 

I have yet to meet two people that argued online and ended up agreeing with each other (this delightful Canadian interaction is not an exception, they were on the same page and took the time to sort out the confusion).
So, you can put your faith in human nature and try to have a constructive discussion with your fellow human, you can troll the opposing camp for amusement (cheap, yet satisfying) or save your energy, put your thoughts out there and keep moving. 

That is why I rant, this is why I rave. I feel passionately about some things - Sudan, justice, equality, children's rights & gender rights to name a few - but I don't feel that anyone needs to share this passion with me (except my husband & kids, they're stuck with me). I would say my role is "news compilation"- a secondary source & resource. 

Feel free to ask, feel free to disagree & yes, please, feel free to share. 

My dream is for us to tap into our humanity & take it from there, doing what we can. Of course I'm cynical but given the chance, given a choice, I do believe that most people will choose to do the right thing. 
I also believe we are flawed & vulnerable, so a little empathy goes a long way. 

I can't be quiet, I can't not stand up and raise my voice. Education, awareness, empathy are much more important than sympathy. Raising your voice for the voiceless is now considered an outdated concept. We need to work towards a community where everyone has a voice and a place to make it heard. Once we hear each other, we can work together - or apart. My hope is that we all do our part for a better tomorrow - not for some, not for most - but for all. 

Who's with me? 

Don't Tell Me How to Grieve: On grief and loss

Don't tell me how to grieve. You do not understand my loss; you do not feel my pain.

Don't tell me how to grieve.

The loss of a child is unimaginable, the loss of a parent shakes your very existence. He was a baby, they may say. He is in heaven, they soothe. He was of me, you silently reply. He is connected to my soul.

A year or two. A day or two. Maybe younger than the ages you know or define. A butterfly in my womb; he was still, my child. Your parents, they say. Saw you grow, shared your joy. My parents, you say, have been with me all the way. I don't know life without them, I don't understand how to be. In their absence... I am not me. Of course there were fights, slammed doors, angry nights. But there were many, many hugs. Shared meals, shared tears. No success is complete, no triumph crowned without your mother's happy tears and your father standing proud.

Don't tell me not to mourn, don't tell me, life goes on. You don't know my pain, you can't feel my loss.

A grandparent sitting silently, in the corner of the room. His soul, soothes mine, in ways I can't define. Many times we complain, she's too demanding, or he's in pain. And then, one day, their silent presence is deafeningly loud. 

You're left to wonder about the relatives you'll never know and those old stories, Do you think they were true? That random cousin that visited once, What's the relation? You ask. That village they lived in, Where is it now? No one knows or no one cares, they are gone and that is that. 

Don't tell me how to grieve, as I lose my history.

Don't tell me how to grieve a future that will not be. 
I know you mean well, or maybe not. 
Right now, I don't care for I have loss and I have lost.

I've lost comfort or I've lost dreams. I have lost a part of me.

Only In Sudan: A Quest for Injera

I will not let a stranger in my car again. I will not let a stranger in my car again. I will not let a stranger in my car again.

I repeated this to myself over and over while I waited for the stranger to call another stranger to give me directions to a strange place. Not very smart, I know, but I still like to consider Khartoum a relatively safe place where one can go a little off script and come back with a story to tell. So here it is.

Hankering for some tibs firfir and having duly purchased the exotic sounding chili pepper from the Ethiopian church street vendors, all I needed to be on my way to an authentic Ethiopian meal was the injera.

I asked a few people where I could find it and eventually, the answers downsized from the ambiguous “Anywhere” to “Ethiopian places” to a slightly more convenient “Eldeim”. I was given vague directions which I thought I could navigate, having a finite area to work with that did not involve straying too far from my usual route.

I looked up the first location (Souq Eldeim, last left on Street 15 extension) and saw no sign of a market, bustling or otherwise (my bad for not checking Google Maps before I left the office). I then went to the second location (second left turn after El Ghaali Gas Station “right on the road”) and saw nothing. No restaurant, no shop, no nothing. I continued down my usual route and stopped at a place with a sign written in Amharic. Good a place to start as any, I figured. 

