Personal experience. Where the cameras do not come, the war does not exist. And even starvation, massacres, civil and religious conflicts. Three weeks in Darfur are a round trip ticket, without a round trip, because the spirit and nerves remain where they sow their empathy.
They stay where you can not stay, and you have to download things, aid, basic needs unthinkable in our world, with the tension of the instant, beating on time a bullet careless, a ruthless mine, an unnamed illness. phot [ blogs.muskegonisd]
We, the missionaries, we were reported missing, but it was almost wanted. Reaching the hair bulb of Darfur is not ordinary history, nor orderly. Lack even the cardinal points. Rare motorized transports pass in the deserted street, which has the color of the sun equal to the sand, and you can’t distinguish it until you see it jump in a patch of excessive and sudden green. Early in the morning the horizon expands in lazy breaths, interrupted only by the crackling rattle of the dull gunfire, deceived from the dunes and the distances: they are always more than how many can jump on the eye and the imagination.
A few birds with a similar note of the skylark fly flapping their wings slowly, stiffly and serene perched on the branches more accessible to the fruits. Everything, in Africa, has a hypnotic rhythm that lasts from the birth of the world; is the most tired continent. The human race, here, plays a crucial role, because the air, by contrast, is young and full of messages. It carries with it the certainty of the call, of the song, or the back of the storm: water, wind, insects, and sometimes blind bullets. It is an old land that makes feel young. A few days of hugs and agreements in support of a reason to live and the pleasure to talk, to look at, to be spontaneous not for stretch. Even the rescuer has its needs.
There, nobody wants the social network, or his product passed off in the store with his face, signature, consent, and the desire to drown the drabness of ordinary life. No recognition pays more than a smile shared in silence, eye to eye, drowning a tear or a hope in the deep sea of thoughts.
Our name will be destroyed in a few years, and the urge to communicate will be lost with his tragic futility. The wake that remains is another thing, it is stuff that can not be transmitted on the certificates or packed in an industrial product, but occupies a shy and fresh angle of memory. In my own littleness, before beginning the tour of the far-flung outposts, I picked up the shards of the future like stones broken from the violence of a landslide, throwing them in the oases which interrupted the vastness of that waves of nothing. Sometimes I met stragglers fugitives without direction, with the eyes still crossed by the barbarism.
They followed us like shadows for a while, hungry for food and a break from the truth, then they resumed to run, as chased by relentlessly ghosts. Some of them settle in villages of mud out of each route, most goes into the city, where it’s easier to get confused. But even die. At twelve, thirteen, by us, is a drama, but there is common language.
Emotions are short and fierce, so fast to age between hands. Maybe this is the reason why adolescents grow up with an adult face, a mature body: the time should not be advanced. It’s a concise doom, which uses four words instead of our twenty, and in a few steps comes to men and to God. “Because we are exiled in life”, they say, “with the heart unleashed”.