30 Day Flip Phone Challenge: Day 1

At exactly 3 pm yesterday, I closed my Twitter app and opened Instagram, only to realize that I'd already seen/double-tapped on every new picture posted. So I got off that and turned to Snapchat, thank God! Someone had posted an update. Of course it was just a single Snap, so I went through that, responded to the Snaps I'd gotten, and made my way back to Twitter.  Standard right?

Except I might have been doing that for a little over two hours (let procrastination be my excuse), when finally I caught a glimpse of something different on my Instagram's popular page. Four pictures of the same book cover, posted by random people. Interest now spiked, I turned to my GoodReads app and decided I should add it to my long list of books-I-would-read-when-I-found-the-time (or when I wasn't wasting all my time idly transitioning between social media apps). Nevermind that the list had grown to 200+ books, what really bothered me was the mean little "Reading goal" reminder that GoodReads puts out. Basically, at the eve of January, you're encouraged to set a number of books you want to have read by the end of that new year. GoodReads then calculates how many books you would need to read per day/week/month to reach your goal. It's a really cool way to get people motivated to read more, except to me it was a realization that I was, not only 2 books behind schedule, but also that I had only read 1 out of the 20 books I wanted to read this year. So, what's wrong with that? Last year I had the ambition of a scholar set to read a book a week, now I was telling myself it would be great if I could get through a book a month, and then some. Depressing.

Something had to change, because being dumbed down by a smartphone is not okay (at least not if you're trying to pose as an anti-mainstream, ridiculing-sheep-tendencies type hipster). So I switched off my smartphone and wiped the dust off this old thing:

Of course while looking for it, I had to go through a box full of novels, Débuts Speak-French-Now CD's and workbooks, strums and teach-yourself books that came with my now-dusty guitar, hardened paint brushes and barely-used acrylics, yellowing canvases with half-finished paintings, and some of my old writing journals. Fantastic! As if I needed more reinforcements to the fact that I was now a pro at wasting time, here was a box of potentials that I never made the time to explore. Is that it? Of course not, I then came here to write about my human experiment, only to realize that I have a lot, I mean A LOT, of articles and stories accumulating dust and sorrow in my Drafts box. 

Of course, it wouldn't be fair to say that technology is all a waste of time but a noticeable trend of modern-day time is this dependency on technology, that often turns into a crippling addiction. If you're out with a group of friends for a meal, it is natural to find a smartphone, face-up, in front of each one of them. I used to stop, mid-conversation, if I noticed that the person I was talking to was looking at their phone. At first this was just out of politeness (to make sure the person wasn't missing out on any of the interesting details I had to offer about my day), but eventually it became an act of annoyance. Here you were trying to connect (pun-intended) with another human being, face-to-face, while they were more interested in a message/post (that would still be there after you left, by the way). What's even funnier is that these same people would be insanely upset when you don't instantly respond to their texts. Anyways, needless to say, I soon became one of these not-very-pleasant people. Naturally, this has affected the quality of most real-time social interactions (surprise, surprise). You go out to take selfies and pictures of whatever you're doing, then you spend some time tweeting about the book/movie/show/conversation you're supposed to be reading/watching/having, then you go home and tell the world, again, about how entertaining your life is, before you engage in a few pseudo-intellectual conversations. You then go to sleep, only to rise the next morning and do it all over again. The best part of it all is that, no one really cares. Like will the world reaaaaally stop if you don't tweet/snap/instagram/share-every-waking-detail-of-your-day?(hilarious, but also so true it's sad). I doubt it, and those who do really care are usually people you can meet/talk to off social media sites anyways.

Point-being, this is a blog post about my intention to detox from my smart phone addiction. Maybe I'll post a weekly article about my journey back to the stone age, and maybe I'll actually realize the true point of this experiment and I won't post anything but finished stories/articles from my sad little Drafts box. Either ways, here's to conquering technology instead of letting it conquer you. (Wow, I feel like I've already realized my inner guru, so if all else fails, at least I have that.)

But Juba, You Were Supposed To Be The Good One!

So the world's youngest country, South Sudan, has alegedly just squashed down its first coup. They have successfully carried out the Sudanese legacy of political strife, and yet again, gunshots fill the streets with the familiarity of rivalry. Yay or nay?

