Not a huge entry, but I did observe some things today that I want to record for posterity.
So, as most of you probably remember, I interviewed a few Darfuri refugees during my first week at work in Kampala. After realizing that I wasn't doing a terribly good job, though, I decided to informally withdraw from participating to that extent. However, the interviews are mostly concluded now -- the ones in Kampala as well as the ones from South Sudan, and as I happen to type > 115 words per minute, it has fallen to me to type up the narratives from these interviews. For the interviews in Kampala, this mostly is just literally typing up an English translation narrative that one of the interviewers had written. For the ones from South Sudan, I'm working with one of the interviewers on translating them from Arabic, mostly as a silent typist, but every once in a while asking for clarification or helping come up with the right word for the translation.
The important thing to know is that all of the interviewers (except myself and one Ugandan) are themselves Darfuri refugees. They have all been absolutely lovely, and they all seem to like me rather a lot. Until today, it was easy to forget that they've all probably been traumatized by what happened in Darfur: they seem like nice, normal African guys who happen to be from Darfur.
I met with the interviewer who led the trip to South Sudan today, despite it being Saturday. He told me that he's homesick and wants to go back to Darfur for a visit this week, and I decided to do extra work on the weekend so he can get back sooner -- he won't go back until all the interviews are translated. We made a pretty significant dent today, with one mild "speed bump." We had just started working on an interview with a woman from Darfur, and he was telling me about how she had been really well-off before 2003, and then had to move to Khartoum and do basic domestic chores for a living. He remembered interviewing this particular woman, and he told me that she was having a lot of problems adjusting to her new life. He started telling me about the years he had spent traveling around in Darfur working as a translator, and relaying some of the stories of people he had met there. And then all of a sudden, he stood up, rifled through his backpack for a pack of cigarettes, and walked out of the room, telling me to finish drinking my tea.
It doesn't sound that dramatic, but there was something about the whole thing that forcibly reminded me that he's a victim, too. His mannerisms so clearly exuded trauma that I didn't know what to do. I let him go, and when he finally came back in, I asked him if he needed to stop working, but he insisted that he was fine. He bounced back admirably, and we kept working for another few hours, but it was different. We didn't joke around as much as we had been, and I spent a lot more time just silently typing what he was dictating. I didn't know what else to do -- he's much older than I am, and for the sake of our professional relationship I couldn't ask what happened to him or what kinds of things he's seen.
Despite having gone to the Middle East this year to actively seek out victims of torture for resettlement in the United States, this was the first time I've seen a traumatized person really act traumatized. And I was alone and completely unprepared; it never really sank in until that moment that these friendly, well-adjusted, professional people are refugees from a genocide, and that I have no idea what their stories really are.
Quite a Saturday.
So, as most of you probably remember, I interviewed a few Darfuri refugees during my first week at work in Kampala. After realizing that I wasn't doing a terribly good job, though, I decided to informally withdraw from participating to that extent. However, the interviews are mostly concluded now -- the ones in Kampala as well as the ones from South Sudan, and as I happen to type > 115 words per minute, it has fallen to me to type up the narratives from these interviews. For the interviews in Kampala, this mostly is just literally typing up an English translation narrative that one of the interviewers had written. For the ones from South Sudan, I'm working with one of the interviewers on translating them from Arabic, mostly as a silent typist, but every once in a while asking for clarification or helping come up with the right word for the translation.
The important thing to know is that all of the interviewers (except myself and one Ugandan) are themselves Darfuri refugees. They have all been absolutely lovely, and they all seem to like me rather a lot. Until today, it was easy to forget that they've all probably been traumatized by what happened in Darfur: they seem like nice, normal African guys who happen to be from Darfur.
I met with the interviewer who led the trip to South Sudan today, despite it being Saturday. He told me that he's homesick and wants to go back to Darfur for a visit this week, and I decided to do extra work on the weekend so he can get back sooner -- he won't go back until all the interviews are translated. We made a pretty significant dent today, with one mild "speed bump." We had just started working on an interview with a woman from Darfur, and he was telling me about how she had been really well-off before 2003, and then had to move to Khartoum and do basic domestic chores for a living. He remembered interviewing this particular woman, and he told me that she was having a lot of problems adjusting to her new life. He started telling me about the years he had spent traveling around in Darfur working as a translator, and relaying some of the stories of people he had met there. And then all of a sudden, he stood up, rifled through his backpack for a pack of cigarettes, and walked out of the room, telling me to finish drinking my tea.
It doesn't sound that dramatic, but there was something about the whole thing that forcibly reminded me that he's a victim, too. His mannerisms so clearly exuded trauma that I didn't know what to do. I let him go, and when he finally came back in, I asked him if he needed to stop working, but he insisted that he was fine. He bounced back admirably, and we kept working for another few hours, but it was different. We didn't joke around as much as we had been, and I spent a lot more time just silently typing what he was dictating. I didn't know what else to do -- he's much older than I am, and for the sake of our professional relationship I couldn't ask what happened to him or what kinds of things he's seen.
Despite having gone to the Middle East this year to actively seek out victims of torture for resettlement in the United States, this was the first time I've seen a traumatized person really act traumatized. And I was alone and completely unprepared; it never really sank in until that moment that these friendly, well-adjusted, professional people are refugees from a genocide, and that I have no idea what their stories really are.
Quite a Saturday.
Kates, you are quite an observer and very sensitive. What a day. what a story.
ReplyDeleteLove,
Mom
Katie,
ReplyDeleteThis is very important work you're doing. It must be very difficult to witness these sorts of things. You write about them so well.
Love,
Uncle Larry
You are really making a difference Katie - hard as it all might be - it must be a wondeful feeling to know you're doing good!
ReplyDelete