Hannan:
Into
the Warzone for Orphans
In August and September,
James Lual Atak, Matt, Dr. Karen (a short-term team member),
and I met in Juba, the capital of the Republic of Sudan. We
piled into the tiny office of the expatriate officer (Pablo)
in charge of authorizing and coordinating all flights in and
out of the no-fly-zone of the Nuba Mountains.
I greatly desired your prayers for this expedition, but I
was not able to write about our trip beforehand for security
reasons. Since early Spring, intense bombing has caused all
mission and non-governmental agencies to withdraw their American
personnel from the Nuba Mountains of Sudan. We’d received
reports showing as many as 80,000 orphans were in the region,
with not a single orphan-care provider offering aid.
Matt and Lual Atak worked for weeks to get us into the Nuba
Mountains—no easy task when even missionary pilots stop flying
into the region. Finally, they found a secular group willing
to take us, for a significant increase of our normal flight
fees.
Pablo began, “Sorry to be late. I got caught up in some very
important meetings; and I’m also sorry to change the meeting
location, but it was for your own protection. You know with
the war breaking back out in the Nuba Mountains they are shooting
down any plane they catch coming in so we must take every
precaution to keep our flight plans classified.”
Dr. Karen and I looked at each other remembering the conversation
we shared as we walked to this new location… this feels surreal,
like we’re undercover agents, spies working on some covert
operative. I suppose, in some sense, that was exactly what
we were doing—only our mission was not to kill an enemy, but
to save orphans.
Pablo explained, “The SAF (northern Islamic government) has
dropped more than 50 bombs on the airstrip where you want
to go. If they catch us trying to fly you in, they’ll certainly
shoot us down. So, we’re going to drop you on the ground several
hours away. You’ll have to finish the journey by road.”
Us: “Where is this place you are dropping us?”
Pablo: “We can’t tell you its exact location. We have to constantly
change airstrips because if they know we are coming, SAF will
shoot us down or ambush you on the ground. You must be very
quick about getting off the plane because if SAF gets a bead
on us coming in, they can get a MiG (enemy aircraft) in the
air very quickly. It takes a lot of coordination because the
war has made such chaos. If our guys aren’t sure it is us
coming in they may fear it is SAF, and they might shoot you
down by mistake. Friendly Fire. You’re entering a no-fly-zone
where anyone is fair game, but you can trust us to get you
in. We can get you in; your real danger is once you’re on
the ground.”
In
that same meeting, we learned that the pilot we were just
being introduced to, had never landed at the dirt airstrip
we would be trying to find in the morning.
Nilo assured us it was simple. He’d set his GPS coordinates
and fly us in—no problem.
Late that night, Matt, Dr. Karen, Lual Atak, and I all met
one last time to consider if we were doing the “right” thing.
The plan kept changing... more dangerous at every juncture.
The four of us reexamined our mission, searched for alternative
strategies, and counted the cost of not going… 80,000 orphans,
many created since the mass bombings and hand-to-hand combat
resumed in June, and not a single orphan-care provider in
the entire region.
Dr. Karen was the first to weigh in, “Nothing that matters
has really changed. We knew before our briefing that this
was a very dangerous mission. The same orphans are still as
helpless and vulnerable as they were before we came this far.
I say, ‘We press on.’”
Karen’s words pierced the darkness of doubt hovering over
us. We moved forward with clarity setting out our strategy
for the work ahead, and agreed to meet before sunup for whatever
lay ahead.
In the morning Nilo allowed me to sit in the copilot seat.
I enjoyed hearing a few of his stories of flying over Africa
through the years. He said he felt things would be safe at
our airstrip because he’d received a radio report that a five-ton
plane had landed just 30 minutes ago, and all was well.
A short time later we began to descend drawing close to a
clearing with what I thought might pass for a small landing
strip. As we circled the clearing, confusion scurried across
Nilo’s face. He began to fidget with his GPS, resetting it
and checking for alternatives.
I studied the ground below. I was certain of only two things:
there wasn’t even close to enough clearing for a five-ton
plane to land and there were no tracks in the soft dirt and
grass, indicating it had been a long while since it had welcomed
a plane.
Nilo said, “This must be it; I have checked the coordinates.
They are correct.” He lined up, and came in for a perfect
landing. It took every foot of the clearing for our one-ton
Caravan to stop.
As we climbed out of the plane, a thin trail of people trickled
down from the hillsides, greeting us warmly. Dr. Karen interacted
with the children and surmised their medical state. Lual Atak
began questioning them about where we were.
