[Congressional Record Volume 151, Number 168 (Thursday, December 22, 2005)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page E2632]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                   DARFUR'S SLOW AND CRUEL STARVATION

                                 ______
                                 

                         HON. CHARLES B. RANGEL

                              of new york

                    in the house of representatives

                      Thursday, December 22, 2005

  Mr. RANGEL. Mr. Speaker, as the end of 2005 draws near I rise to say 
a few words about the people of Darfur and to enter into the Record an 
eyewitness account of Hillary Anderson a BBC correspondent in Darfur 
entitled Sudan's Slow and Cruel Starvation first broadcast July 2004 in 
which she personalizes what Darfur means in pain for mothers and 
children in Darfur. Unfortunately the year 2005, especially in the last 
few months, has gotten worse than 2004 for the people of Darfur. 
According to the United Nation's humanitarian chief, Jan Egeland, 
people are still being killed, the Janjaweed Militias are still armed 
and kill at will, women are raped, men are dead, no food is planted or 
harvested. Mr. Egeland announced on December 20, 2005, the situation in 
Darfur was so bad that aid organizations were being threatened and 
might be forced out of the country.
  Therefore we can know with a sad heart that Ms. Anderson's 2004 story 
of Juma and Nadia has been repeated many times in 2005. And if this 
Nation does not act, this story will be repeated thousands of times in 
2006--until there are no more Jumas and no more Nadias.
  Ms. Anderson begins her piece from the Mornay camp: ``I am sitting in 
the dark on the edge of a camp for displaced people in Darfur. I can 
hear the loud persistent crying of one child rising above the murmur of 
the camp as the people settle down for the night. Tonight the stars are 
out--that means no rain. Last night was not like this at all.
  You can see it coming in the afternoons. The sky begins to darken and 
the horizon goes an ominous, brown shade of yellow. Then the wind 
starts and the dust of the Sahara desert whips up, blasting whirling 
sands in all directions. The people start to run in their long rags, 
heads bowed against the wind.
  Then, the heavens simply open, the wind ferociously hurls drenching 
curtains of water at everything around. Mothers with their children, 
whose faces are twisted up in misery, squat grasping the sides of their 
makeshift shelters--which do not keep them dry. The torn plastic bags 
that make up the walls of their twig shelters flap madly in the wind. 
The ground turns into a mire of mud. . . .
  In the morning we wake up to hear the children crying. In the 
makeshift hospital here, set up by foreign aid workers, it is so 
crowded with the sick that some are sleeping on the floors. Among the 
stench and the flies, the children lie wasted, staring into space. Tiny 
human beings, who were born into the madness of man's inhumanity to 
man, into the madness of a spate of killing that has left many of their 
fathers, brothers, grandparents and uncles dead.
  And now, they face starvation which is cruel and slow. Most of the 
children are too far gone to eat. Some have the peeling skin and 
lesions that come with advanced starvation--their skin is wrinkled, 
lose around their bones. The mothers sit by powerless.
  We spent two weeks in Darfur, driving through the eerie, burnt-out 
villages, empty of people.
  We traveled to Mornay camp, where we were a month ago. On arriving 
back, we went to the medical tent. It was strangely quiet inside. Four 
people are sitting in a circle. A mother was looking down and sobbing 
silently, rubbing her hands on her face. I realized I knew her. Then it 
slowly came to me what was going on. Her daughter Nadia, whom we had 
spent two days with in this tent a month ago, was dying. The mother, 
Juma, was saying an awful goodbye.
  We moved away in their private moment. Ten minutes later Nadia was 
dead. The men took her body away to prepare for the burial. Then they 
emerged at the far end of the grave yard, carrying her tiny body in 
their hands. They said their prayers and laid her body in the earth. 
Juma, her mother, sat on the ground. She wasn't crying any more.
  After the funeral I went to pay my respects. . . . When she saw me, 
she started screaming `Nadia, Nadia, Nadia.' She fell on me, screaming, 
she kept screaming. She kept repeating her daughter's name. Then the 
older women started screaming too.
  When Juma left the graveyard I saw her walking away on her own, 
sobbing and crying her child's name into the breeze of the vast desert, 
into the nothingness of the camp. . . .
  Darfur is a nightmare that is alive here today and perhaps somewhere 
else tomorrow. Racial and tribal tensions, and regional disquiet, have 
erupted into a war where the civilians are being punished, killed and 
abused. We are the adults, this is the world we live in and accept. The 
world we have created for ourselves. . . . Why are massacres of 
civilians allowed to happen in Sudan? Why has no-one counted the 
dead?''

