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Vignettes

Benjamin, recently saw people digging in the cracks for durra, sorghum—little bits of it that fell in from the last food drop in February.  I am staring at an open can of tuna—starving—and can’t believe I forgot a spoon.  MedAir is no help—a spoon is way too exotic here. So I dish the tuna out of the can with my fingers and go off to meet commander George Athoor.   It is another half hour’s walk to his compound. Distances are always given in hours for walking and you double the time for Americans.  It is hard for a military commander to have presence when the only raw materials at your disposal are sticks and straw but George achieves it any way.  Multiple armed guards have been alerted and I am ushered into a huge straw walled area with one chair in the middle.  George is sitting in the chair—regal in his thatch Castle.  He is like everyone I’ve met here in southern Sudan—honest and dignified.  I tell him I want to show how his people are suffering—He wants to know some general information about my dealings in the north and it is just that simple—I start to work. 

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