the un-heroic

I get up in the morning and go for a run…I eat a bowl of corn flakes for breakfast and sometimes complain when people don’t put the milk back in the fridge and it get warm. I leave dirty cloths on my floor, and go to work 10 minutes late most days. My typical day involves a lot of meetings with other people from Europe and the US and the occasional entry into the African Union compound and the Sudanese Ministry of Education. I sit at a computer for a lot of the day, use Excel, and email when it’s working. At night I play poker, or watch a movie, or read a book. Friends come over and we “talk shop” until it’s late and we call it a night. On good days I go out to the field and talk to different groups about programs we are running. Usually I only talk for 20-30 minutes and then my national staff takes over. More often then not I am a figure head. In fact, a stern looking, life size, card board cut out might have the same effect if done properly. The field is often simply glorified camping, except someone usually makes dinner for me here. I am not a hero. What I do here is not special as much as it is just different. Some marvel at my willingness to be here, I am amazed at those who can live in the suburbs. I don’t mean that as a criticism but rather as an example of contrast to how different we all are. But heroic…far from it. I can always leave. If it ever gets too tuff for me I could jump on the next plane back to the states, I probably won’t…but the option is there. On my good days I’m average, on my bad a D-.

Who are the heroes here? Its not us “humanitarians”, I am certain of that. I would like to say the Sudanese people, but as the violence increases and every project we run is met with endless corruption by the people we are trying to help I am less and less certain I could say that. It’s as though everyone is out to “get theirs” while the “getting” is good. It doesn’t make them bad people, just un-heroic like myself…human if you will.

I have met one hero here…his name is Abdul. He was a teacher for 12 years, math, English, and Arabic. He has five kids under the age of 12 who adore him and a wife who loves him. He could probably run the education program all by himself, but willingly submits to some young punk from the US who doesn’t even speak any Arabic! He works for me, but more importantly works with me. He makes me laugh daily, helps me understand life here always, and shares his cigarettes with me when in the field. He knows everyone everywhere and they all love him. He could be bitter and angry and daily chooses not to be. He is honest and kind and a good friend. He cannot leave here and must live amongst the violence. He has chosen to work for positive change in what seems like a hopeless situation. He is a hero in all of the small ways and the large ones as well. So before you shower me with praise, of which I am certainly grateful if also often undeserving, please think of Abdul and be thankful that he is here with me.