Coping with changein the Red Sea Hills

A Beja village sceneOmeim village is encircled by baremountains with jagged peaks, the colourof iron ore. The line of Beja tents areperched like the up-turned hulls of shipson a long line of black rock. A few acaciatrees, shaved and flattened by the wind,dot the sand dunes. The day-timetemperature in this valley can reach 45degrees. It seems almost a miracle thatanyone can actually survive in thisdesperately harsh place.

The sun is setting in an orange glowbehind the mountains. One star appearsand the call to prayer can be heard,echoing round the valley. Young menpass by, carrying traditional Beja

swords, on their way to the villagemosque — a shelter made from dompalm leaves. Every now and againcamels pad by, their feet making a softplop plop noise as they sink into thesand.

A smell of roasting coffee fills the air.To the Beja, coffee is essential and life-sustaining. Even when there is no food,dignity is maintained if there is coffee tooffer to guests. It is served in tiny cups,laden with sugar and tinged withginger. For the Beja, the jebana — thetraditional clay coffee pot — is a symbolof home.

Drawing water at a well inDahant Settlement, RedSea Hills

28

Once the Beja were a mostlypastoralist people, moving fromone seasonal grazing area to

another with their herds. Like many othernomadic or semi-nomadic groups, theirway of life has become more and moreprecarious, undermined by prolongeddrought. The mainstay of the Bejaeconomy was, traditionally, livestock:mainly camels, but also sheep and goats.Surplus animals could be sold to buy grain,coffee, and sugar from markets in townssuch as Tokar. The Beja grew some basicfood-stuffs, but subsistence agriculturewas always secondary to animal herding.

It was a lifestyle well suited to the harshenvironment. The land was protected fromover-grazing and over-cultivation by theseasonal movements of people and animalsfrom one area to another. The large tents ofthe Beja would simply be dismantled andloaded on to camels, and the whole villagewould be on the move. In times ofhardship, such as drought, communitiesadopted a system called silif, in whichresources are shared out in the community,particularly to those most vulnerable.

Perhaps because of their nomadic way oflife, the Beja have little influence on econ-omic and social policies, either regionally

or nationally. Education and healthservices in the area are very limited, andthe Beja find it hard to gain direct entryinto wider markets. Despite the problemsof nomadic life, however, the Beja popula-tion rose rapidly during the 1970s.

The droughts of 1984/85 and 1990/91revealed just how tenuous their pastoralistway of life had become. As the drought gotworse, the Beja could not cope. Theirlivestock began to die: half of their animalsperished in successive droughts. In normaltime, livestock can quickly replenish theirnumbers after drought, but the droughtsin north Tokar were prolonged and theherds could not recover, particularly thecamels. Malnutrition rapidly increased,particularly among women and children.With the mainstay of their livelihooddrastically reduced, the Beja had to lookfor alternative ways of making a living.

Rising to the challenge ofchangeMany of the Beja men got work aslabourers in Port Sudan or on agriculturalschemes in the Tokar Delta; othersmigrated to Khartoum. But Beja societyalso adapted to a changing climate inother, more fundamental, ways.

Nomads in north Tokarload their home on to acamel

29

/'•'-O''®.... --..r*/ •

Mohamed Gaffar, aformer nomadicherdsman, with his firsttomato cropSARAH ERRINGTON/OXFAM

Most Beja now live in settled commun-ities, and many have returned from townsand cities to their land. Only a few nowwant to go back to a purely nomadic life.Seasonal migrations do still take place, butrarely with the whole family. The Beja nowconcentrate on raising goats, because theycan withstand long periods of droughtbetter than camels, and their numbers aremore quickly replenished. In addition,many families are experimenting withraising chickens.

Village Development Committees haveorganised communities to take part ingroup projects such as digging andmaintaining wells, burning charcoal,cultivating gardens, building schools, and

making ropes and mats. Although the landis poor, and demands a high degree ofmaintenance and irrigation, subsistenceagriculture is rapidly expanding.

Most of the Beja still live on the marginsof survival, with no guarantee that theywill not go hungry next year. However,new skills are being learned in North Tokarand in parts of Red Sea, and the Beja areadopting new strategies for survival. Justas importantly, they have learned to co-operate through their VDCs and smallercommittees, to pool resources and ideas, toorganise loans, and to involve a widerrange of community members when bigdecisions are being made.

Beja women find a voiceWomen, in particular, have gained from thechanges. They now take part in villagedebates outside the cluster of family tentswhich are their traditional, and strictlylimited, area of authority. They are alsoreceiving a rudimentary education in VDCschools. Custom would not have allowedthis in the old days. Some women evenmake the journey to Port Sudan to sell theirmats and handicrafts — another significantchange, since men always used to act as thelinks between women and the worldoutside.

Women are not, however, full citizenswithin Beja society, in spite of the improve-ments in their status and access to a widerworld. In times of food scarcity, womenand girls are often the last to receive food.Women cannot inherit land or livestock,only the tent and its contents; other assetspass to the husband's nearest male relative.

Control of the body and the mindIn many areas of Sudan, particularly (butnot exclusively) in the east, the practice offemale genital mutilation (FGM) is viewedas a cultural norm, a rite of passage forevery woman. FGM is still practised inmany other countries in Africa, amongthem Ethiopia and Somalia. In northernSudan, in spite of attempts to ban it, anestimated 89 per cent of women under-went the operation in 1990 — a slight dropfrom the figure of 96 per cent reported in

30

1977/78. The latter survey also showedthat 78 per cent of the women questionedstill claimed to favour the practice.

In Sudan the commonest form of FGMinvolves the removal of the clitoris(clitoridectomy) and the sewing together ofthe labia majora (infibulation). Theoperation is often performed on infantsand young girls. It effectively inhibits orprevents ordinary sexual intercourse, andmakes childbirth very dangerous indeed:the woman must be cut open before thebirth, and the wound is sewn up againafterwards. Where births take placewithout trained medical supervision, thewound is often held together with thorns

— a practice which increases the chancesof infection.

Infibulation is illegal in Sudan, althoughthe removal of the clitoris is still permitted.Many midwives and clinics will notperform infibulation, so parents take theirdaughters to traditional midwives for theoperation.

Many women feel that they cannot speakout against this practice, that they will beostracised for deviating from a traditionthat is central to their own culturalidentities. On the other hand, they knowthat it threatens their lives and takes fromthem their control over their own bodies.

Armat's story'My name is Armat. I don't know theyear that I was born, but it is said that itwas in the year of Independence fromEnglish rule [1956]. In my childhood, Iused to herd the goats. It was very easyand pleasant: all the valleys were full ofgrass; trees were green and full ofdifferent fruits; the animals were fat andhealthy.

'In 1971, things began to change, andthere was less rain than before. Ouranimals died and we moved to avillage. My husband got workchopping wood, which he sold to amerchant. In 1982, the governmentcame and dug a well in the village andmore people settled here. There wasdrought also in 1984/85, and in 1990.Oil and wheat provided by a foreignagency saved us from sure death.