It only took a few minutes to learn no plane had landed on
this strip for several weeks, since five planes had been shot
down trying to approach. We were at the wrong strip. Nilo
declared it was a serious problem because there wasn’t enough
clearing for us to take off with the weight of the medicine
we were bringing in.
Lual Atak and Nilo each called different contacts until they
learned that where we needed to be was across one more mountain
range. We told Nilo we’d off-load as many of our supplies
as necessary so that he could take off again. He said he had
recalculated and he thought he could do it.
Matt said, “Think you can do it?”
Nilo, “I can do it. Trust me.”
Matt, “Okay. Do I trust the you who said ‘I can’t take off
with this much weight’ or the you who said, ‘I can take off
with this much weight?’”
Matt and I took a sidebar. Matt summed it up well, “Man, it’s
like we’ve pulled off the skyway to ask directions. All we
got is ‘hang a left at the white fluffy cloud—if you can take
off that is.’”
Nilo held firm he had calculated closely and he could do it.
Knowing our options were limited, we fell silent and prayerfully
leaned into our mission. Even as we latched our seatbelts,
our Caravan seemed to carry on the debate as her wheels spun
in the soft soil eating up the last inch of clearing before
finally taking flight.
While we were overjoyed to be in the air again, tension still
weighed upon us knowing we’d broken security measures by discussing
our location on the satellite phone. Nilo couldn’t rely upon
GPS coordinates for this strip; we were going by sight alone.
We studied the ground for any signs of a larger strip, but
holding close the reality that now our presence could be known,
our eyes also darted around the sky searching for the dreaded
MiGs.
We crossed one mountain with looming clouds. Lual Atak felt
certain that was where our friends awaited us. Nilo flew on.
Lual Atak cautioned him, “We’re in SAF airspace man. They
will shoot us down!”
Then at almost the exact same time, Matt and Lual Atak said,
“I see it! There it is, and our guys are down there, too!”
I looked down to see this strip was several times longer than
the first one we’d taken up, and there were fresh tracks on
it as well. Again, Nilo brought us down smoothly.
We quickly unloaded our bags and medicine. Nilo took off easily,
with lots of runway to spare. We piled into our friend’s waiting
Land Cruisers to cross nearly 20 swollen riverbeds over the
next several hours before finally reaching our camp.
Our camp host let us settle in our tukels before showing us
where the bomb shelters were located. He told us as soon as
we heard the “Antonovs,” (large Soviet era Bomber) we should
run to them and jump in the holes with everyone else. Three
antonovs took a pass around us on our first day. They did
not drop bombs on us though; they hit a village some 25 kilometers
away.
I thought explaining how hard it is to simply reach
the Nuba Mountains was important toward understanding how
critical it is that we help the orphans who have been totally
cut off through this war.
Once we finally made our base camp, we met a beautiful orphan
girl, Hannan. She’d been attending the only high school in
her area, but now the school is closed due to the bombings.
Hannan is heartbroken not only because she wants to complete
high school so that one day she can help younger orphans,
but also because the immediate consequence is she has no place
to live.
Thousands
of children have fled their villages, and are hiding in the
mountains. When the bomber planes fly over, they hide under
the rocks.
Although she barely knew us, Hannan begged us to take her
with us when we left. She’d heard about Lual Atak’s great
work at New Life Ministry (NLM), and wanted to go there. However,
we have no secondary school at New Life, or in that entire
region.
We called Romano at our Hope for Sudan (HFS) orphanage. While
we do not have a secondary school there either, there is one
in our community. We asked Romano if Hannan could live at
Hope for Sudan and go to the local school if we paid her school
fees.
Romano was excited and assured us that he would provide not
only a safe home for Hannan, but that she could also work
one-on-one with our teachers and orphan-care providers, who
would help train Hannan toward her long-term dream of working
with other orphans.
Hannan was so excited, she tied up her one little bag and
was ready to move hundreds of miles across country within
five minutes. Her tattered bag and expectant smile reminded
me of story-book pictures I’d seen as a child of Little Red
Riding Hood with her hobo stick propped across her shoulder
dangling her one polka dot knapsack of earthly belongings
as she set out on a new adventure.
A local contact worked behind the scenes with officials to
make sure we followed protocol for taking Hannan from the
Nuba Mountains (which the Arab government of Sudan claims
is still in the north of Sudan) to Bahr el Gahzal (home of
NLM, which is now a different country, the new Republic of
Sudan) for a visit with us, and then onto Eastern Equatoria
(home of HFS). We were assured all would be well.
After much good work, both running a medical clinic under
the trees and seeking an indigenous director for the region,
the morning came for us to leave the Nuba Mountains. Heavy
rains had fallen the night before so we doubted our plane
could land, but we were unsuccessful in making satellite-phone
connection with either our pilot or a contact person at the
airstrip, so we set out in doused hope.