Trying to park off the road without disturbing the people waiting in the street for a ride while avoiding scratching my car on the rickshaw that had been flagged down simultaneously by two women was an #OnlyInSudan moment. Moving on, we politely smiled and tried to avoid squashing each other in a me-get-out-of-half-open-door, woman-not-getting-in-rickshaw-without-agreeing-to-price and other-woman-just-wants-out-of-heat-will-pay-rickshaw-anything and normal traffic dance.

We negotiated our way around each other, and I came face to face with “This is all I’m paying” lady. Thinking I had to start somewhere, I asked if she knew where I could find injera and I pointed at the Amharic sign, asking if they sold any. That’s a restaurant? It’s a beauty salon, she said.

“You want injera? Start your car, I’ll take you to a place!” she declared, barely waving away the rickshaw driver who had already welcomed his next fare, the more accommodating shade-seeking lady.

“I’m a fortune teller” she said, “I read coffee and water and other things”.

Bloody hell, I can’t roll my eyes while driving and I don’t know how this is supposed to go. What are the follow-up questions to fortune teller, I wondered.

“You want injera on a Wednesday, that means you have a zaar” and said something about boxes or containers.

“I honestly don’t have any idea what you are talking about.” First of all, I really didn’t (and still don’t) and second of all, I wanted to change the subject – witchcraft, sorcery and possession are really not my forte.

She got the hint and told me that she was looking for a job and was going to give me her phone number. She’d told me her name as soon as she got in the car and directly asked for mine. However tempting it was to say any made up name I could think of, she *had* told me her name – fair’s fair – so I told her mine. This resulted in her punctuating all her sentences with a resounding “Tagreed!” as I cringed with the familiarity of it all.

Names are powerful. We all know that (my buddy even wrote this blogpost on the subject). I remember watching Beauty and the Beast, back in the day and Gabriel never said the name of the child because to give someone your name is to give them power over you. (Yes, I was actually thinking all this in the car, before saying my name out loud). But I gave her my name because in my mind, lying would be worse (I’m pedantic like that).

So, we got to a place after a failed fishing attempt (“I know someone with heart trouble and we need medicine” “Go to the Salam Center – they’re free” which she dismissed with a simple, “Ah!”) before she got out to call the friend that she had come to visit who was going to lead me to the injera place. This is when my litany started.

I will not let a stranger in my car again. I will not let a stranger in my car again. I will not let a stranger in my car again.

She called her friend and they asked me to stay inside the house while they got the injera for me. Remember? That’s what I set out to buy. Even I had slightly forgotten at that point. I told them that I just needed the directions. Come on in, they insisted, have a cup of coffee. I really need to get back to my kids (bless their hearts for all the alibis and excuses they have given me over the years). It’s really close by, they insisted. Then I can drive there fast and head home, I replied.

They conceded the round.

I got the directions and guess what? The injera lady literally lives on my street! So I went inside her house (wondering for half a second if that was a smart idea), waited amongst a couple of sleeping cats while she poured, folded and bagged the goodies and I went on my merry way.

Lunch was delicious. Alhamdulillah.

I will not let a stranger in my car again. I will not let a stranger in my car again. I will not let a stranger in my car again.

Yes, she was very helpful. Yes, she got me where I wanted to go. I guess my problem is that I prefer sorcery and possession, or any mention of either, in books and movies. Water? Boxes? Zaar? Kindly maintain a safe distance. Thanks for everything!

Ode to Addis: Taggy & Co. Visit Abyssinia

Taggy & Co. Visit Abyssinia: These are my impressions of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, which I visited with my family for a few days around August 2014.

The good life is good but the simple life is amazing. 

On vacation, I usually seek basic necessities peppered with creature comforts and a splurge or two. So when I walked into the simple "villa" in Addis, I was a little skeptical.

The metal doors clanged loudly, most of the lights weren't working and the faucets did not respond to a simple command (you had one job). The landlord assured us that the water would be back by lunchtime (like it had gone on an errand) and the "groundskeeper" lady would replace the light bulbs and see to our needs.

Little did we know that in 3 days, we were talking about negotiating purchase of this bungalow that hit our family in all the right places.

The boys were fascinated by the small porch and rocky yard. We asked them to stay away from the overgrown garden but that didn't stop us from gazing at it lovingly, resting our eyes from the harshness of dry Khartoum.