'Now we have seen many changes inour community. No longer do many ofus migrate, though some still do; we aresettled. We have had to change. TheVillage Development Committee hasorganised things so that the wells arenow hygienic and are kept covered; wehave also a group garden. My husbandstill makes charcoal; but my son Aliborrowed saffi [a local grass] from theVDC and makes ropes, which he sells. Inow make mats of saffi which I also sell.

SARAH ERRINGTON/OXFAM

The men have constructed a classroomin which I and my two daughters havestarted learning basic writing andreading, and they are training inhandicrafts. Out hearts' desire is to havea classroom to be a centre for women, sothat we can meet and work to gainknowledge, experience, and power.'

(Meize Village, Red Sea State)

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An equilibriumdestroyed

SPLA commander,Western Equatorial'I must keep up withtechnology, so I cancontrol the army.'CRISPIN HUGHES/OXFAM

All over Sudan, networks ofexchange and trade, spanningentire regions and beyond, have

evolved over centuries. Goods such asgrain, salt, and coffee would be traded'down the line' into remote places, cross-ing many ethnic boundaries. Access tograzing land and water was a shared right,or one open to negotiation by all sides.

Such reciprocal relationships enabledpeople to trade with one another, to move towhere food and water were seasonallyavailable, and to cope with times of droughtand food-shortage. Dinka, Nuer, andMundari agro-pastoralists, for example,have permanent villages where theycultivate sorghum and finger millet duringthe rainy seasons. Their cattle are corrallednearby and supply milk, vital for childrenand old people. In the dry season, the menmove their cattle up to 50 km away, to grazeon the flood-plains of rivers like the Nile.

The herders often cross the territory ofother ethnic groups, relying on well-established networks of mutual obligation.There has always been tension in hardtimes between these different groups, butconflicts were usually resolved by pay-ment of a fine, agreed by the chiefs of theopposing parties. In this way, conflict wasregulated within social structures. It was inno one's interest to push antagonism to astage where it threatened the futureexistence of either group.

The equilibrium that had beenestablished over centuries between thevarious ethnic groups in the south ofSudan has been destroyed by the civil war.Local conflicts over resources haveescalated into prolonged and bloodyfighting, conducted with modernweapons. In 1991, when the SPLA split intodifferent warring factions, traditional tribaltensions were made dramatically worse bythe use of modern weapons, and thecivilian population suffered grievously.

The stresses caused by the naturaldisasters of drought, flash floods, andcattle disease were also compoundedwhen armed conflict erupted. Civilianswere massacred, whole herds of cattle werestolen, and houses and property weredestroyed. Tens of thousands of people in

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'I hid in the forest with my sixchildren...'

In October 1994, the small town ofAkot inBuheirat State was attacked by Nuermilitia. More than one hundred people,including women and children, weremassacred. Thousands of head of cattle weredriven off to be sold in the north. Ding Ater]ok took refuge in a village 15 km away.

'When the Nuer came to Akot, I hid inthe forest with my six children, and thenwe went to another village. The Nuercame across the landing place and intothe town. I heard many people scream-ing and there was gunfire, lots of it.

'I was pregnant last year and, eventhough I had a hoe, I could not plantmuch sorghum, and the crop has been

very poor with little rain. My husband isdead, and his brother, who has given metwo of my children, is not here.'

CRISPIN HUGHES/OXFAM

this area alone starved to death or fledwestwards across the Nile, flooding intoBahr el Ghazal and beyond.

'Peace is the priority'Fierce fighting continued sporadically in1995 in many parts of the country, bothbetween government forces and the SPLAMainstream — as in Eastern Equatoria —and between rebel militia factions in manyregions of the south. Paradoxically, some ofthe militia are backed by the government,in an attempt to weaken the opposition.

The hostilities affect everybody: herdersare excluded from traditional grazinggrounds; people are driven away fromgood agricultural land and clean wells.Such conflict and insecurity drain people'sresources and make them more vulnerableto natural disasters.

However, the impact of conflict anddisplacement is not limited to those whoare directly affected: it also threatens com-munities in the areas where they move to.In many regions, the migration of dis-placed people has put severe stresses onrelationships between different sections ofthe same group, as meagre resources arestretched to breaking point.

'You share the food, youfinish it, and you starvetogether''It is a tradition that you do not pushaway people from your home. Youshare the limited food, you finish it,and you starve together, so thesuffering comes to all of you. Beforethe war started, people were settled:we had no need to move from placeto place, no insecurity. We plantedsorghum and finger millet last year,but, because we still all feel insecureafter the raid on Akot, we did notplant enough. Then the rains werenot very good, and the crops havebeen poor. People will not go off andfish, because of the insecurity. Nowpeople are hungry, they are full ofdiscontent, they no longer abide bythe laws. All this is because of thewar. Peace is the priority.'(Chief But Malual, Akot)

33

The health ofthe nation

Agangrial clinic, BuheiratStateCRISPIN HUGHES/OXFAM

I ealth care is a major casualty of awar which is estimated to becosting the Sudanese government

hundreds of millions of dollars a year.Most health-care programmes are under-funded and understaffed. Many peoplelive far from hospitals and rely oncommunity health workers — local peopletrained in basic medical skills — or on localclinics, some of them run by aidorganisations.

Services have virtually collapsed in theareas of Sudan directly affected by the war.

The few facilities that do exist are mostlysponsored by international and nationalagencies. In the displacement campsaround Khartoum there are a few clinics,again mainly run by non-governmentalorganisations (NGOs).

The World Bank estimates that lifeexpectancy at birth in Sudan in 1993 was53 years. Malaria takes its toll, along withmeasles, whooping cough, cholera,meningitis, tuberculosis, and Kala-azar(visceral leishmaniasis).

Poor diet and dirty drinking water aremajor threats to health; malnutrition isendemic in many rural and urban areas. Astudy by the National Administration forNutrition, published in 1994, revealed that,for every 1,000 births, 121 children die ofmalnutrition or related diseases beforethey reach the age of five. The study didnot include the war-torn south.

Medicine in the south:Dr Choi's roundsAgangrial in Rumbek county, BuheiratState, is a small village of several dozenDinka houses and cattle camps. In aclearing nearby, a local clinic is under con-struction: large tukuls of wood and thatchthat will house the dispensary, the ante-natal clinic, examination rooms, and asmall ward. Early each morning a crowd ofpeople wait under an ancient mango treein the middle of the compound for thesurgery to open.

Dr Stephen Choi is a Dinka from thetown of Akot in Central Lakes Province.He has returned to his birth-place to lead asmall medical team at the referral hospitalin the town. This and the one at Billing 60km to the south are the only hospitals inthis large region. Akot hospital wasransacked by Nuer militia in the raid onAkot in October 1994. Dr Stephen was on

34

leave in Nairobi with his Nuer wife andtheir family when the attack happened.

He has travelled to Agangrial by road: aseven-hour journey along winding dustytracks and the remains of once-gradedmain roads. He had to pass through check-points manned by soldiers of SPLAMainstream, who are the de facto poweraround here.

Casualties of warTraditional healing skills, passed downfrom generation to generation in certainfamilies, are starting to disappear in thesouth of Sudan, another casualty of thewar. But a few healers still practise theircraft, mending broken limbs and cleaningwounds. Like traditional birth attendants,the healers try to work with local peopletrained in modern medical techniques.This mix of modern and traditionalmedicine serves to introduce the clinic topeople, and gives traditional healers thesupport they need to continue their art.