Neither. This could be just another post about my "expert" opinion (because we all know everyone who is bold enough to state their opinions on such matters, usually thinks they're an expert of some sort) on the state of affairs in South Sudan. Or I could go on and on about how grateful I am that the state is steering clear of what would have been another heavy load on it's plate. But I won't. The idea that has been itching at my surface is more fitted to the grand scheme of things. 

Legacies?

As soon as I heard about the turbulence surrounding the coup, two completely contradictory thoughts struck my mind. The first was "Oh my God! I hope this does not escalate into another civil war, with the South Sudanese people getting caught in the midst of it, yet again." and the second was "Hah! So much for "ethnic" rivalry. I can't wait for the details behind this whole matter to go public, it will be a good waking call."

Here is why I think that. For as long as I can remember, Sudan and South Sudan have always been at each other's throats. The country has witnessed decades of civil war, and for the longest time I was made to believe that this was a war of ethnicity. The 'Arabs' of the North are at war with Black-Africans of the South. (Or in weaker relays of the story, they'll tell you it's just another Christian minority being victimized by the wicked Muslims.) For as long as I remember, any paper or article that spoke about the North and the South did not fail to distinguish the rivalry along ethnic, religious, or racial lines. Which in my humble opinion, is pure bullshit. I don't mean to say that there aren't any distinct differences between the two Sudans, but these differences hover over the (once) whole country. Sudan has always held different ethnicities within its borders. For ages, this has resulted in new cultural fads, so that the Sudanese individual, whether he identifies as an Arab or an African, inevitably carries a legacy from both cultures. Whether you like it or not, we are all bottles of 2-in-1 products. Anyways, I'm going on a tangent that's not the point.

The bigger picture is, this absurd simplification of a multilateral issue that has plagued Sudan for a long time, is now coming to show its real teeth. Many of the commentaries on the recent coup have had a surprised undertone to them. Especially the ones who've grown used to calling it an ethnic/religious/racial dilemma, you know, the outlets who have only bothered to examine the issue's surface. They, of course will not understand what's really going on right now.  I mean technically, the South is all parts black-African now. They've gotten rid of the evil Muslim majority. So what's the problem? Why isn't this new Sudan working, Goddamn it?! 

My idea is because they (as in the bigoted commenters and, to an extent, the South Sudanese public) have address a problem that did not really need addressing. The problem was not that the North despised the South for their religious/racial belongings, therefore exploiting there resources and killing them mindlessly. The problem, at heart, is not an idealogical one. These are all means of polarizing ends and adding oil to the fire. The problem is a natural one. Resources. It has always been, and will always be a problem of resources.

Every single entity (as far as my research goes), whether they identify themselves along idealogical, religious, racial, or ethnic lines, has this obsessive want to over-eat. Every one wants the bigger piece of the pie, because no one believes there is enough pie to go around. (Economists will tell you there isn't, but let's assume we all just want enough pie to satisfy our hunger, minus the idea of profit.) Thus, no matter whose narrative it is, Somalia or South Africa; be it a democracy, or an islamic dictatorship; the bigger man always wants to eat the smaller man's pie. So what does he do? He calls the small man black, or Christian, or whatever, and then exploits him. The world of course believes it and says, look at this! Smh. Another bigoted African state going at it like hyenas and monkeys. Poor them. When will they learn how to steal like civilized human beings (because let's face it, we've yet to see a euphoric corruption-free country that truly shares its pies equally and fairly.)

Thus our ill-management has bred these trust issues that tempt men to plan coups and dishevel a fragile state, as is going on with South Sudan now. Almost every Sudanese individual, in this day and age, has trust issues with "the other" especially if they are in power. Which is only normal. If you lived for decades, seeing power corrupt whoever it touches, you'd have an issue with it too. If you grew hungry, oppressed, illiterate, and distraught every time you stood farther and farther away from the leading group, you would hate "the other "too. So, I think we need to stop calling it an idealogical problem. We need to peel this  nasty colonial skin off of our minds, and stop drawing the problem along racial/religious lines. We need to grow up and look our demon in the eye! We need to admit that we are incompetent, as a nation, and as state leaders. Then we need to seek therapy. Yes, therapy to cleanse our systematically brain-washed souls, so that we can fix what's really broken. Our bellies.

