MUCH has been written about our government’s shameful role in the continuing liberty of the Sudanese sickbag, Omar al-Bashir. Unlike many commentators, however, I have actually met a couple of his victims.
It was not a big thing. Al-Bashir has, if I may, many, many victims. It sort of comes with the territory with genocide. By most accounts, his militia, the Janjaweed, were responsible for the murder of 300 000 people in Darfur, a bit of scrub in the western part of Sudan all but meaningless in the geopolitical scheme of things save for its natural resources. (The Chinese got the concessions, apparently.) A further two-and-a-half million people were uprooted and displaced in what has tidily been referred to as “ethnic strife” in the region.
The numbers are so impersonal, they mean almost nothing. That’s also part and parcel of the modern genocide “package”. We’re no longer affected by such things. Put it down to atrocity fatigue. Kill three people and you’re a mass murderer. Kill 30, well, you still need locking up — but this time as a mental patient. Kill 300 000, on the other hand, and you get to park your private jet at Waterkloof as the 21st century Kurtz whispers, “What horror, what horror?”
It would be a completely different story, of course, if you took a stroll in your neighbourhood, and you turned a corner, and there, on the pavement, right in front of you, in her ragged purple robes, was one of al-Shabir’s victims, a wailing and sobbing woman so wracked with grief that she was clawing at her face and tearing out her hair.
That was how I found Hamat Kadamala Hassan one afternoon in early January 2008. I was living in the previously advantaged suburb of Melville, Johannesburg, and there she was, a Masalit woman many thousands of kilometres from her home, screaming in the street. I could not understand a word she was saying, and she couldn’t understand me.
After a great deal of assistance from the then local DA city councillor who managed to find an Arabic translator — Sharon Sabbagh, wherever you are, take a bow — Hassan’s story slowly emerged. And quite a tale it was, too.