Frontline Journal

Walking for Firewood

By Cassandra Nelson

Dafur, Sudan

I left Hessa Hissa camp at dawn with a group of six young women. Behind us, the unending rows of makeshift tents began to bustle as more than 20,000 displaced people began their day, thankful to be alive. As we walked along the dusty road leading out of the camp and into the vast Sudanese plains, other small groups of women and girls joined us. The women paused each time to exchange greetings. Strangers and neighbors were warmly welcomed to the growing contingent: "There is safety in numbers," they told me.

I was accompanying a group of women on their daily task to gather firewood for cooking. A once routine chore that now can produce grave consequences in Darfur, Sudan.

After half an hour of brisk walking, we came to a wadi and waded across the river. When we reached the other side, the women began to split off in different directions in search of the ever-dwindling supply of wood. My original group of six was alone again as we headed up the hills and into the trees. Now, we were deep in Janjaweed territory. Here the women of Darfur have been attacked almost daily by marauding, armed militias—raped, beaten, harassed, and robbed.

We walked on another hour before finally stopping. Now I could see the terror in their eyes and body language. Their familiar and persistent smiles faded. No one uttered a word.

The women quickly fanned-out, each selecting a tree to set to work on. The tall grass and shrubs obscured any line of sight between the women, but you could hear each steadily working and chopping the dead wood from the trees with rhythmic swooshes of their axes. I remained with Gumra, a 20 year-old single mother of two. Her husband left her and both her parents died several years ago. Her village was attacked by the Janjaweed and burned to the ground last October.

Gumra began pulling branches from a tree with her bare hands, while her baby son Motis slept strapped on her back. She broke her axe several weeks ago and didn't have any money to fix it. Now she uses her hands and later, when the other women finish collecting wood, they lend her an axe to finish her work.

The swooshing and clamor of the wood cutting continued, as every woman strained to detect any sound of approaching intruders. They have developed a system for when the Janjaweed attack: the one who is attacked or sees the Janjaweed first will yell to alert her companions of the danger. Then every woman runs as fast as possible towards camp-calling out to the other groups of women along the way. They know they cannot fight the Janjaweed, who come on horses and camels, carrying guns and weapons, but if they help each other, some of them can manage to escape.

Gumra stopped her work to nurse her crying baby. She untied the rags she made a makeshift baby satchel out of and tenderly put little Motis on her lap. Her love and concern for her child overshadowed the fear in her eyes. But then that was why she was out here—two hours away from the camp. Two hours away from safety. She makes this journey into the heart of terror every day to provide for her family. She has no other choice.

As I watched this woman and saw her courage in the face of fear, her love in an environment fraught with hate, and her nurturing in a place of hostility, I was reminded of Rana.

Two and a half years ago, I was reporting on the war in Afghanistan and visited the refugee camps near Jalalabad in eastern Afghanistan. It was there that I met Rana, an Afghan refugee, a mother of six children, a widow, and a woman with more courage and strength than I could comprehend. As I walked around the destitute camp and witnessed the horrors of children dying from hunger and disease, she came to me and greeted me with a firm handshake and a direct look into my eyes. She carried all the confidence of a CEO; only her "board room" was a wooden pole with a tattered plastic sheet draped over it. She invited me in and explained the problems the camp faced—no food, no water, no health care, no school. She never flinched, begged, or cried. She did not pity herself or her situation. She simply stated the facts. I sat dumbfounded as images of my life of washing machines, refrigerators, restaurants, and shopping malls flashed through my mind. I silently vowed I would do something to help her and her community.

Three weeks later I came back to the Afghan refugee camp, only this time with 50 tons of wheat and rice. Friends and friends-of-friends had all donated money to help buy food when I told them what I had witnessed. At the time, I was a journalist, not an aid worker. But something in Rana had touched me deeply and I needed to do more than write words and take pictures.

When I arrived with the trucks of food, I asked the camp manager to find Rana, so I could thank her for inspiring me and giving me strength to do something I had never done. After a long absence, the camp manager returned with a short woman in a burka. Rana was tall and didn't wear a burka. I was about to complain that this was not the right woman when I realized that this was just another Rana. Another one of thousands upon thousands of women who struggle every day to survive, to take care of their families, and to create a better future despite the violence, the politics, and the injustices that shatter their lives.

Rana became a symbol to me. A symbol of hope because where there is strength and compassion, there is a chance for a better future. She inspired me to change my career and join Mercy Corps, an international humanitarian aid organization committed to ending oppression, helping the most vulnerable people, and building just communities. In my numerous missions with Mercy Corps, I have met hundreds of Rana's who continue to inspire me even when the situation may seem hopeless.

As I stood out on the hills of Darfur, on watch for the Janjaweed, I knew that Gumra was another Rana: A woman like so many others who will not give up, who will not be defeated. Her axe may have broken, but never her spirit.

Gumra finished collecting her firewood and stacked it in a neat bundle, tying it with an old piece of frayed rope. She rearranged little Motis on her back and then lifted the heavy bundle onto her head and began her long journey home to the camp. This is just one journey of many that lie ahead for Gumra and the hundreds of thousand of women from Darfur who have been driven from their homes and fled to camps for refugees and displaced people in search of safety, food, and shelter for their families.

Cassandra Nelson is working in Darfur, Sudan, with Mercy Corps, an international relief and development organization. With support from donors worldwide, over 2,000 staff and volunteers change lives every day, reaching more than 6 million people in 38 countries torn by poverty and conflict throughout Africa, Asia, the Middle East, Europe and the Americas. www.mercycorps.org