Anyways, the point is, if you were one of those people who though, NO! Juba, you were supposed to be the sane Sudan. The good one that has fought to gain its freedom. The one who knows what the struggle looks like, and therefore works long an hard to give her people that light at the end of the tunnel. Good news, you're not alone. Bad news, you've been looking at it wrong all this time. Sadly, it seems only natural that the coup would take place. The average student only knows what he is taught, and this is what Sudan's history has taught us. Impatience. We all want our country to be the glorious state it (assumedly) once was. But more importantly we want our basic human rights. So we fight everything standing in the way of that, except our own incompetence. We fight the British, then we fight the South/North, and now we(as northerners) are fighting extremist Muslims, while the South fights a superficial ghost of democracy. Our neighbors are only our friends so long as we have the same enemy, upon which we can hang our dirty coats of failures.  Each time we are victorious over (what we think is) another demon, we are left frustrated because our problems fail to disappear with that victory (be it independence, another political coup, the subduing of a rebellious ethnic minority, or the partition of the Sudans). That is why as soon as our joint enemy is out of the equation, we look to our neighbors and our neighbors look onto us in search of another scapegoat, or coatrack. Meanwhile, we remain malnourished, pain-stricken, illiterate, poor and cold. All problems of resources, because we can neither trust "the other" to give us our basic human rights. Nor can we identify with "the other" to give to them like we give to our own.

Retweet, Revolt! Hashtag, Abena!

"I think people in Sudan should stop protesting (in the chaotic way they did when the revolts first sprang up) because if this continues we'll just turn into another Somalia." She said "And seeing what happened with the other Arab countries, I don't think it's worth it."

"But we don't get to decide." I replied sourly. "I don't think they should stop, but I do think they should get organized. Also this is nothing like Somalia, what happened there was because no one had a common enemy, each group wanted to hold power over 'the other' and they fought about it for decades. WE, collectively want to be in power, as in a democracy... but what we want more is to live with dignity... Or should I say THEY..." I sighed, "Because realistically we have to sort of separate ourselves from the people in Sudan."

I had this conversation with my cousin early last week, when riots had flooded the country with destruction. During the early signs of revolt, when both private and public property were vandalized, most people were reluctant and fearful of what the future would hold for Sudan. We all felt something big was happening, but we were reluctant to call it a revolution yet... probably out of fear that we might jinx it like the last two times. Some are still reluctant to call it a revolution to this day; sure, these few share half a brain and/or wear military uniforms but we'll assume their voices count toward something, just for the sake of playing it even or whatever. Anyways, later that week, I spoke to my cousin again before I headed out to the demonstrations in front of the Sudanese embassy in Washington, DC. She asked me what good it would do and I got all defensive, despite the fact that I, too, was initially reluctant about the idea of a revolution. (Actually, had you asked me two weeks ago if I thought Sudan should revolt, I would have convinced you that it shouldn't. But that is a whole different story.)

On my way to the embassy, I told myself a number of lies to convince myself that I was serving the cause. I mean look at me, I am a great Sudanese citizen that hasn't forgotten her country or lost her identity despite being born a global nomad. (Seriously, where's my medal?) Tonight when I go to bed I can pat myself on the back for a job well done! It is not my fault that I can't put my life on the line for Sudan even though I really want to. "انما الاعمال بالنيات"(The value of deeds are in the intentions they are carried out with). Actually, so what if the people dying in Sudan don't know that some girl lost her voice in protest because she wanted to see a better Sudan, just like them. (If you know me at all you could probably guess this turned into a metaphoric existential discussion between me and an imagined voice of Sudan. No joke.) Anyways, by the end of the protest I felt uplifted, and as the crowd dispersed they rolled up their signs and went on living the lives they had just put on hold for a few hours.(another luxury people in Sudan could not afford. Damn us moghtarbeen and our luxurious life.) Of course we reassured ourselves by promising that this was not the end. The demonstrations would take place again, next week. The revolution would go on until victory was attained.