                     [From BBC News, July 24, 2004]

                   Sudan's Cruel and Slow Starvation

                         (By Hilary Andersson)

       I'm sitting in the dark on the edge of a camp for displaced 
     people in Darfur. I can hear the loud, persistent crying of 
     one child rising above the murmur of the camp as the people 
     settle down for the night.
       Tonight the stars are out--that means no rain. Last night 
     was not like this at all.
       You can see it coming in the afternoons. The sky begins to 
     darken and the horizon goes an ominous, brown shade of 
     yellow.
       Then the wind starts and the dust of the Sahara desert 
     whips up, blasting whirling sands in all directions. The 
     people start to run in their long rags, heads bowed against 
     the wind.


                            lack of shelter

       Then, the heavens simply open, the wind ferociously hurls 
     drenching curtains of water at everything around.
       Mothers with their children, whose faces are twisted up in 
     misery, squat grasping the sides of their makeshift 
     shelters--which do almost nothing to keep them dry.
       The torn plastic bags that make up the walls of their twig 
     shelters flap madly in the wind. The ground turns into a mire 
     of mud.
       My TV crew and I run for our shelter 15m (50ft) away. All 
     night, the rain pounds against our ceiling. I wake up at 
     0300--it is still going on. The people on the other side of 
     our wall are still sitting, bracing themselves against the 
     wind and rain, where they were at dusk. This is what it is 
     like most nights for them.


                                 waste

       In the morning we wake up to hear the children crying. In 
     the makeshift hospital here, set up by foreign aid workers, 
     it is so crowded with the sick that some are sleeping on the 
     floors.
       Among the stench and flies, the children lie wasted, 
     staring into space. Tiny human beings, who were born into the 
     madness of man's inhumanity to man, into the madness of a 
     spate of killing that has left many of their fathers, 
     brothers, grandparents and uncles dead.
       And now, they face starvation which is cruel and slow. Most 
     of the children are too far gone to eat. Some have the 
     peeling skin and lesions that come with advanced starvation--
     their skin is wrinkled, loose around their bones. The mothers 
     sit by powerless.
       We spent two weeks in Darfur, driving through eerie, burnt-
     out villages, empty of people.
       We travelled to Mornay camp, where we were a month ago. On 
     arriving back, we went to the medical tent. It was strangely 
     quiet inside.
       Four people were sitting in a circle. A mother was looking 
     down and sobbing silently, rubbing her hands on her face. I 
     realized I knew her. Then it slowly came to me what was going 
     on. Her daughter Nadia, whom we had spent two days with in 
     this tent a month ago, was dying.
       The mother, Juma, was saying an awful goodbye.
       We moved away in their private moment. Ten minutes later 
     Nadia was dead.
       The men took her body away to prepare for the burial. Then 
     they emerged at the far end of the graveyard, carrying her 
     tiny body in their hands. They said their prayers and laid 
     her body in the earth.
       Juma, her mother, sat on the ground. She wasn't crying any 
     more.


                          Crying to the desert

       After the funeral I went to pay my respects. Juma had two 
     older women next to her who, perhaps through custom, were 
     telling her to hold her emotions in. But when she saw me, 
     perhaps remembering the filming we did with Nadia last month, 
     she started screaming ``Nadia, Nadia, Nadia''.
       She fell on me, screaming, she kept screaming. She kept 
     repeating her daughter's name. Then the older women started 
     screaming too.
       When Juma left the graveyard I saw her walking away on her 
     own, sobbing and crying her child's name out into the breeze 
     of the vast desert, into the nothingness of the camp.
       Donkeys, half starved themselves, moved around slowly. 
     Refugees continued collecting water and fixing their huts. 
     This happens here every day.
       Darfur is in a nightmare that is alive here today and 
     perhaps somewhere else tomorrow. Racial and tribal tensions, 
     and regional disquiet, have erupted into a war where the 
     civilians are being punished, killed and abused.
       We are adults, this is the world we live in and accept. The 
     world we have created for ourselves.
       Will these things still happen in Africa a century from 
     now? Will it ever change? Why are massacres of civilians 
     allowed to happen in Sudan? Why has no-one even counted the 
     dead?
       Money is needed desperately now to save lives. But it has 
     gone this far in Darfur, because no-one really noticed or did 
     anything to stop it. Nadia did not have to die at all.




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