Gift of Revelation (15 page)

It was raining that weekend. It was a freakish downpour, as it was not the region's rainy season. Dr. Bromberg approached me near the sheds about conducting a funeral service for some of the cholera victims. He told me that the burial site was a long distance from the camp and that they had to observe safety precautions during the service, in order to comply with the World Health Organization's regulations for the disposal of bodies. Still, he felt it was important to have a funeral service, to keep to the cultural traditions in caring for the dead.

“Would you do the honors at the funeral?” Dr. Bromberg asked me.

“Gladly. I'd be proud to do it,” I replied.

The doctor then explained that private donors had provided the camp's stainless-steel postmortem tables, wheeled trolleys to transport the dead to the temporary mortuary, heavy black plastic sheeting for privacy, and body bags suitable for the outbreak.

“We're running out of room,” Dr. Bromberg said. “Some families deny their relatives are dead from such a disease. Others hide them away. The families who acknowledge their loved one has been claimed by cholera want the body buried with a sense of dignity. You've made a lot of friends in this camp. Many people think you're a fair, honest man, unlike some of the church officials around here.”

I smiled humbly. “Thanks.”

“We want to give them a simple service, nothing elaborate, but reverent and respectful,” the doctor said. “The camp administrators approved a ban of common graves and mass cremations, but time and space prohibit that action. Still, we want to do everything by the book. You're just the man to do the service justice.”

His arrival probably timed to add some weight to his fellow doctor's sales pitch, Dr. Arriale joined us, pulling up a seat. He spoke to me like a friend from the old neighborhood.

“Can I say this?” he said. “I don't agree with the church officials' harsh treatment of you. What you don't understand is that some Sudanese officials hate any foreigner criticizing them. By the way, are you going to do the funeral?”

“Yes. I agreed to do it,” I answered.

“Very good,” they both replied in unison.

“Is my life in danger?” I asked them. “Will it be in danger during the service?”

“No, Reverend,” Dr. Bromberg said.

“Addie, my friend, is freaking out about this cholera thing,” I said. “She thinks she is going to die from it. She can't understand why more can't be done for the infected people.”

Both doctors laughed, as if they had heard some smutty joke.

“All I can say is prevention is better than the cure,” Dr. Bromberg observed. “If she is panicked about cholera, she needs to take every precaution. If she wants to ensure her health, she cannot be lax with her hygiene, and she should be careful with her associates. We'll do all we can do on our end.”

However, Dr. Arriale added a somber note about the fear and stigma associated with cholera victims. “I feel badly for them. The victims of this horrible disease are shunned, rejected, by both family and friends. Sometimes even after they have been treated successfully at the hospital, the family isolates them, afraid to get the disease. Often we have to go into the villages and locate the sick, since their relatives hide them.”

“It was like this some years ago, when we had the large AIDS outbreaks in Central Africa,” Dr. Bromberg said. “The families don't want to touch or go near the victims. Also, they feel they will lose status and respect in the community if it becomes known that someone in the family has the disease. This is why we try to integrate patients cured of cholera back into the community, allowing the family members to see that they are cured and are able to resume daily life.” He paused. “So, the answer is, you have nothing to worry about. And neither does your friend. If she would like, I'll give her a hygiene kit with water purification tablets and a special soap.”

That gave me comfort. “I think she'd like that,” I said.

“Any other questions?” Dr. Bromberg asked.

“It seems like a terrible death,” I said. “One of your staff members told me it's very quick. Some people die within a day. How can you treat something that moves so fast through the body?”

“We do all we can to relieve the person's suffering,” Dr. Bromberg said. “We do all the needed treatments and hope for the best. Sometimes the treatments fail, but more often they succeed. When they don't, we bathe the bodies in bleach, seal all the orifices, and put them into sealed body bags to contain any contamination. Cholera is no joke.”

Dr. Arriale scooted closer to me, then spoke slowly. “The funeral will be a dignified affair. All family members and staff will be situated a distance from the burial site. You will be on a small knoll above the burial pit, which will be prepared and secured beforehand. We have to take measures not to corrupt the soil after the bodies are interred.”