When I came home, my father (who, I think, was a little bitter since he couldn't join me because of a bad leg) sarcastically asked me "Aha, inshallah you brought down Al Basheer?" Of course I was infuriated beyond words. I simply stomped out of the room, but it is hard to say his words only sunk in skin deep. So for the next few days, my role as an expat(or the lack thereof) paranoid me. I kept thinking, if this revolution fails (yes, I used the F word. I'm sorry, bear with me) the expats would surely carry part of the blame. But when it succeeds, how many expats can rejoice and say "WE did it!" without feeling like they were free-riding off copyrighted efforts? Furthermore, I continuously asked myself "What the hell am I doing?"

The question soon turned into a more pressing one, "What could I do?" Tell people in college about it? Write a new poem? Preform it any time an open mic presented itself so people knew what was going on? Retweet informative tweets ending with #SudanRevolts/ابينا#? Would that be enough? Maybe I could write a new story that would raise awareness? The story of the martyrs! Yes, I would etch them into a living memory. But then how would I get their stories? Where do I start? What if their families don't have access to the internet? If only I was in Sudan... All roads lead back to Sudan... Sure, condescending such efforts is a bitter train of thought because we all know the great role social media sites played in the rise and fall of former dictators during the infamous Arab Spring. But realistically speaking, those means were put up on a pedestal because they helped organize the masses. Again I ask, what role did the expats play? Moral support?

As ridiculous as that may sound, I do think that the Sudanese diaspora is one of the leading exporters of moral support for those within Sudan. Which might seem of little value, but let us consider one ofthe sole reasons this revolt has gone on for so long. Dam Al Shuhada'! (The Martyrs' blood!) However which way we choose to look at it, the protests on the street are refueled by the anger of losing hundreds of our brothers, sisters, daughters and sons in a week, backed by the inconceivable thought of their blood ruining in vain. This thought, in essence, is just a form of moral support isn't it? So why is it that we undermine the moral support provided by tweeps and facebook-ers abroad?  Of course, the revolution feeds itself. Most of the government's vicious acts only pour into the nation's anger, and that tips over the Sudanese pot which has been boiling for decades with the bitter ingredients of bloodshed, civil wars, poverty, disease, and (dun dun daa) the rising number of expats and refugees. However, the whole of the revolution is really just a sum of its parts.

We expats, sadly, have very little physical influence on this revolution. My options are limited, and I know many members of the Sudanese diasporas in various countries share my frustration. We do play a tiny part, but it persists to be a part that must be played. All of us do not need to die, for Sudan to get better. In fact, none of us should die in this transition. (Besides various members of the Janjaweed and the NCP. I swear if air could speak it would say: stop wasting me and drop dead.) The country will definitely need people to build it back up when all this is over and done with, by then we can discuss physical contributions. For now, you should be content knowing that the faith we put into protestors on the street plays a part in the revolutions success. Knowing that the spotlight is on them, and an increasing number of people are watching their plight and praying for their success will hopefully strengthen their will and eliminate any possibility of backing down!

You might be familiar with my preferred style of blogging. I rarely state my opinions straight out because I prefer to present people with ideas to flavor as they like, and chew on at their convenience rather than giving you my thoughts condensed, to chug down or throw out. But on this specific issue, I could not think of a way to sugar coat it. If you think you're not contributing to the revolution every time you talk about it to a friend, or on a social media site, you're going about it the wrong way! There is a reason the government tried to bubble in news of the revolution by cutting off the internet. Everything counts! Just today I had a friend ask me about the demonstrations in DC, and whether the Americans knew what was going on. Did the world care? Yes the world cares, or at least the most important parts of it do. The little groups of Sudanese ambassadors called expats care, and we are proud of our nation for speaking up. We keep telling everyone who passes us by how proud we are, and they promise to keep you in their prayers. We will not give up on you, just don't give up on what's left of our homeland.

P.S.: There are other practical things you could do as well, such as collecting donations/donating for the treatment of people injured in protest. Also, if you have any access to the family/friends of a martyr(s), to whom I owe my deepest condolences, please contact me or help me get in touch with them. Thank you in advance!