Sudan desperately needs a system thattackles not only the effects of disease but itscauses as well. For instance, to tacklewater-borne diseases the whole cycle mustbe dealt with, starting with hygiene at thewells, and following up with basic healtheducation such as the importance of

Dr Stephen's story'All the drugs were looted in the raid on Akot. I'm sure you cansee them for sale in some market or other, or they've gone tosome militia. It's taking time to restock the pharmacy. Beforethe raid, the facilities at the hospital were adequate; I'veworked in worse conditions, for example, in Upper Nile State.

'I'm the only doctor for miles and miles, and Akot is the onlyreferral hospital in Lakes, apart from the one at Billing. One ofour problems is the lack of trained staff. The InternationalCommittee of the Red Cross has funded five nurses, but it's notenough. The sheer size of the area is a problem, and the fact thatthe roads are bad — impassable during the rainy season.

The daily complaints are mostly stomach problems. Nowit's the end of the dry season and water sources are dwindling.People have to drink from the sources where they washthemselves and their animals. So stomach bugs, includingbloody diarrhoea and dysentery, are very common.

TB is on the decline: I had over one hundred patients in Akotand now there are just seven. But there has been an increase inhernias, particularly among young men. I've not known thisbefore. If s probably to do with hunger: there are lots of peoplehere right on the margin, and the stomach muscles grow weak.Malnutrition has its peaks and troughs: by April it will start tobite again, when food gets scarce.

'Our small health team, run by an NGO, is trying to establisha Primary Health-Care Unit which will train local people to runan outreach unit, with ante-natal programmes, andimmunisation and supplementary feeding programmes forchildren, and other preventative services. It's all prettystandard, but most of it is lacking right now.'

Agangrial clinic: atraditional healer (left)working with aprofessional healthworker (right)

35

On the outskirts ofOmdurman: squalid livingconditions pose seriousrisks to health inresettlement camps

washing hands - though even soap is hardto get in many areas. If this holisticapproach is not adopted, medicinebecomes stuck in a cycle of treating thesymptoms of disease, not their causes.

Health-care in the north:Dr Ahmed's dayIn one of the camps for displaced people onthe outskirts of Khartoum, the local clinic isrun by Dr Ahmed, two nurses, and severaloutreach teams. It is one of five such clinicsrun by an international aid organisation inthe camps surrounding Khartoum.

The clinic is housed in a large bamboocompound in the heart of a settlementwhich stretches for mile after mile in alldirections. The clinic is always crowded,with patients milling around outside thedispensary, or sitting patiently on benchesin the shade waiting to see a nurse or thedoctor.

In his portacabin office, Dr Ahmedexamines patients, writes outprescriptions, and oversees the running ofthe clinic. This one clinic alone treatsperhaps 650 people a day, offeringsupplementary feeding programmes, ante-natal care, immunisation for children, andbasic medicines, mainly for malaria andwater-borne diseases.

Dr Ahmed's story'Our outreach workers go out intothe camps. In a different area eachday, they see perhaps two or threehundred families and their children.They can also assess the generalcondition of these areas day by day,and note if there are particularly badoutbreaks of malaria or dysentery ormalnutrition. The supplementaryfood for the children is given out tothese families once a month. I wouldlike to see many more clinics beingopened. Even this one settlement ishuge and grows all the time. We'realways short of money! And there'snever an end to the paper work wehave to do.

'But people's health is not just aquestion of providing more clinics.The environment they live in is alsoimportant, and here the lack ofwork, the squalid living conditions,the broken families, and themalnutrition all undermine people'shealth.'

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I want to learn

All over Sudan, people areobsessed with getting aneducation for themselves and for

their children. People everywhere expressa burning wish to learn, to broaden theirhorizons, and to obtain the skills that willhelp them to improve their lives.

In the years of peace, primary educationwas fairly widespread, and a fair numberof students managed to go on to highereducation in the big towns and outsideSudan, mainly in the Arab world. But in1992 it was estimated that only 28 per centof the adult population had basic literacyskills (45 per cent of men, and 13 per centof women).

In areas of the south where the fightinghas died down, however, local teachersworking on a voluntary basis are nowtrying to re-establish schools, and givinglanguage classes in English and Arabic.Many school buildings have been

destroyed, so classes are often held undera tree in the centre of the village.

Gordon Kuc, although a modest andretiring man, exudes the air of a personwith a definite mission in life. In his case,that mission is to teach, to re-establisheducation and schools. He speaks Englishwith text-book correctness; although hismanner is quiet and unassuming, hecarries the conviction of someone who isused to addressing students, and to beingheard with respect.

Gordon and his colleagues are slowlybeginning to put back together arudimentary system of education inBuheirat State. It is, as he readily admits, along process and, like any other initiative,predicated above all else on a sustainedpeace. He estimates that in some areasdirectly affected by the war, the literacyrate has declined to 15 per cent for menand 1 per cent for women.

Children playing in theruins of Akot School —once a large and thrivinginstitution

37

Narus, EasternEquatoria: a school fordisplaced children,established by BishopTaban and his helpers

The right to an education

For girls and women, educationalopportunities in Sudan are even morelimited than they are for boys. Many ethnicgroups are wary of education, if it meansexposing women to the outside world, andbreaking down cultural traditions thatrestrict them to the private sphere of thehome and family. But many women arebeginning to challenge this attitude, byexploiting the opportunities that changingsocial and economic conditions havecreated. Women's self-help groups givetheir members the confidence to claim theright to be educated, and in some areas thebias against them is slowly beingredressed; but much remains to be done.

In 1989 a government decree introduceda greater Islamic element into education —a move which is viewed by manyobservers as restricting still further theeducational opportunities of non-Muslimcommunities.

In some of the displaced people's campsand settlement areas around Khartoum, afew schools provide education forchildren of different religions. One suchschool, run by a Catholic mission, teachesabout 2,000 children. Such schools are notencouraged by the government, and manydo not have official approval.

A teacher in the south'I am trying to bring in books,blackboards, and chalks. All of theschools were closed or destroyedbecause of the war, but now becauseof the stability here — which weseriously hope will last and isessential for everything! — a littleprimary education and even somesecondary education is starting onceagain. There is now some localorganisation, and this helps peopleworking on a voluntary basis tobring education back. We are nowtrying to pick many things up whichwere here before the war started,and one day we will expand thesethings. But we must have peace.'(Gordon Kuc, Buheimt State)

A teacher in the north'The parents are mad for education,and it keeps the kids occupied. Ifthey can read and write, theyperhaps won't get shoved around somuch. As a Catholic priest, of courseI have an agenda, but I take them all;whether they are committedMuslims or Christians, or whatever,they all have a God-given right toeducation.'(Father Paul, Khartoum)

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Living on theedge of the city

koughly one quarter of all Sudaneselive in towns and cities, but this

k figure is rising, rapidly andcontinually, especially around Khartoum.

In the 1960s and 1970s, economic policiesin the north left rural areas at a disadvant-age. Hunger and exhausted soils in thecountryside drove many peasant farmers toseek work in the towns. Khartoum andother conurbations grew ever larger, and sodid the demand for cheap, migrant labourin the booming service and constructionindustries.

