The Last Eggs in Western Sudan

Community support systems serve as a lifeline in many countries and the foundation for community development. This is particularly true in Sudan.

Early in my career, I served as a regional manager in El Obeid in western Sudan for an international organization where I made an unexpected connection with a young girl and her family that shaped my view of community development. It happened before broad access to the internet so communication between the organization’s sub-office in El Obeid and Khartoum, the capital of Sudan, was limited to a short-wave radio augmented by memos delivered by occasional travelers. I was on the road almost constantly, traveling from one project site or office to another. I found it difficult to sit still in my office for long. I still do.

Looking back, my time in western Sudan served as a profound political, technical, and management learning experience. I was in charge of a large staff - most of whom were Sudanese along with a couple of Americans - two sub-offices, warehouses full of humanitarian supplies, and a programmatic territory similar in size to California and Nevada combined. Although I was not provided formal language training, I picked up Sudanese Arabic by using it every day with my very patient colleagues. With some tutoring on the side, I was soon conversant although, regrettably, illiterate. My frequent road trips involved meeting with staff, talking with project participants, and holding conversations with Sudanese government counterparts on the status of project activities that ranged from health to agriculture to humanitarian response.

I will always remember one site visit to check on an agriculture program working with local farmers. We stopped in a small village of 10 to 12 households who were literally living on the edge. The village was surrounded on three sides by sand, miles and miles of it, along with scattered bushes, short acacia trees, and the occasional gigantic baobab tree that stores water in its trunk for dry spells, which are as common in Sudan as snowstorms in northern Minnesota where I grew up.

I traveled with a Sudanese technical officer and the purpose of our trip was to talk with farmers about project activities. We were invited into the mud and thatch hut of one family living on the edge of the village and, as we observed, surviving day to day. They had three young children, two girls standing across the room and looking at me as if I were a Martian from outer space. The mother sat on a stool near me with an infant napping in her arms. My Sudanese colleague started the conversation with extensive greetings and asking for updates on how each family in the community was faring. This lengthy prelude is a critical part of the Sudanese culture and the only pathway to an open, friendly conversation. Over time, I learned that Sudanese are strikingly straightforward if - and only if - one first caught up on family, friends, and the community.

Following the greetings and catch up, I listened to the conversation between the staff member and father about recent rainfall, seeds, and related farming topics but out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the girls start to creep slowly towards me to get a closer look. She wore a worn but clean yellow dress and her hair was carefully braided into small rows. I turned my head slightly and motioned with my hand for her to come closer, but she suddenly stopped and looked at her mother who nodded her head. Inch by inch, the young girl crept closer to me. While I tried to continue listening to the discussion, my potential encounter with the little girl was too intriguing. Every time I looked directly at her, she immediately stopped and looked at her mother.

After about three minutes of glacial progress, the girl was standing next to me but clearly in flight-or-fight mode. Hands clenched and eyes wide, she appeared ready to run. Without looking at her, I opened my hand and ever-so-slowly moved it towards her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her look at her mother who nodded her head again. The little girl reached out and carefully put her hand in mine, and I slowly closed my fingers around hers, turned my head, and smiled at her. A subtle but clear electric spark moved between us but the connection lasted just seconds. She quickly pulled her hand from mine and ran back to the other side of the hut near her father. Perhaps she feared being too close to an unusual looking human or the spark between us startled her. Or maybe she received enough of a connection to last a lifetime, like I did.

As we wrapped up the project discussion and headed out to our car, the mother gave us two eggs while the father apologized for not being able to offer more. I knew from previous travel in Sudan that we could not refuse the gift as it would have been a serious insult. It is the custom in western Sudan to provide all travelers food and a place to rest. It is based on the ethos that today you help travelers as tomorrow it might be you or a hungry family member on the road. We thanked them profusely and headed out to another project site in our comfortable SUV.

The official purpose of that visit was to gather feedback and data on the impact of a donor-funded agriculture project, but the real result for me was a connection with a young girl and an important cultural lesson that has lasted for decades. Imagine the positive impact if we all behaved like the Sudanese family and the young daughter by connecting with and helping one another every day in small ways that ripple outward.

I wonder where that girl is today given decades of drought, conflict, and inconceivable hardship in Sudan. Today, this traditional Sudanese community support and protection system is literally keeping many neighborhoods together – and literally alive – in the midst of a brutal conflict fueled by a complicated maze of Sudanese combatants, outside mercenaries, and international players with their eyes on Sudan’s abundant gold, oil, and other natural resources.

I recently had the opportunity to briefly work on another project founded on the Sudanese tradition of neighbors and communities supporting and protecting one another. Tragically, it was abruptly closed with the dismantling of USAID. Although many of the local organizations have since closed or drastically cut back their support, I understand that many informal support systems are still operational with funding from the Sudanese diaspora, private philanthropy, and other donors. Individuals are donating medicine they no longer need to a network that passes it on to someone in the neighborhood or across town. And neighbors cook and share food together, including, no doubt, the last eggs in many households.