Too Young To Be So Old

Fatima was only two years young, and today she was out to see the world. She skipped alongside her father, singing "Mama's coming home tonight, Mama's bearing me gifts alright". In seconds, a man wearing faded jeans, and a shirt too old to look clean leaned out the side of a moving bus, snapped his fingers and yelled "Araby, Araby, Araby". That was their cue, and her father halted her to a stop before the bus got too close to annihilating them. He pulled out a few bills and exchanged them for a ride. As Fatima stepped onto the  floor of the old Mitsubishi-excuse of a public transport vehicle, a young boy around her age caught her attention. Perched up on his tired mother's lap, he was wearing a well-fitted, clean suit. He looked like a sample of importance, off to some special event. His eyes twinkled a little, like it was his first day out into the big world too. He smiled and clapped his hands singing "Mama's coming home tonight, Mama's bearing me gifts alright". But Fatima didn't see any of that. Instead she tugged on her father's sleeve and whispered, "Baba! Look." Pointing at his suit and chuckling, "Haramy Sagheer!" (Young thief)

Her baba turned around to dedicate his attention to the source of his little angel's witty comment. When he found a young black boy in a black suit he did not lash out at her. Instead he laughed and playfully pinched her arm, it was almost like a tickle rather than a reproach. Somewhere deep inside his sleeping conscious, her father knew that she was too young to detect an honest face from a criminal's; and somewhere deeper he knew that a lie was detected in one's eyes, not identified by the color of one's skin. Yet, he laughed gleefully at the throat-cutting comment his young one just made, because somehow the devil on his shoulder convinced him that "She was too young to understand". 


But dear Abu-Fatima, she will grow older, and in her lifetime she will see the color of skin before the context of character. She already understood that having full lips and a dark hue of melanin meant being poor and less of a person than she was. Just that morning, her mother stripped her of her golden bracelet claiming that there were too many thieves at the market. But no one had told her what a thief was supposed to look like, all she knew was that time and time again her father clasped his wallet tighter when a dark man with shaggy clothes walked by. She didn't know that their features were, in fact, similar to those of her great grandfathers. She didn't know that they could work hard and earn an honorable living just like her father did. She didn't know that there was a bloody explanation to why their clothes were shabby. ; and that someone out there decided to betray God's decree of equality and bestow a war-infested fate on the "young thief's" people, just because they were different. Nevertheless, she is the future of a divided nation who was never taught unity. As such, our broken present sort of makes sense now, doesn't it? How do you break this cycle of prejudice when you don't even know it's unjustified? How do you understand it is unjustified when you haven't been taught that hate speech is not a breech of your freedom, or that racism is not right?

As I relay this story, I remember someone asking me about my people's outlook on diversity, and how they classified themselves. They were basically asking me to define my racial belonging, and identify myself. In trying to explain how my forefathers probably thought they were better than his, I found that I too was trying to understand this identity puzzle I was born into. It may be outdated to say that our souls do not choose the bodies they inhabit, but is it misguided to say that we do not always choose the definition of our souls, either? It is true that we are not born with stereotypes and fields of classification embedded into our minds like veins to the heart. But then how do we explain someone so young preaching concepts that only an old, corrupt soul is meant to comprehend? Indeed, we often unconsciously pass down legacies, and I believe that is mainly because at some point in time these legacies turn into norms practiced so casually. Thus, when Palestine is recognized merely as a non-member state after sixty-five years, no one questions why it took us so long. For the most part, people seem to have lost faith in their cause, or maybe they had forgotten them all together. It is not a surprise, then, that the genocides in Darfur and South Kurdufan have not even been recognized as conflicts worthy of global intervention. But what does, in fact, strike me is that tomorrow Abu-Fatima might call on the world and ask them to aid Sudan. Therefore, I wonder how it is that we find the audacity to call for change when we refuse to accept our black african brothers and sisters as indispensable organs of the Sudanese body, meanwhile refusing to completely assimilate with our Arab counterparts. We almost refuse the two sides but ask to be classified as an entity of both simultaneously, and the worse part is we don't even realize it! This is what makes the cycle difficult to break.  Nevertheless, all hope is not lost, and maybe somewhere out there Fatima will break loose of these social buckles and chains, and write to the world a blog post in an attempt to create a mental revolution that paves the way for a tolerable future.    

Tears of the Desert

"For two hours they held the school. They abused the girls in front of their friends, forcing them to watch what they were doing. Any girls who tried to resist were beaten in the head with sticks or rifle butts.