Low wages, harsh employmentconditions, unemployment, lack of landtenure, and problems in obtaining identitycards were to become the fate of manymigrants to the city during the 1970s and1980s. As the civil war and drought in themid-1980s increasingly affected the civilianpopulations of the south and west, urbanmigration grew dramatically. According to

The brain drain and theurban cashflowMany Sudanese professional peoplelive and work outside Sudan, main-ly in the Gulf states. The remittanceswhich they send home make amajor contribution to the wealth ofthe big cities, particularlyKhartoum, where their cash stimu-lates land speculation, domestic andcommercial construction, anddemand for consumer goods.

However, after Sudan's moralsupport for Iraq in the Gulf War of1991, relations between Sudan andSaudi Arabia have deteriorated, andmany thousands of migrantSudanese workers were expelled.

Zagalona, an industrialarea of Khartoum

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the UN, approximately half of Khartoumstate's estimated population of 3.6 millionconsists of displaced and migrant people.

Squatters and displacedpeopleSquatting was, until quite recently, a long-standing tradition in Khartoum, toleratedbecause the cities needed a cheap andlocally based work force. Much ofKhartoum North and Omdurmandeveloped in this way.

Since 1989, it has been governmentpolicy to remove squatters from illegalsettlements in and around Khartoum andrelocate them, either to officiallydesignated camps for the displaced, or (ifthey can prove that they have lived inKhartoum since before 1990) to newsettlement areas, where they are grantedland rights.

The government states that therelocations are part of its urban planningexercise, an aspect of the KhartoumStructure Plan of 1989, which was fundedby the World Bank. Illegal squatting isviewed as a danger to public health, andthe source of serious social and economicproblems, all of which threatenneighbouring areas. Magistrates overseethe evictions. Local-authority workmenbulldoze dwellings and load up people onto lorries. Magistrates can authorise theuse of force if it is deemed necessary.

The government has the right to removeillegal squatters from land to which theyhave no legal claim, and to replanKhartoum accordingly. But in the name ofurban replanning and renewal, manypeople are forced to live farther away fromsources of employment, in areas withoutbasic services. In some camps, such asJebel Aulia, 40 km south of Khartoum,basic services such as water supplies andsubsidised public transport have, overtime, been put in, but they are stillinadequate. Insecurity pervades life foreveryone in these communities.

By the end of 1991, tens of thousands ofpeople had been relocated to temporarycamps. By 1992, some 700,000 people hadbeen removed from the capital. Between

August 1993 and July 1994, a further160,000 dwellings were demolished.

Thowra, Block D Settlement,OmdurmanThe tukuls of the residents — tents made ofplastic sheeting, bamboo, mud brick, andsacking — stretch for miles across the baredesert. Children play around them, or sitwith their parents in the shade looking outat the desert. A few women are hangingout washing, while a group of men arebusy digging out rough mud buildingbricks from the earth. A few dogs andgoats wander around, looking for food.

There is little litter, not even theubiquitous plastic bags that cover much ofthe waste ground of the city. The noise andbustle which are the hallmark of manyurban slums throughout the world arelargely absent. Thowra is cut off from thenetworks of services, investment, andopportunities that are vital for anysettlement to prosper. Thowra has nohealth clinics, schools, or shops, and thereis little chance of finding work. Water isbought from a water seller or from thenearest small market, 2 km away.

Sitting on a camp bed inside her tukul ofbamboo and plastic sheeting is Faith (nother real name). Faith is in her late thirties, alarge, homely woman, and the mother often children. In spite of the story she relatesand the bleakness of her surroundings, shehas a quiet dignity, punctuating her speechwith thanks for the small mercies that lifehas given to her, her husband, andchildren: she knows many families who arefar worse off than themselves.

'In the city, you canfeel your poverty.'(Street girl, Khartoum)

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Faith's story

'I am from Kordofan and I have beenhere since 1970. We came here toKhartoum to look for work. But,although we found work, we had nosecurity for our plot... We weremoved out by force in the night andthere was much fighting. They tookeverything — all our possessions.They pushed over my house to makeway for a private developmentscheme. Here, in Thowra, we havenothing.

'The bamboo and plastic for ourtukuls was given by a charity, andwoollens for the children, and watercontainers. Without this we hadnothing. We were taken here anddumped off by a truck in the night.Some people had to walk. It was verycold, and we were all veryfrightened. The children felt the coldvery badly. We had no shelter andjust sat in the sand.

'The other place from where wewere moved [El Khuddair] had aschool, and the Sudan Council of

Churches was working with us onhandicrafts (although we sold veryfew of the things), and there wassome teaching for my children. Here,there is nothing. If the children getsick, there is a traditional healer, butthere is no doctor or clinic. Water isexpensive, but there is no alternative:money must be found. For if you donot have money, you do not getwater.

'There is little chance of gettingwork, but we are lucky: my husbandkept his job as a watchman inKhartoum. I have ten children. Mostof my neighbours do not have work.We have nothing to sell, and no onebut people like you or the authoritiesever comes here. It is a long way [20km] to the centre, where we mightget work. But with a bit of moneyand raw materials, we could makemore money. Do I want to go backhome? Some people do, but I willstay here. I have been away fromKordofan for over twenty years.'

01"-'

• • * ' . • : . • ' .

LIBA TAYLOR/OXFAM

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Making endsmeet in the city

The cities are hostile places formigrants and displaced people, whoarrive from the countryside with

little education and few skills to enablethem to survive in town. 'Formal'employment is virtually impossible toobtain; for those who do find regular jobs,as guards or office cleaners, the slacklabour market means rock-bottom wages.

The 'informal' sectorMost poor people in Khartoum and townsand cities throughout Sudan try to findwork within the 'informal' sector: workthat is not covered by labour laws, requiresno formal education, is untaxed, non-unionised, and poorly paid.

A high proportion of the displaced arewomen and children; many of the womenare the sole source of support for theirhouseholds. They mostly get workcleaning, washing clothes, and selling tea,vegetables, and kitchen utensils. But insome camps and settlements, brewing beerand prostitution are the only ways inwhich women can stay alive. Men make aliving by selling tea and other items suchas cigarettes and water, by washing cars,and, for those who have a trade, bycarpentry and plumbing. Many men,especially those who have recently arrivedin the city, or have been forcibly removedfrom established communities, getoccasional work as unskilled labourers onagricultural and construction projects.

Although most of the poor anddisplaced in Khartoum struggle to makeends meet, a very small number not onlyfind work, but form small co-operatives.Helped by voluntary organisations andchurch groups, they have found aprecarious niche in the labour market, andalso a degree of autonomy and controlover their own lives.

The brick makers

The practice of making mud bricks fromalluvial mud laid down each year by theNile has been going on for thousands ofyears. It is seasonal work, which stops forthree months when the Nile floods inAugust. The bricks are made from amixture of mud, straw, and donkeymanure. The mixture is pushed intowooden brick moulds, from where thebricks are removed to dry in the hot sun,before being baked in large mud-linedkilns.