The rains had made such a mess of our jungle-covered roads,
we had to climb out of our vehicle and trudge through muddy
passages sinking above our ankles into what is called black-cotton
mud before we finally reached our unlandable airstrip.
We waited. And we waited some more. Helicopters flew over
us, driving us to take cover in the bush and breaking up the
monotony of slow crawling time, until we finally made contact
with our pilot. His message wasn’t a happy one, “Too much
rain last night. No plane today.”
The next morning a predawn call brought great news! Our pilot
was on his way and the airstrip was much closer than the one
they’d sent us to the day before. It was on a mountain top,
and reportedly no rain had fallen on it the night before.
Little Red Riding Hannan was the first to climb in our Land
Rover, knapsack in tow. There is no fuel in the Nuba Mountains,
so we had brought our own drum of diesel. After stopping once
to hand pump some into our guzzler, we made a straight ascent
up the mountain.
A clear sky and light breeze made the lush green plateau of
our mountain the perfect place to land. It seemed smooth sailing
from there. We’d all be on our way to NLM within the hour.
(Please visit my author
facebook page to see several videos from this trip.)
Dr. Karen and Hannan chatted under a shade tree while I strolled
along the sprawling flattop. Lual Atak and Matt spoke with
military leaders guarding the landing strip. While we all
admitted that we each had one ear set for the promised propeller,
the unacknowledged ear tuned in for the drone of a bomber
plane that might find us in waiting.
A uniformed man broke bad news to Lual Atak, “I cannot let
the orphan girl go with you. A new ordinance has been declared,
and no one from the region is allowed to leave because so
many have run from the war that we have no one left to fight
the Arabs. So, my friend—that Commander over there—will take
her seat on your plane.”
Honestly, I could write an entire book about what went on
over the next hour. Lual Atak, Matt, and I all interceded
on behalf of Hannan. It was a weighty battle with Hannan crying
on the sidelines while Dr. Karen comforted Hannan with the
only thing she had to offer—aching, love-soaked prayer.
Of course, it is pure insanity to think that a little orphan
girl can’t leave the region to be placed in a safe home with
loving care, healthy food, and the provision of education
because an army has passed a decree to keep enough bodies
on the front line to ward off an enemy.
Truth that may elude an army, but is simple reality to the
oppressed, is that hunger, thirst, disease, homelessness,
and being deprived an education are all well-armed enemies
against children, especially the orphan.
Finally the uniformed man committed to Lual Atak that he would
personally ensure Hannan would get the appropriate permission
to follow us in a few days, but we needed to give the Commander
her seat on our chartered plane.
An hour earlier I couldn’t dream of many other sounds more
lovely to me than the putter of our winged Caravan approaching
our mountaintop airstrip, but more than the winds had shifted
in the past sixty minutes. Now, the noise was as beautiful
as the thud of nails being pounded into a coffin.
I knew I’d have to leave Hannan behind. My only solace was
that Lual Atak never forgets a promise, and he committed to
do whatever it took to rescue Hannan.
With the uniformed man barking orders to board the plane before
the Arabs realized it was on the ground, we tore ourselves
away from Hannan. I can’t quite describe the despair of leaving
behind a helpless orphan on a dirt airstrip with a handful
of machine gun-clad men who begrudged her a seat to freedom.
Once upon a time, I wanted to do good. Once upon I time, I
thought my life could make a difference. Once upon a time,
I believed anything was possible if I just tried hard enough,
fought long enough, and trusted God. Leaving Hannan behind
caused me to doubt everything.
My only consolation was knowing that God has used James Lual
Atak so many times to accomplish what seemed impossible, and
he was committed to find a way to help Hannan.
Many of you who track my
blog or
facebook page spread the news around the globe
and people were praying for Hannan from literally every continent.
I am confident that it was largely through those prayers that
our God worked. In the quiet thickness of dark morning nearly
a month after leaving Hannan, a high-pitched “bling, bling”
stirred me from my porridge-head sleep. My hand groped at
the bedside table until it landed on the noise maker, my cell
phone.
My eyes blurred with grog as they worked to focus on the text
message the “bling, bling” announced. The words blew away
any trace of mental fog.
“Hannan made it safely by plane to Juba! Her caretaker has
met her, and tomorrow they will travel by road to her new
home at Hope for Sudan.”
We grieved heavily over leaving Hannan on that Nuba Mountain
airstrip. Now, join me in celebration for God has heard our
prayers, and saved Hannan! –k
Kimberly L Smith
President
