humanitarian life

The 1st International Agok Dance Competition! by Sarah Rawlins

*The views expressed in this blog do not represent the views of MSF*

They say that burn out is high here. They say that you must really take care to ensure that you don’t become another ‘casualty ‘of the environment. One thing that has made Agok special, at least during my time in the field, are the events and activities my teammates have conjured up specifically to combat this emotional, mental and physical lethargy that so many experience during their time here. To be honest however, when I first heard word about the ‘dance competition’, my initial reaction was to feel even more exhaustion. I could not remember the last time that I had a free weekend, let alone even one free evening to myself. Planning for the competition was underway; posters were hung, draped and plastered onto every surface, announcing when the first round of auditions would be held, when the second round of auditions would be held and then finally when the actual competition would be held. I heard murmurs of costumes, of props of music selection and my response was… “when will I possibly have the time to partake in this!?” ‘And costumes!??’ I think if I hadn’t felt so exhausted, my response would have been one of pure elation as I LOVE to dance. So normally, this would be MY event.

As things started to come together however, I realized that this was actually therapeutic and beautiful.  As the sun began to set, crowds started to gather into a large circle. Before we knew it, the competition was well underway. Together we watched in awe and amusement as first the maternity department ‘took the stage’. Dancers dressed in tennis shoes with knee-high socks, dyed red layered skirts, white T-shirts and red and black poker style top hats flew into the arena shouting, singing and dancing. The leader entered first, weaving in and out of the crowds carrying a huge shield and a leopard print loin cloth.

When the log team was announced, probably forty, shirtless, 7-foot-tall midnight sky black South Sudanese men came running into the center of the circle. Some had MSF masking tape-bracelets around their arms, others sported belts, from which hung empty Dettol bottles, keys, water bottles and other ‘log paraphernalia’. They danced, ran, jumped, kicked up an excessive amount of dust and discharged waves of testosterone into the heavy South Sudanese night air.

Then there was the ‘Western Dance Group’, a mixture of hip hop and modern dance to raise the energy even further.

Being on the expat team, our dances and costumes were of course thrown together and improvised and paled in comparison to what the others presented, however the entertainment factor was high. The air was filled with laughter as probably over a hundred people watched us dance la Bomba to a G-string wearing sumo wrestling hippopotamus who was projected onto a screen in front of us. We all had leopard printed bandanas around our heads, except for our fearless leader, who had also made himself a leopard print G-string (over his pants of course). We saved our ‘performance for the end’, so as to not set any precedence and so as to merely end the evening with some lighthearted entertainment. We knew that we had no chance of winning the competition.

'La Bomba'crew. 

The real stars of the night however, were the Acholi group. They danced their way into the open, the women coming first and then the men. They had fashioned headpieces out of feathers, wire coiling and metal washers. The women all wore, full pleated skirts which served to accentuate even the slightest hip or buttock shake. The dance was beautiful. It was a song. A story. Ultimately, it was a dance of Peace.

Acholi Peace Dancers.

The men of the Acholi. 

Acholi in Action. 

The Acholi head-piece making its rounds. 

Here, in the middle of war-ravaged South Sudan, we were dancing for peace, choosing to celebrate one another’s differences rather than let them divide us. For a moment, I contemplated how to bottle this spirit of peace and spread it freely outside Agok, until it had permeated all 28 states with its sweet aroma. If only it were that simple. For now, we will continue to dance, to celebrate what it means to be alive, to love one another, to honor and respect one another and to cherish our differences, because our differences are beautiful.

You know you're aid worker on holiday when... by Sarah Rawlins

You arrive in Juba to be greeted by a freshly minted fleet of Chinese UN peacekeeping troops who are surrounding and lounging in the airport, which is nothing but several tents duct-taped to each other with cardboard signs stating things like, ‘immigration here’.

You leave the airport only to still be surrounded by men touting camo and weapons…this time it is thousands of SPLA troops who have been brought in to help keep peace around the holidays….or so you are told.

You climb to the rooftop of your aid worker guest house, are hit by 38-degree heat, then look as the aid worker sitting next to you on the couch lets out an aerosolized spray of fake snow into the muggy air. White drops liquefy in the heat before settling onto the concrete floor beneath you. In the distance you hear the drum of helicopters.

Someone brings out good wine, chocolate and cheese and you feel as if it’s the best thing that could possibly happen to you. In fact, such a rare moment that you feel an overwhelming need to eat everything in front of you; all at once and as fast as possible.

You find yourself fashioning a Christmas tree out of toilet paper rolls, used beer cans and bottles of liquor.

You can’t help but laugh and notice the irony of being in a war torn country and seeing cars driving down the streets that are wrapped like Christmas presents.

Corny Christmas music and airport Christmas carolers are actually a welcome reprieve from what otherwise feels nothing like Christmas.

The ‘Christmas’ movies chosen by your fellow aid workers include titles such as ‘Deepwater Horizon', the movie documenting the BP oil crisis.

Aid Worker Christmas Tree.  

Aid Worker Christmas Tree. 

 

Everyone has Stories by Sarah Rawlins

Even when we live together, we segregate ourselves. We form our little groups, find our place of comfort and all too often forget that there is much to be learned from the very people who we find ourselves judging. We miss out on this deep well of great beauty when we fail to take the time to hear people’s stories. I don’t say this as an admonishment. These words are for me as much as they are for you.

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