I am so tired. I don’t know how many days have past since we have left Africa. We left the Safari abruptly, out of the Carnivore restaurant in Nairobi, to the airport to catch our flight for the States. This was three days ago? Tuesday night? With this time difference, I am also supposed to gain a day of my life back. So two days ago? I don’t know how to judge the time that has passed by already. I have so much to catch up on here in the U.S. I have to check all my emails from the last week, load all my documents and pictures onto this computer, schedule my doctor appointments, and start preparing for my move to Berkeley. But my luggage is still on the floor besides me, unpacked. My mind is everywhere right now. I want to visit my friends, but I need to run some errands while I am still in Cerritos. I want to update my blog, but I have to start packing for school. I want to send out emails, but I have to organize my belongings first.
But it isn’t the amount of work I have left to do that is distressing me. It is this searing nostalgia. In those moments I sat awake, unable to sleep during my 20-hour flight from Nairobi, my mind would slowly reel back to my time in Africa and to the people I missed so intensely—Jerome, Bishop, Father Vuni, Father Amayo, Father Mawa, Abby, Mark, Father Ben, Father Hector, Sister Florence and Helen, Joseph, Moses…and heck even Emmanuel. And when I tried to write in my journal to keep myself occupied, summoning up memories from the past few weeks in Africa only worsened the pain. On top of that, I could not stop my head from replaying John Mayer songs over and over again…songs that I listened to so much on Emma’s iPod in Sudan and songs that I now associate only with Africa. My mind was elsewhere, but my body was on this plane. And I hated it. I was not ready to leave. I did not want to leave. If it weren’t for my school and my family, I would have stayed longer…maybe for a few more years. Maybe to finish off what I came there for. Maybe for the RFP. Maybe for the 3700 nets I got for Moses to distribute. Maybe to see all of Eastern Equatoria covered with mosquito nets by the next rainy season…and to have all-case child mortality reduce by 17% through our efforts, ideally.
But I wanted to see more than that. I wanted to be there to see our Diocese grow and build its reputation. I wanted to witness the children of Kimotong living past the age of 5 because of our 500 nets, and to see the faces of mothers who were happy to have us help them. I wanted to be there when, within the next 3 years, PSI successfully delivers nets to all of Southern Sudan. And when it does, I want to be there to witness the changes taking place as a result of their distribution. To see the burden of malaria significantly reduced, to see fewer children die annually because of it, and to see, for the first time in a long time, the government receiving recognition for this. Recognition so that the next time a crisis calls Southern Sudan, the people will trust their government to answer and protect them. That whether there be another drought, famine, or disease, their government will be there to relieve them from their suffering. That it will do what it can in its power to help them, and that it will follow John Garang’s motto to “bring the towns to the villages”.
Because the last thing I want for these people is another war. Malaria should be the least of their problems. As I said my goodbyes when leaving Torit, and I looked at Abby one last time, my eyes started to water. I tried so hard to hold it in, but I couldn’t help it. The tears just rolled out. Abby leads a tough life. As a Kenyan in Sudan, she cooks for the Diocese three times a day and earns a meager salary for her 4-year old son. There is nothing so tiring and monotonous. And I felt so sorry for her. It seemed unfair that I could just hop on a plane and leave all of these people behind, leave all our work incomplete. And I thought about her son catching malaria, like one of those children I see in the statistics of my spreadsheet, and I thought about how malaria could affect the children of the people whom I have grown to love for the past two months...
They did not deserve it. They did not deserve to suffer such an easy, preventable disease that people in the U.S. never have to encounter. They have so many other problems to think about and malaria should be the least of their concerns. It was heartbreaking to know that I was supposed to help them rid this wretched disease, but did not. Yet malaria is just one of those things that can be stopped. The reason why Ed made us work on malaria in the first place is because it is a disease that does not discriminate; everyone does not fear talking about it. If we can help the government rid this problem, then the people will feel that their country is doing something for them. I want the people to trust their government. I want them to give credit to their government for these efforts, to the same government that shed blood for them during the war so that they could live in peace. Because when the referendum comes up in 2011, the time for these people to vote for independence or not, I pray by that time the people of Southern Sudan will have enough confidence in their country to vote for independence. That their country will prosper if they do break away from Khartoum. And I pray that there will be no war. No violence, no cattle raiding, no shootings. And that nothing happens to the people I love so much over there.
I want to come back to Sudan. I will be following it closely on the news. Not Darfur, but Southern Sudan. I will keep in touch, and I will never forget this summer. I have learned so much about East Africa, about public health, about the frustrations of trying to get work done in country that needs help desperately. And although there was a period of time when I had lost my faith in public health, dealing with the bureaucracy of international NGOs and governmental organizations, when I wanted to change my career path and pursue medicine just so I could see direct results, even if it meant going against my motto, “It is better to prevent than to cure”, I think I am going to stick with public health. Crying with Abby toughened my resolve, ironically.
This isn't to say that I am going to completely dismiss a potential career in medicine, much to the happiness of my parents. It is personally satisfying to know that when a person comes up to you asking for help, you can give it to them directly. And that is needed in Africa, in India, in the U.S., in anywhere else around the world. So even if it is super competitive, I may just try for a joint M.D. /MPH degree.
But this will be in about two years. Hopefully by then this pain of leaving Africa behind will dissolve. To be honest, I don’t think I would have ever been ready to leave. It took something like school to uproot me from my life in Sudan. I miss the greenery, the fruits, the simplicity of life. But most of all, I miss the people. The Sudanese have suffered so much, but their courage and willingness to abide by their principles despite what they have gone through is truly remarkable…and unlike anything I have ever seen before. But I promise to come back when I have the money…to Uganda, to see Jerome, to Sudan, to see Father Vuni, to stay with the Bishop in Kuron Peace Village. No one in the U.S. will understand the mark that Sudan has branded into my heart, as evidenced by the first fight I had with my mother in the car about my desire to go back. I was so heated, I did not even realize the paved roads and the modernity of life surrounding the 105 freeway.
I still have to get approval from my parents to come back, but until then, I thank the Sudanese for all they have done for me. For their hospitality, for bearing my ignorance about Africa before coming there, for restoring my faith in humanity, and for showing me the great lengths that courage and integrity can carry someone. These people have been an inspiration to my life, and I will never forget them. I miss them dearly. I miss them so much it hurts sometimes.
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