"Before they left, they spat on us and urinated on us," Sumiah whispered. "They said: 'We will let you live so you can tell you mothers and fathers and brothers what we did to you. Tell them from us: If you stay, the same and worse will happen to you all. Next time, we will show no mercy. Leave this land. Sudan is for the Arabs. It is not for black dogs and slaves'"          ~Tears of the Desert [Halimah Bashir]

As I read these words I blubbered up like a child as I came to realize that nothing I had gone through during my few years on this planet could possibly compare to the horror and grief those young girls must have experienced. But more than that I was utterly ashamed, because the author, a Darfurian of pure, African Zaghawa decent, blamed the Arabs for the horrific crimes committed against the people of Darfur, and somewhere in my heart I knew that she was not completely off. Halimah Bashir relays the atrocities committed by the Janjaweed onto young school girls between the ages of seven and thirteen. The Janjaweed are a coalition of gunmen from different Sudanese Arab tribes who have been employed to do the Sudanese government's "dirty work" in Darfur, and, recently, Eastern Chad. Surely, there aren't very many people who have not heard of the war ON Darfur (I say on because it is a war of terror, where the weaker entity is slowly, and fiercely being eliminated. Some have even gone so far as to call it a genocide, and who is to say it isn't at this point.) But the war in itself is an evasive topic many men before me have done a better job than I can ever attempt to do, trying to explain and describe it. As such, this piece might mention the war, but shall dwell on those who stand by idly watching it with little knowledge of the essence and meanings behind the oppression in Darfur.

The other day I was walking to class when  a stand bearing a large banner that read "Help the Women of Darfur!" bought my attention. I felt obliged to walk over and ask the two young American ladies what they were up to. Apparently they were supporting some aid organization by selling chap-sticks covered in the Super Man logo. Without thought, I quickly took out what money I had and handed it over to the wide-eyed blonde who was speaking. As I handed her the money I told her that I was Sudanese and had felt obliged to come here and "help" upon reading "Darfur" on their banner. The girl smiled, nodded and said "Oh", as she handed me a chap-stick and wished me a good day. Clearly she had no clue where Sudan or Darfur was, or how it was related to what they were doing, since she gave me a look that read "Why would you tell us this?". To her, this was just another African cause, for that distant, dark continent full of woes and misgivings. Upon further thought, I was confused, and I wondered if the few dollars I had just helped or harmed the humble people of Darfur. More likely than not, the money would not even make it to those who needed it the most, so I decided neither.

As such I wonder, when people refer to Darfur in their substantial speeches of crime and genocide, do they actually know what they are talking about or are they regurgitating the words of Komla Dumor from the BBC? Do they know that the Darfurians are Muslim? Why then are they trying to tell me that the war in Sudan is one of religion? Did they know that the Fur tribe of West Darfur are the original inhabitants of the Cushtic lands, and it is they who conquered lands east and north of present day Darfur to formulate the Kingdom of Cush? Did they know that the kingdom of Cush had managed to topple and rule over the Ancient Egyptians? Did you know that these same great peoples are today being called "black dogs and slaves" simply because they are of black African ethnicity? Did you know that they blame me and every other Arab Sudanese for the loss of their children, their parents, their homes, and their lives? I bet you didn't know they blame you too. The more questions I ask, the more enraged I feel coming up with answers that all point to inexcusable ignorance.

But I cannot point a finger at the world with out pointing three at my own people. For the man who claims Sudan is for the Arabs, I ask, do you speak on my behalf? For all I comprehend is that you are speaking with half a brain. Please make it clear to me, help me understand what tragic accident has caused you to forget your history? To forget who you are?! When the arabs crossed the Red Sea, do you think they saw the two shades of difference between you and the people of west or south Sudan? I assure you, they would have captured you and shipped you off to labor just as soon as they would have every other inhabitant of your land! If you claim the people of Darfur, the Nuba Mountains, and the South are black dogs, I beg of you to step beyond the borders of my dear continent to see that to the world, you are indistinguishable from those dogs.  So what gives you the right to run an entire peoples out of their homes, after torturing them and burning down their homes and towns? Who recognized you as a man of superior ethnicity when even to the Arabs you wish so eagerly to be like, you are just another khal—another black man.

Often, here in The States, when I tell people I am from Sudan, they usually nod and smile with a casual "Wow! You're a long way from home." But if they are knowledgeable enough, they might ask "The North or the South?"

