Don’t forget Darfur

Darfur, up close and personal.

Where is that pesky little place, anyhow? Why do these sad, sad faces invade my living room?

I’ve worked hard all week. I’m looking forward to a weekend of relaxing … a cold beer and some sports. An array of mixed organic vegetables is prepared as I think about the sports lineup for the weekend. But these children, with their beautiful faces and haunting eyes … they are everywhere. Infants cradled in mothers’ arms. Toddlers struggling to keep up, all meandering in deafening silence. All trudging on without a glimmer of hope. No beginning, no end in sight … just a resolve to get there. Where is “there”? Will it be better than the place they left? No promises. No hope. No end to the parade of listless marchers.

Abou Shouk Camp, North Darfur, Sudan

They’ve arrived. More than a million displaced Darfurians, victims of ethnic and political conflict. These gentle people are in desperate need of food, shelter, water, and sanitation. Their long journey brought them to an overcrowded, make-shift refugee camp. High fever and weight loss overtook a number of the children; many died. A high price to pay for the importance of hygiene. In such an overcrowded environment, good hygiene became the difference between life or death.

The deaths have slowed since 2004, especially among the children. For that we are grateful.

We must, however, take responsibility for these Darfurians. They are our brothers and sisters. All of them.

America, in contrast

That is Darfur. A very different picture is conjured up in America, where the children run about with content bellies … fidget and fuss, whine and complain … with every conceivable comfort and convenience at their fingertips … still not satisfied. Next time you’re at McDonald’s or Burger King, just look at the children. Here’s one now … absent-mindedly picking at a French fry. As he reaches for his soft drink, he knocks it over, watching the liquid spill and splash everywhere. Mother patiently cleans the drink up, as he obediently bites into a lukewarm and neglected hamburger. The mother scolds, cajoles, and soothes the whiney, fidgety child. It is obvious he doesn’t have the patience for lunch. He is anxious to join his friends outside. The children--noisy children--play on the activity gym, crawling through tubes, sliding down the slide, swinging on the swing. They are a happy, rag-tag group. Darfur means nothing to them. Sadly, it probably doesn’t mean much to their parents, either.