The day we left home, the rains had started in Khartoum, so although it wasn't dry per se, nature remained conspicuously absent. The purpose of this trip to Addis was to reconnect with nature. Not camping or hiking reconnect but tree, grass and the occasional mountain reconnect.

We wanted our family to experience something different from the vicious cycle that was long work days followed by collapsing in our concrete box of an apartment. I wanted the boys to know that life as they know it, is not the definition of life. They needed to understand and appreciate different cultures, different worlds. I hoped that they could see a rainbow.

I am always surprised and offended how visitors and tourists look down on countries they are visiting.

"The food is not edible". Such arrogance! 

A more accurate phrase would be "I was not able to appreciate their cuisine" "It was too spicy for my palate" or something similar. The failing is yours, I assure you. Don't blame the vanilla if you prefer the chocolate.

You don't go to another country to be snide; you go as a guest, behave yourself accordingly. 

I noted how the place smelled different than what I was accustomed to; I assumed we smelled different to them too. Any public transportation system anywhere in the world will confirm that every nation has a particular "scent" so I wouldn't be too smug, my fellow tourist; you smell too.

Then we come to the effortless beauty of Ethiopia. The grace, the languid movement that does not hide the energy within. It's like watching a resting panther. The people move slowly and gracefully but you feel they can start running or break into dance in a heartbeat. 

I would have been more intimidated by the gorgeous physiques that surrounded me, had I believed they were in any way attainable. Seeing as I am not delusional, I absorbed the beauty like any appreciative star gazer.

The faces that surrounded me spoke to me of the heart of Africa, the kingdoms of Abyssinia. Regal, natural and effortless. My husband remarked at the absence of bleached complexions. I replied that they were comfortable within themselves, which is how I would describe the Ethiopia I saw. Unpretentious. Unassuming. Confident. 

They did not need pomp and circumstance so they did not seek it.

Our groundskeeper would leave early in the morning, wearing a crisp white shirt over her tight jeans. A black leather jacket and knit beret for warmth, carrying a compact umbrella for protection against the flash showers and she was ready to go. Her simple "look" will never be achieved by fashionista wannabes the world over.

One of the many tragedies of Sudan is nothing is effortless. Some Sudanese strive for Western culture, others dream of oil riches and the associated trappings and an attitude of discontentment is pervasive.

I absorbed this natural culture, this practical land. The beat up cars spoke to me of a pride not to be found in the shiny modern cars of Khartoum and their crippling installments. The glorious crowns of natural hair reflected a freedom that my flat iron will never give me.

I came across a few unnatural blondes and contrived curls but in my newfound theory these were an attempt to compensate for paunches and love handles. They were still breathtakingly beautiful. Men and women that were not beautiful in a "traditional sense" were still full of grace.

Inexplicably, the beauty and confidence that surrounded me, made me feel beautiful and confident. Like my subconscious had decided that I was looking in reflections. One would assume I would feel inadequate and secure but walking those streets, I too became an African queen.

Oh, Addis. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? What hidden treasure had we stumbled upon? Why were people seeking Atlantis or El Dorado? Addis was home to raw gems that shone in their natural habitat, in a cloudy backdrop of mist and rolling green mountains.

I cannot ignore the beggars that filled the streets. Their hard faces, dull eyes, clothes caked in mud. Their grace was well hidden, buried beneath their hard life and rags. Several were obviously organized, working in tandem. Life in Khartoum taught me what signs to look for when it comes to beggar gangs.

We saw one European man tackle a thief and pry his mobile phone out of the youth's hands. We held our children closer but that scene was probably being replicated in the gentleman's hometown so we did not feel overly threatened.

I felt that we had stumbled upon a magical land that was quaint without being genteel. It reminded me of Zanzibar, which my parents and I had called our second home for a few years.

I know I was looking through tourist goggles, I know the reality of their lives forces them to seek their livelihoods abroad, like us Sudanese and I know that I could never comprehend the challenges they face at a glance. But I wanted to see beauty and peace and serenity and joy and Addis Ababa gave me all that and then some. From the bottom of our hearts, we thank you, honor and cherish you.