This particular question stirs up ambivalent emotions in me, for despite my educated upbringings some part of me has been nurtured to associate the south with poverty, and dark, african features. Thus the first image that comes to mind at such a question, is one of a tall dark woman with bold African features and kinky hair. Not the complete opposite of what I am—short, with slightly lighter skin, mixed Arab-African features, and smooth hair. As I internally question how I could explain the differences that distinguish a Northern Sudanese from a Southern/Wester Sudanese without referring to color or sounding arrogant, I realize that our differences might as well be skin deep, for at the thought of the West or South of Sudan I only recall physical features. In reality we share much of a similar Sudanese culture, but the civil war has turned us against each other and widened the gap between our people. Furthermore, as I quickly respond, "I am from the North" people almost automatically reiterate with "Oh, the muslim part?" Yes, Northern Sudan is predominantly muslim but why is that they key identifier of the North? I feel there is nothing that binds Islam to the hate and injustice bestowed on the whole of Sudan by the merciless ruling party. In fact, within the people of the South there is a minority group of Muslims who have been targeted just like every other Christian. The war in Sudan is purely one of politicized spite, for surly the fight between the Darfurians and the Janjaweed cannot be one of religion. It angers me that the media, time and time again reduces it to Arab-vs-African when the different ethnic factions in Darfur have coexisted for ages. The rebels that stirred up a quarrel in Darfur were mainly reacting to the governments neglect, and the government found no other way to keep its hands clean than to play the "tribal card"

The international community seems to be eager to bestow the blame on Omar alBashir for the countless lives lost in western Sudan, but when push comes to shove every man turns his back and claims that getting involved might only make matters worse. So I wonder, what could be worse than to see your mothers and sisters raped and abused before your eyes? What could possibly be worse than having to live everyday with an abundance of fear in your heart, praying to God that your father won't be shot while you are made to watch, like that other boy with his dad from the village near by? I wonder— if Sudan had had as much natural resources as Afghanistan or Iraq, would that have elevated the country to a status worthy of humanity's help and compassion? By compassion I do not mean buy and sell chap-sticks, but to learn. Learn of the struggles in Sudan, Burma, Palestine, Afghanistan, Congo, and every other bleeding nation of the world. Learn about the problems that should concern you just as they do me, so that when you offer to donate money you know that your donations will reach its intended parties, and not be seized by radical, oppressive, militias somewhere along the way (later be used towards the funding of more weapons of mass murder and crime). Learn to be human, and say no one SHOULD be butchered, and driven out of their homes because of the way they were born! No one SHOULD be raped at the age of eight because the abuser thinks they are BLACK DOGS. And as such, there must be something to right the wrongs, because if it SHOULD NOT be happening, that means what is going on is not natural and there is a way to change it. There is a way to make a difference, and HELP. 

But for what little difference it might make, I cannot end this with out deeply and sincerely apologizing to the brave people of the diverse Sudan. I hear your cries, I feel your pain and I know that you think it is my fault. I know the Arab-speaking people have done you wrong many a times, but they are not my people, in fact they are merely nomadic savage beasts left behind by a cruel ancient time foreign to my own. I do not believe Sudan is for the Arabs, nor is it for the Africans. It is the home of the bridge atop which both ethnicities meet. It is home to the black, white, blue, brown, green, muslim, christian, animist, tall, short, fat, thin, diverse SUDANESE.

Civil to Savage

At some point in time man walked with a refined savagery to his step. He was a civilized ogre in the realm of beasts, easily distinguishable from the animals he preyed upon. His disheveled attire, tousled hair and mud-stained skin did not render him easy on the eyes, but he was a man. He did not hunt fellow men out of pure spite, but hunted to eat, and ate only enough to silence the mumbles of his ravished paunch. I imagine there was no question of greed, since the civilized beasts hunted in groups and every member received his or her fair share of the feast. Every man stood on his own ground, not on the grounds, or rather the heads, of other men.

Nature had built their homes, but when these homes failed to shelter them from that same nature's own capricious winds, they simply left. Thus I wonder, were their souls not attached to the caves that housed them? Why did they not fight the force to maintain their grounds? How did they simply resign? How is it that they  were in full comprehension of the fact that some day those same capricious winds might find them in their next home, only to say: you must go back to where we met prior, since it is my time to sweep this region of its current state. 