Most of the small brick-makingcompanies that work the rich, dark Nilemud are privately owned; the employeeshave few rights and little pay. In 1993, asmall number of brick makers, all of themliving on the fringes of Khartoum, gottogether and joined a craftsmen's union,thus enabling them to start their own brick-making co-operative.

The tea and vegetable sellersMarkets in Khartoum are sprawling,bustling, open-air affairs, full of colour,noise and activity. As panel beaters knockthe dents out of bumpers, carpentersassemble beds, and a scrap-yard busilyrecycles yards of rusty wire and metalpiping, shopkeepers and stallholders drumup trade. Buses crash their gears and hoottheir horns as they weave between hand-drawn carts and bicycles and the crowds ofshoppers who dart across the roads.

In one small corner of one such market,opposite a car-repair shop, a group ofwomen sit beneath a metal awning,making tea. The market is hot and dusty,and the women, protected by their awningfrom the harsh sun beating down from adeep blue, cloudless sky, are doing a brisktrade in selling glasses of sweet tea.

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1 come from a squatter settlement called Mayo Farm.I am the only one working in my family. I used towork as a brick maker for a private firm, but now I amwith the co-operative. I am skilled at my trade andthat is why I got this job. I had to pay 5,000 Sudanese

pounds as a registration fee. The profit is splitaccording to what each person does, after we havetaken the running costs out; each man works forhimself, but no one man owns our company. We have93 men in the co-operative.'

CHRIS PETERS/OXFAM

Nearby, a mud-brick building which willhouse five tea shops, a storeroom, and anoffice nears completion. The women,members of a co-operative, all own a sharein this latest venture and are lookingforward to moving into their newaccommodation.

A local group, the Sudan DevelopmentAgency (SDA), run mainly by Sudanesewomen, was the guiding force behind theestablishment of this co-operative of teaand vegetable sellers, offering legal advice,moral support, and the initial funds to setup a co-operative bank.

The co-operative has 24 members. Theyhave obtained official trading permits and

built shelters, and are now building thesmall complex of shops and offices nearby— their most ambitious venture. ThroughSDA, a committee of six women wasformed, to be responsible for lendingmoney to members, to help pay forshelters, and to buy tea and utensils. Asone loan is paid back, another woman canborrow money to set herself up. Theinterest on this money is used to build thecentre and to provide hardship funds tomembers who are sick or unable to work.

Through the co-operative the tradershave gained legal recognition, and adegree of security from abuse byestablished stallholders.

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A tea seller's story

'My name is Fatima. I live in JebelAulia settlement with my twochildren and my husband, who isunemployed. I belong to the SDA co-operative, and I run a stall next toother members' stands in one of thebiggest markets in Khartoum.

1 am the only one in my familywho is working. I used to get intotrouble working in the market tryingto sell tea, especially with the police.You see, men don't like women towork like this; it is not a proper thingfor women to do.

'But now things are changed. I hada medical examination and then Iwas issued with a permit to trade bythe authorities. I am in a good placeto work, shaded from the sun. TheSDA has given me confidence andskills. We buy tea in bulk, and havelearnt how to keep an account ofwhat we sell. Most of all, we arelearning that we have strength bybeing women together. Because wewere not organised before, we hadno strength.'

CHRIS PETERS/OXFAM

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Making ends meetin the countryside

Trade and markets are the lifeblood ofany society. In many parts ofsouthern Sudan, commercial activity

has collapsed because of the civil war. Thissituation is made worse by the lack of all-weather roads: most roads are dirt trackscut into the forest and savannah, and, evenbefore the war, travelling in areas of highrainfall was impossible for much of theyear.

Trade with the north of Sudan viaNorthern Bahr el Ghazal was disrupted byfighting between Dinka and Baggarapeople in Southern Darfur and is onlyslowly recovering. Trade with the north viathe Nile came to a complete halt years ago.The towns, which previously gave people aplace to sell cattle for grain or for othernecessary things, have largely beendestroyed and are no more than militarygarrisons for the government, cut off fromthe rural population. Roads into Ugandaand Zaire have been closed by theSudanese government in an attempt toblock the SPLA's supply routes. Only atrickle of goods can be brought intosouthern Sudan by bicycle convoys, whichtake back paths across the borders,bringing in used clothes and other smallitems.

Two markets in the southIn spite of these problems, a few marketsdo survive in some form or other, eventhough the countryside is still insecure andthere is little to trade. For a market is morethan a meeting place for trade: it acts as afocus for people, where information,gossip, and news can be exchanged, and asense of security regained, if only for ashort while.

Although bartering is widespread, acash economy does exist in a limited way.Use of the Sudanese pound has helped to

set agreed prices and stabilise the limitedlocal economy. In these self-styled 'NewSudan' territories, the newly formedNational Executive Council — under thesupervision of SPLA Mainstream — istrying to set up a local civil administration;but it has few resources and thecountryside is still largely insecure, sopower is still overwhelmingly in the handsof the armed wing of the movement.

In parts of Western Equatoria andBuheirat State, markets are held regularly.The produce on sale, its quantity anddiversity, is a good indicator of the degreeto which different local economies — andtrade networks farther afield — have beenexposed to war and are able to cope. Wecan see this by looking at two differentmarkets.

A market in the bushIn Buheirat State, markets like the one heldevery afternoon except Sunday in BarPakeng, 40 km west of Akot, reflect thelocal Dinka economy, which is based onlivestock. The market is set in a largeclearing in the bush, several hundredmetres across. A large area is devoted tocattle sales in one corner of the market.

The selling of cattle is a serious businessin any pastoralist society, and the cattle onsale here are carefully scrutinised byprospective buyers. Sellers are cross-examined at length. The transactions areeagerly followed by a crowd of spectatorswho offer loud advice and opinions, orsagely decline to comment.

The market is a hubbub of activity thatdraws people from far and wide — a signthat they feel a degree of security returningto their lives: in the past, markets haveoften been a target for attacks. But whatstrikes even the most casual observer isthat, among the cattle sales, the rows of

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Cattle market,Bar Pakeng

bright print frocks flapping in the strongwind, the knitted hats, and the stalls oflooted drugs (for both humans andanimals), there is little food for sale — nosorghum and finger millet, no salt or sugar.Small mounds of peanuts and hot chiliesand a wild salad vegetable are all thesurplus food that is for sale.

Tobacco — a much-prized commodity— is in plentiful supply, often boughtwhen there are no staple foods available,or as an item for future barter. But mostpeople want to buy food, as their ownharvests have been so meagre. Despitereceiving hoes and seeds from an inter-national agency, farmers did not sow cropsin their usual quantity: better not to use allone's seed in one planting, but to conservesome for the uncertain times that might lieahead. Poor rains have reduced the harveststill further, and what there is must beshared with Dinka people displaced fromthe east and from farther north.

Perhaps the situation will improve whenfish, caught in Lake Nyubor, become

available, but the drought may havedepleted the fish stocks, and there is alsothe threat of attack from hostile militiaforces on the 60 km trip to the lake.

A market in a townSome 400 km south of the market in BarPakeng lies the little market town ofMaridi, in Yei county, Western Equatoria.Close to the Zairean border, thecountryside here consists of rolling hillsand lush vegetation. This part of the regionhas not suffered the prolonged fightingthat has devastated other areas in thesouth, and for two years it has knownrelative peace. The sorghum harvest wasexceptionally good in 1995, and there is asurplus.

