Disruptive Compassion by Hal Donaldson

Author:Hal Donaldson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zondervan
Published: 2019-05-18T00:00:00+00:00

Exiting the 747 jetliner in Khartoum, Sudan, my shoes felt like they melted the moment I touched the tarmac. It was 117 degrees, and I was there to write a story on the refugee crisis. Reportedly, more than 700,000 people were at risk, and an estimated two million had already died over the years from war, famine, and disease. Displacement rates were astronomical, with five million people forced to flee their homes. It was an ongoing tragedy that much of the world had overlooked.

The following day, our guide led our film crew and me atop a hotel to take photographs and B-roll footage of the city’s landscape and the impressive Nile River. We disregarded our taxi driver’s warning not to take pictures or travel outside the city until we obtained a government permit. Poor decision. I was interviewing our guide when five soldiers with rifles stormed the roof. Instinctively I tucked my recording device in my underwear. (I was born for espionage.) They shouted and brandished their weapons.

“They’re telling us to raise our hands and surrender our cameras,” the guide said. “Your passports too.”

We complied, but they weren’t satisfied with that. The barrel of a rifle jabbed into my back as they escorted us downstairs. I could just hear Oprah’s voice in my head saying, “Don’t let them take you to a second location.”

“Where are they taking us?” I asked.

“To their commander,” the guide whispered. “Be careful what you say.” His warning did nothing to assuage my alarm. Next time we’ll get a permit, I told myself.

Once we reached our destination, one by one we were taken to interrogation rooms and locked inside with a soldier.

“Who sent you?” he demanded in broken English.

“We came to help the refugees.”

“No, who sent you?” he repeated.

“American press—we came to bring attention to the refugees.” I had hardly finished my statement when he pointed and said, “CIA!”

I handed him my press badge. “No—the press.”

“CIA.”

“Press.”

The volley and grilling lasted an hour, until finally he flung open the door and motioned for me to leave. I rejoined the team and we quickly gathered our passports and cameras and fled the building.

An hour later, we entered a refugee camp to rendezvous with a UN representative. He said water sources in western Sudan had dried up and food prices had skyrocketed. “Many are surviving on roots and leaves, and meningitis is spreading,” he said. He rolled out a map and showed us where fighting continued to rage between government forces and recessionist groups. “Missionaries and relief workers have also been targeted in these areas. They’re putting their own lives at risk but have chosen to ignore evacuation orders.”

The camp was a maze of mud-brick dwellings. No shade trees, no running water, no electricity. It was a dust bowl. It was hard to fathom: an estimated two million people were living in settlements just like this one.

“Why have you chosen to stay?” I asked the rep, my shirt soaked in perspiration.

“I don’t see an end to this crisis anytime soon,” he said.

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