What is that? I saw a flash of white amongst the burnt ground, brown scrub, and occasional green bush as we bounced along the red dirt road. More squares of white appeared and I realised they were the UNHCR issued white tarpaulins. We must have reached one of the many refugee camps now spread out over northern Uganda, seeking to provide for the 700,000 South Sudanese who have come over the border in the last year seeking refuge.
As we went past, I saw a sprawl of mud houses with grass or tarp roofs, with the occasional collections of metal shacks and stalls selling produce. Youths lounged outside these on their motorbikes while children weaved through them chasing bike tires with sticks. We passed water points with lines of plastic yellow jerrycans snaking out around them, waiting for the child in front to finishing pumping the spigot or for the water delivery truck to come. As the afternoon progressed, I saw older children in school uniforms walking steadily along the dirt paths joining the huts, many knowing they would have to wake up tomorrow early to make the two and half hour walk again to school. There were some adults using hoes to break up the ground, hoping to cultivate something to supplement the flour, oil and beans they are issued with, but around many of the huts it was just barren ground. The rains are late this year. Soon this land will be desert, my host commented.
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In another desert, the relentless sun of the Sinai Peninsula bet down on the people as they shuffled forward, the occasional breeze only lifting more dust into their faces. It was forty-five days since they had escaped from their homes of suffering. But the initial jubilation and relief had been chased away by the rumbling of their bellies. Maybe they should have stayed with the hardship they knew rather than watch their children get weaker and weaker in this vast and dreadful desert. Why was Yahweh leading them into such a hard place? How could they think to worship him under these conditions?
And then, one morning there were thin white flakes like frost on the ground around their tents. What is that? The report passed from family to family: it is bread for us to eat and we are to gather just what we need to eat for today. The next day they went out and there it was again. Day after day in the foreboding wilderness, they went out and there was the white stuff, and they gathered and they ate.
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I do not like to be dependent. I would much prefer to think that I can handle what gets thrown at me. That I can solve the problems. That I do not need to bother anyone else. Sure, I can profess that I depend on God for everything, but I would much prefer for that to stay in the realm of theory rather than experiential reality.
I would not choose to live in a wilderness. I prefer comfort, temperatures where I am not covered in sweat all the time, water trickling amidst lush green bush, fertile land that I know will be able to feed my family.
The reality of dependence though affronts me in the camp. People standing in queues for hours to receive their rations for the month. Mothers with their babies strapped to their backs and their children hiding behind them, turning up with just what they could carry on the five day walk to safety. My university-educated colleague sitting outside his rough mud and stick house, shameful that he has nothing to offer me in hospitality other than a cup of water.
But, I cannot help but be grateful for this wilderness. If this land had not been harsh, it would have been already intensely cultivated by the industrious locals. Yet because it was so barren, it has provided a place for my friends to find refuge.
We are praying hard said one of the men as we stood waiting for the vehicle to take me away from the refugee camp.
White tarps flap in the wind. Banners of dependence. Banners of mercy and provision.
Though I am leaving this patch of wilderness, I am reminded that I too need these.
Life Down the Rutted Red Road 