The local people are not Dinka; they arefarmers, members of groups such as theZande and Moru. Forty kilometres to thesouth of the town, Dinka displaced by thefighting have built tukuls in the woodedhills. Because of the slowly improvingconditions, many have decided to leave

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and return to their homes in Bor County onthe east bank of the Nile; of the 20,000 whoonce sought refuge here, only some 7,000remain.

In the walled market in the centre ofMaridi, one of few towns under SPLAcontrol, the ground is covered withdisplays of vegetables, cooking oil (marked'For Humanitarian Use Only'), drugs, salt,sugar, coffee, grain and tobacco. Themarket is lined with booths selling soap,clothes, pencils, exercise books, anddresses, all traded up from Uganda. Thelocal economy in Maridi is slowly pullingitself back together: the land is fertile andthe rains have been good.

In Maridi, as in other places where amodicum of peace exists, dozens of co-operatives have begun to re-form and gointo operation. Co-operatives started herein 1956, primarily to offer local producers ameans of breaking the monopoly held by

traders, mainly in Juba, the state capital ofBahr el Jabal. Now, throughout the countyas a whole, there are over 80 co-ops. Butthis stability remains fragile and manyother parts of the region are still insecure.Trading surplus food out into areas thatstill suffer shortages is difficult, if notimpossible.

The hat seller'Most of us are widows, so we cametogether to make these hats. The woolwas traded from across the border. Welearned how to make hats from matsused to cover food. There are 32 womenin this co-operative. Sometimes we sellnothing for three or four days, then wesell one or two for 500 Sudanesepounds.'

The clothes seller

T buy clothes in bundles in Uganda,or rather we barter for the clotheswith bulls: one bull will exchange fora bundle of one hundred dresses.These we sell at 900 Sudanese

pounds each, one or two a day. Thatmoney is then turned back intobuying more cattle. We drive them tothe Ugandan border, and the wholetrade is started once again.'

CRISPIN HUGHES/OXFAM

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Ayen Mawaigoes fishing

opposite: Ayen Mawai onher way to fish in theriver Gel, near Maridi

In Western Equatoria, when the rainsare poor, rivers dwindle to muddypools. Yet not many miles away, heavy

rain means deep-flowing rivers andplentiful fish stocks. People trek longdistances, despite the risk of attack, tocamp under mango and mahogany treesand go fishing.

Keeping the cupboard fullFish are valued by agro-pastoralists,because they complement grains likesorghum and finger millet and serve as asource of food between harvests.

With many hungry mouths to feed, sucha precious resource could quickly becomedepleted. Being good husbanders of everynatural resource available to them, localpeople are well aware of the need tomaintain their fish stocks, and havedeveloped a simple but effective way ofreplenishing them. For up to fifteen yearsno one is allowed to fish in certain parts ofthe river, by order of the local chief. Then,when the chief sees that his people arehungry, or when he is petitioned by theelders of a village, he will order thesacrifice of a ram or a cow, to signify thatthe ban is lifted and fishing can commence.

In one bend of the river Gel, wherefishing has been banned for a number ofyears, the fish are packed tightly together,churning the waters into a creamy froth.Fishing will go on until this stretch of theriver is completely fished out, and then theprohibition will once again be applied formany years to come.

A day's fishingAyen Mawai, a young girl from a nearbyvillage, spends much of her day fishing orwalking from one stretch of the river toanother, carrying her woven, conical

fishing basket on her head. The basket isnot heavy and it provides some shelterfrom the fierce sun as she tramps across thedry, open savannah to reach a stretch ofriver to fish.

It is a simple matter to know where thisis: one just follows the crowd. For fishinghere is not a solitary pursuit, but a noisysocial event. Along the river bank, dozensof people are gathered, either to fish, or toprovide vocal support for those alreadyfishing. Ayen wades into the river to join aragged line of other women who slowlymove forward together, their basketspoised over the water. Every few metres, awoman will drop her basket, trapping afish inside. It is a simple matter to put ahand into the basket and draw out awriggling fish, which is then threaded onto a stick.

While Ayen concentrates on her task,boys and girls with pointed sticks walkalong the shallows on either side, busilyspear-fishing. A little farther upstream,men work in pairs, holding an oblong netstretched between two wooden polesbeneath the water. A quick jerk, and the netresurfaces with a couple of fish flopping inthe mesh.

'Some days I get a lot of fish; on otherdays, not so many; it is never enoughto feed all the family. It's hard work,but I don't mind it.'

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s

trO

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Of vets andparavets

Mundari paravet inTerekeka District, north ofJubaJON BENNETT/OXFAM

Livestock play a crucial part inSudanese society. By 1992, acombination of war, drought, and

displacement had destroyed an estimated6.6 million cattle in the south, along with 2million sheep and 1.5 million goats. Suchhuge losses threatened the disintegrationof agro-pastoralist societies in many areas.

Dinka society, like that of the Nuer andthe Mundari, revolves around cattle. Local

languages have a rich vocabulary todescribe cattle in their infinite variety. Thecamps where cattle are corralled in the dryseason are the focal point for pastoralists'social life.

All pastoralist and nomadic groups havea well-developed understanding of thediseases which afflict their animals, andthey have devised treatments for eachdisease. Traditional treatments takeaccount of the spiritual causes of an illness,and rely on the use of certain herbs and thepractice of bleeding sick animals. Much ofthis traditional local expertise is dying out,partly because the civil war has disruptednormal life, and also because moderndrugs are so powerful that people lose faithin their traditional skills.

The paravetsIn response to these problems, a schemewas devised in the mid-1980s in andaround the town of Juba, with the help of aforeign agency. The scheme had two aims:to maintain the traditional veterinary skillsof displaced Mundari pastoralists, and toaugment their local knowledge withmodern veterinary practices. Respectedlocal people are chosen by theircommunities to be trained to diagnoseanimal diseases and to run vaccinationprogrammes.

Similar 'paravet' training schemes arenow an integral part of many projects andco-operative schemes. Funded by externalagencies, programmes are running inNorth Tokar, Kebkabiya and Renk, UpperNile, Equatoria, and parts of Bahr elGhazal.

When displaced people lose their herdsof cattle or camels, it is often more realisticfor them to restock with sheep, goats, andchickens. Because women are usuallyresponsible for raising these smaller

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animals, they too have become involved inthe paravet programmes. The trainingincreases their skills and raises their statuswithin the community.

A reciprocal arrangementGiving development aid to poor countrieslike Sudan is a far from simple matter. Forone thing, immense areas have to becovered; communications are bad, andfunds are limited. For another thing, thematerial hand-outs often associated withdevelopment aid can undermine localcustoms and structures, which are alreadyunder threat.

Livestock-support projects at firsttended simply to give out drugs. But notonly did this system undermine the way inwhich Sudanese societies work, but theprojects became a bottomless pit intowhich expensive drugs were poured.Recently, veterinary programmes havechanged their tactics and are setting uprevolving funds: a cost-recovery systemwhereby the paravets obtain veterinarydrugs from a central source, and sell themat a fixed and affordable price to livestock-owners. The paravets return the cash to thecentral office, and receive 20 per cent (insoap and salt) as payment. The rest of themoney is spent on community projects,such as building clinics.