What is it that the textbooks are not telling me? For I know they keep a secret from me, since the men in question are not animals as history suggests. They have stories aesthetically documented on the walls of their numerous god-given homes. They seem to have loved enough to come together and create more refined beasts. They seemed to have had some sort of community governed by the primitive laws of humanity. Albeit, they could not fly or keep time, nor did they have a Facebook and retain an ice box that could guarantee they would not go hungry tomorrow, they seem to have had minds. Brains that, despite their primitive state, did not allow power to fog their internal moral radars. They did not learn of human rights, nor were they policed by super-national global organizations. Simply, the refined ogre sought resources but only took what he needed. It did not occur to man that he had any right to seize that which belonged to another because I believe he knew, somewhere in his heart, that nature was generous. It simply could not give one man with out compensating for the right of another.

As such, these men I know of in the age of globalization appall me, for I fail to understand what they are made of or which breed of animal fathered such brutality. Adam was made of the earth and thus cherished it, but these men scorch land, and all that walks upon it, in utter carelessness. Their minds have succeeded to create modern means of convenience, but somewhere along time they seem to have traded in those brains, along with their hearts, for rocks. In fact, it may even be that they gifted their brains to some devil, for I do not know of a rock that could kill two million people in a few months. I do not comprehend the nature of that which drives man to fight with such viciousness for the right remain within a community that detests and repels him.

In vain I look to the scholars for answers to these inquiries, but they all point me to the refined ogre we stemmed off from. They tell me power is inconsiderate, blind, and chaotic. It corrupts all who embrace it, and after it engulfs their souls, it calls upon greed to join it. Then they say, it is merely human nature, my child. That is where they lose me. 

"Well, were Cain and Able not brothers? Did blood not kill blood?" They question me, claiming my confusion is out of place.

"Yes", I say. "But is the love of a woman not a noble cause incomparable to the love for power? A woman can love you back, but what reciprocal does power offer?"

"Oh my child, you speak with naivety! As is expected from a young soul who has not lived to learn. Have you not heard of the elevated stature power grants a man? Can you not see that to have power is to command fear in the hearts of others, to the extent that you rise above all. And from that exalted pedestal, my child, one can have all the women his heart desires!"

I am at awe...

"But what good is standing on a pedestal raised to height by the corpses of men murdered only to maintain said power? What good is stature when you only incite fear, to the effect that you become detached from humanity? Even the lion knows not to prey on his fellow coterie, and doesn't he continue to retain the title of King?"

"But you must understand that humans are more complex as a result of an intricate global society"

"If man is so esteemed, how is it that he does not create his society, as oppose to the vice-versa you speak of? In fact, he does and it is he who chooses to mold society from a convoluted clay."

I do not understand, nor do I wish to. I believe I am merely nostalgic for a time preceding mine by infinite centuries. As the rest of the world stands by idly watching, I can do nothing but apologize.

I apologize, dear Syria, that they refuse to hear your cries. It seems that to be re-elected and to maintain power is much more valuable than the blood of all your children combined. I understand you, for my people cry in vain too. THEY did not hear the whimpers of Darfur before you, nor the screeches of Rwanda before them so do not hold your breath for grace now. Excuse them, for they are color blind,  and bloody red does not fall within the spectrum of their sight. You and I do not have enough black gold to buy their attention. Basheer and Bashar do not hold appeals the magnitude of Saddam's. As such we must cry, and bleed, and die to prove that we are not animals. It is human nature to fight for survival for even our ancestral civilized ogres were faced with savage beasts much stronger, albeit they used to be furrier beasts, the ones you face today are indeed one and the same. Do not be fooled by their ability to walk on twos! They do not cry like we do, they do not eat what we do, they do not feel like we do, they are not of our same species. 

I would say be patient and that after every rain comes sunshine, but nature has failed to explain to me the origins of these "men". They are not habitual to the humane world you and I hail from. Indeed they are savage foreigners ungoverned by the moral norms that bind you and I, and as such I do not know how long they will execute their ill-guided ways upon your poor, burdened souls. 

But till you gain refuge, I apologize!