This system is beginning to spreadthroughout much of southern Sudan,working on principles agreed upon by allconcerned in the venture. Although it isstill in its infancy, this scheme is helping torecreate a market economy and the net-works that support it. It is hoped thateventually private traders from Kenya andUganda will bring in drugs, which para-vets can purchase. Of course, it will not beeasy. How, for example, can fledgling localauthorities effectively police this marketand enforce codes of practice, and whatrole can the chiefs and sub-chiefs play inthis scheme? One way forward is perhapsthrough the setting up of herders' associa-tions; but an animal-health service thatenforces codes of practice, regulates prices,and has a sufficient number of trained vetsand other staff is still a long way off.

CRISPIN HUGHES/OXFAM

Muslima Mubarak Salih,teaching veterinary skillsto other Rasheidawomen: 'The menselected me for training,because I am permanenthere; they move around. Iwas the first womanparavet.'

SARAH ERRINGTON/OXFAM

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Co-ops —Kebkabiya-style

Foothills of the JebelMarra, Northern Darfur

In Northern Darfur, local people inKebkabiya District, like many otherSudanese communities, have formed

themselves into co-operatives.The town is set in the foothills of the

Jebel Marra, and is the administrativecentre for the district. This area sufferedgreatly in the 1980s from drought, famine,and tribal conflict. The region as a whole isunder-developed and marginal to thenational economy. Many different ethnicgroups live here; the Fur are the mostnumerous.

Along seasonal watercourses, enrichedeach year by flooding, farmers grow avariety of crops. But people without accessto this wadi land have to farm the fragilesoils away from the river, where erosionand desertification are constant threats.This type of farming depends entirely onrainfall. The chances of rain are increasedby the presence of the nearby mountains,

elevating clouds over the land. When itrains, the pastures are green and crops areabundant; but in prolonged periodswithout rainfall, there is severe stress forpeople and animals.

Seeding the soilIn 1985, committees were appointed ineach village to set up seed banks. Fromthese facilities, farmers borrow not moneybut seed; after the harvest, they repay theseed, plus a bit extra, so that the bank canlend to other farmers. Certain villagerswere chosen to be bankers of the seed.

Despite daunting problems, the schemebegan to work. Then villagers successfullyexperimented with contour farming —ploughing along the contours of the land,to stop rain water draining off the slope.Sixteen Village Centre Committees (VCCs)were formed, and one man and onewoman from each village were chosen to

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Community veterinarypharmacy, Kebkabiya

represent their community on the ProjectManagement Committee (PMC). Althoughwomen initially preferred to form theirown committees and exclude men, manyVCCs have since reunited, with spin-offsub-committees for women. Other projectswere launched, such as training for menand women in basic veterinary skills, alongwith midwifery classes for women, andliteracy and health education classes.

'We know that we have to stand upfor our rights if we are to securethem. Although there is a fifty-fiftyrepresentation of men and womenon the village sugar committee, forexample, the men still try to excludethe women from the actualdistribution, so that they can keepfor themselves the extra amountwhich is allocated as an incentivefor this task. We're working on thisproblem!'(Daughter of a village Sheikh,Kebkabiya)

The post of the village representa-tive to the committees in Segeringdistrict had been vacant for sometime after the death of the previousmember, when I was asked to takeit. I was appointed at a generalmeeting of the village. There was noelection and I was the only nominee.I don't know exactly why they choseme, but I've lived in the village allmy life and used to be on the RuralCouncil too, so I suppose that hadsomething to do with it.

'I know that the consultationprocess is essential to the working ofthe project and ensures that it meetsthe real needs of local people. I'mresponsible for attending the PMCmeetings four times a year and forraising requests at those meetings.After the meetings, I tour thevillages and meet with their tworepresentatives, to make sure theyknow whaf s happening in the areaand to get any feedback from them.'(Adam Sayed, Segering)

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Somati village, NorthernDarfur: women's meetingto discuss the introduc-tion of grinding millsPETER STRACHAN/OXFAM

A registered charity

Conscious of the fact that the VCCs werenew structures which aimed to get betteraccess to resources — and control of them— the people involved were careful towork closely with traditional authoritiesand with local government, the SalvationCommittees. Without the support of thesebodies, the VCCs and the PMC could notoperate.

As time went by, the PMC was formal-ised by the creation of the KebkabiyaSmallholders Charitable Society (KSCS),which was registered with the Ministry ofSocial Welfare as a voluntary organisationat the end of 1990. Official registrationmeant that the KSCS could raise funds,hold its own budgets, and employ its ownstaff. An Executive Committee of elevenpeople from the PMC has been elected todecide and implement overall policy. ThisCommittee meets every three months andis itself accountable for its actions at anannual general meeting of all the VillageCommittees.

The learning processDespite the fact that the structure of KSCSpromotes accountability and equalitybetween women and men, there are stillproblems. Some members do not performtheir jobs well, while others seek to takeadvantage of the opportunities whichcommittee membership offers. It is notalways easy to 'deselect' such people!

'Our representative was hopeless.Our village was not getting its shareof resources, and we graduallyrealised that she was not doinganything to find out about it and totell us. It is true that this went on foryears, but that is how things are inthe villages: we don't expect thingsto happen quickly... Once werealised the true source of theproblem, we got rid of her andelected a replacement.'(Woman from Bora Village)

Nor is it easy for women to get involvedin the work of the committees. For onething, most speak little Arabic — thelanguage in which meetings andcorrespondence with the SalvationCommittees are conducted. For anotherthing, their household and family dutiesleave them little time for community work.Traditionally women have not beenexpected to take part in public affairs; butonce they start to speak out, and gain moreexperience and confidence, they realisethey have a voice that is valid and that theycan change things. Committee work is thefirst practical step on the road toempowerment for women.

Will it work?Although some people still feel that theyhave not gained much from the KSCS andits committee structure, many othersappreciate that learning to manage such abig and complex project takes time. TheKSCS offers each member of thecommunity a chance to speak and the skillsto change things. Whether it will provesustainable depends on whether enough ofthem are convinced that only by becominginvolved in community action can theygain control over their own lives.

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A marginalisedmajority

All over Sudan there are countlessdevelopment initiatives like theKebkabiya Smallholders

Charitable Society. But there is little hopethat any of them will prosper withoutpeace and reconciliation and social justice,and a more equitable distribution ofeconomic wealth. Development needspeace, if by development we mean anadvancement of the basic rights whichevery human being is heir to, and not justthe powerful few.

In Sudan, as elsewhere, many womenstill accept inequality as a natural part oftheir lives. Yet, as we have seen, they areoften the mainstay of their societies and a

major focus for their regeneration. In timesof conflict, displacement, and hardship,the contribution of women to the survivalof their families and communities becomeseven more critical. The challenges theyface often lead them to adopt newstrategies to survive, and to askfundamental questions about the societythey live in.

The changing status of women has alsoaffected men. Although some still viewwomen as subordinate and peripheral tothe man's world they inhabit, many othersappreciate the crucial role that womenplay in keeping communities together, andthey understand the need for change.

Women's literacy class,Gabol Settlement, RedSea Hills

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Nevertheless, the empowerment ofwomen is still a long and uphill struggle,and, if peace does eventually come toSudan, it will be difficult to maintain theadvances made in the economic, social,and political status of women.

Women for peaceThere is now a growing movement bothinside and outside Sudan to link Sudanesewomen's non-governmental groups into awider political process. One such is theSudan Women's Voice for Peace (SWVP),based in Nairobi, a loose alliance ofwomen from different ethnic backgroundswho see the establishment of women'srights as an integral aspect of the work forpeace.

In February 1995, women from theSWVP took a Peace Caravan to parts ofsouthern Sudan, drawing large crowdsand generating intense local interest. Theirmessage was in essence a simple one: theabsolute necessity for peace and forwomen to take their rightful role in makingthat peace a reality.

At the UN conference of women inBeijing in August 1995, the SWVP, alongwith many other Sudanese groupsrepresenting women from differentpolitical and cultural backgrounds, met toexpress their vision of women's future role.The Beijing conference enabled women,and men, to meet other non-governmentalorganisations and to form new alliancesbased on a common theme: furtheringwomen's emancipation.

We women should stand up and work for peace. All the women of Sudan areprevented from influencing political decisions, but we are also the first victims ofthis most evil war. It is up to us to stop it and, in so doing, to establish ourselves ashaving a real voice in Sudan and its future.'(SWVP leader)

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A nation in thebalance

, oth inside and outside Sudan there. are informal groups and' organisations working for peace.

Many others, including highly qualifiedprofessional people, work in the service ofpoor communities to help them cope withthe effects of conflict, an impoverishedeconomy, and a rapidly changingenvironment. But despite this, the efforts ofpoor people in Sudan to achieve genuinelasting development have borne little fruit.This final chapter looks first at thehumanitarian work in Sudan designed tosupport these people.

Operation Lifeline Sudan(OLS)In 1989 a three-way agreement wasreached between the government ofSudan, the rebel SPLA, and the UN. Thisagreement created a framework whichallowed relief supplies to be deliveredinside the war zones to victims of theconflict. This arrangement, whereby asovereign government permitted thedelivery of relief to areas controlled byrebels, was almost unique in the field ofhumanitarian operations. Currently, OLSoperations are run partly from Khartoumand partly from Kenya, with a logisticsbase on the Kenyan-Sudanese border atLokichokio. The UN, with UNICEF actingas lead agency, provides logistic andtechnical support for UN agencies andNGOs working under its umbrella. This isparticularly important in the rebel-heldareas, where often the only means of accessis by aircraft.

But the work of the agencies operatingunder OLS goes beyond concern withimmediate survival. Where possible, theywork with local communities to rebuild orstrengthen their societies, helping them tocoping with the effects of conflict.

Without peace and a secure environ-ment, however, this objective has proveddifficult to realise in many areas. Someagencies have to operate as and wherethey can, mindful that their work couldeasily be disrupted or stopped altogetherby renewed fighting or banditry.

Taposa women in Narus,Eastern Equatoria, avillage which has taken inan influx of Dinka people,displaced by the civil warCRISPIN HUGHES/OXFAM

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A dilemma for humanitarianagenciesIn conflicts such as the civil war in Sudan,the control of relief supplies can become astrategic asset for the forces involved. InSudan the relief system has been used inthis way by all parties to the conflict. Anti-government forces have treated humanit-arian aid, particularly food aid, as aresource for their own troops. In the past,militias adopted a policy of forcibly mov-ing civilians to a particular location wherean attack was expected, in the expectationof international assistance. There have alsobeen cases of the direct theft of suppliesfrom humanitarian agencies. For its part,the government has for military reasonsdenied relief agencies access to certainareas controlled by the SPLA.

There is still an immense need for aidand basic resources. In many parts of thesouth, relief agencies are the sole source ofitems such as soap, clothing, and buckets.But the agencies delivering aid, healthcare, education, and skills training cannotdo so without accepting the dictates of oneside or another. Thus they exposethemselves to the charge that their work isnot impartial. More seriously, theinternational agencies have on occasions

been accused of actually prolonging theconflict by indirectly sustainingcombatants. Operational agencies must tryto satisfy the demands of the government,the UN, the donors, and those in de factocontrol on the ground, while trying to meetthe needs of local people.

Of particular concern to the humanitar-ian agencies is the plight of the Nubapeople in Southern Kordofan. Human-rights organisations have documentedviolations of human rights in the Nubamountains. Although the government hasrefuted these accusations, internationalconcern about the situation of the Nubawill remain until unrestricted access isallowed to independent monitors. TheNuba mountains are one of the few areas ofconflict excluded from the OLS agreement.Unless the terms of the agreement areextended to include this area, the future ofthe Nuba people will remain precarious inthe extreme.

It is undeniable that, without externalsupport for OLS and the work of NGOsinside Sudan, the suffering of manythousands of Sudanese affected by the warwould have been intolerable. Althoughthis suffering has rarely been given front-page coverage by the international media,

OLS air-drop ofemergency food suppliesin south Sudan

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the need for humanitarian aid remains aspressing as ever. To fund its reliefoperations in support of 4.5 million peoplein 1996, OLS appealed to internationaldonors for more than $100 million. Judgedby the slow response to this appeal, thefuture of humanitarian aid in Sudan looksperilously insecure.

The quest for peaceA major African peace initiative began in1993 under the auspices of the Inter-Governmental Agency for Drought andDevelopment (IGADD). It involves severalof the countries bordering Sudan: Kenya,Uganda, Ethiopia, and Eritrea. They areconcerned to promote peace in Sudan,partly to end the continuing influx ofrefugees into their countries, and partly tostop a war which has the potential todestabilise much of the region. AlthoughIGADD provides a useful forum for allsides concerned in the conflict, it has yet toachieve a real breakthrough.

There have been other attempts topromote dialogue and understandingamong the different parties to the conflict.In 1995, for example, UNESCO hosted aconference in Barcelona, which broughttogether representatives of governmentand rebel factions to achieve agreement ona six-point declaration of principles.

But the progress of IGADD and otherinitiatives has been hampered by adeterioration of relations between Sudanand other IGADD member states. Tensionshave arisen along the borders with bothEritrea and Ethiopia; and Sudan andUganda in 1995 accused each other ofarmed incursions into their sovereignterritories. The conflict in Sudan has alsobeen discussed by the Organisation ofAfrican Unity (OAU) over the years. Butany peace process in Sudan is unlikely tosucceed without better relations betweenSudan and its IGADD neighbours.

The fortunes of the war in south Sudanchange constantly. The occasional gainsmade by one side or the other, and thepolitical machinations of government andopposition, pale against the reality that thiswar is unwinnable by any side. It can only

come to an end when all parties agree tolay aside their arms and negotiate a lastingpolitical settlement. Meanwhile, thecivilian population will continue to beharassed, looted, displaced, bombed, andshot. The international community canassist in the peace process, but the primaryobligation to stop the fighting lies with thegovernment and those who activelyoppose it. It remains to be seen whetherthey have the political will to achieve thelasting peace that countless Sudanesedream of and work towards.

A health worker at Akot Hospital CRISPIN HUGHES/OXFAM

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