“We can't bury them near any water source, because the bodies could leak into the water that people bathe in, drink, or use when cooking food,” Dr. Bromberg explained. “Those who are grieving will sing, hold lighted candles, and speak about their loved ones. Many of the people will stay away, but a large number will come as a way of showing that the community shares their grief.”

“I like that,” I said, nodding. “It shows that their loved ones are still a part of their lives, despite their passing. They live in our memory.”

“Any more questions?” Dr. Bromberg asked. “I want to make sure that you know what you're getting yourself into. But I want you to know that everything will be done to ensure your safety.”

“One last question. Can staffers be exposed through direct contact with a victim's body and soiled clothes and then contract cholera?”

“Yes, but we don't let that happen,” the doctor replied.

With the matter of the funeral settled, I went back to my tent and prayed for several minutes for strength and courage. I didn't want to let the doctors down. The service should be something memorable and comforting to those whom the victims had left behind. But first, I had to prepare a sermon that gave hope to these poor souls. The theme of suffering had been on my mind full-time since it was all around me, in the camp and in the troubled land.

 

 

The sun was shining bright on the afternoon of the funeral, which was held the next Sunday. Four guards accompanied us—the doctors, a few members of the staff, and me—when we traveled by truck to a remote part of the wilderness. Workers had prepared the burial site for the victims, taking all the safety precautions. The family members and friends of the victims were treated with respect by all who had gathered, including other refugees, maybe a hundred, who came with candles and took their place a safe distance from the grave site.

“Reverend Clint Winwood, our American friend, will officiate at this funeral,” Dr. Bromberg said, introducing me. “We're lucky to have him. A few of you already know him, since he has been visiting the camp. Give him a warm welcome.”

A case of nerves assailed me every time I stood in front of a group of people, especially at weddings and funerals. I didn't know if these people would understand me. The doctors had assured me that many of them understood English, because of the American and English missionaries in the area. I was counting on that.

“My friends, my days in Sudan have shaped and strengthened my faith,” I began slowly. “I've witnessed such courage and persistence among you, the families of the departed loved ones, the valiant doctors, and the medical staff. You all are so brave and fearless in this time of trial and suffering.” I glanced at the solemn family members, who were clutching candles, their Bibles, and the memories of their beloved intact.

“We live in a time of great suffering,” I said, adjusting my collar. “If you live this life in Sudan, you will face suffering every day. Everywhere you see suffering. Everywhere you see suffering taking a great toll on body, soul, spirit. There is nothing fair about suffering. There is sometimes no rhyme or reason with suffering. We try to control suffering, but it has a mind of its own. A good heart or good works cannot defeat suffering, as you know.”

There was a smattering of sobbing out in the crowd. I turned to see the doctors and the staff fighting back tears.

“But faith can soothe suffering,” I said, pointing to the mourners. “The Lord tells us He will ease our burdens if we only believe in Him. For every person, especially those who believe in Jesus Christ, He says you will have your share of trouble in this world. Believe in Him. He is the God of love and mercy.”

I saw some of the children tugging on the legs of their parents and the old bracing themselves against the young. This was life in its real state.

“There are those who want to say our God is responsible for our pain and suffering,” I continued in a stern voice. “There are those who want to say God is punishing us. They say we are following a false God. They say we believe in a God who is harsh and stern, who wants us to suffer so we can believe. These are all lies by the nonbelievers. They are evil and have brought hate and malice into our world. But God will not permit an evil, sinful world to rule endlessly. Their time will come. Remember that!”

At that moment I noticed that the doctors were getting impatient. They needed to get back to work, and the heat was a killer.

“Find comfort in God's plan of salvation,” I said, starting my wrap-up. “As the good book says, in Philippians one, twenty-nine, ‘For unto you, it is given in behalf of Christ, not only to believe in Him, but also to suffer for His sake.'”

As I was starting to get really revved up, I noticed the doctors' hand signals. They were urging me to finish my sermon. I'd forgotten how much I loved preaching. When I got home, I had to get back to the pulpit.

“Remember that God is in control of all life and that we are God's children,” I said, concluding the sermon. “He is merciful and caring. His ears are open to our prayers. We are dealing with Satan and evil men who want to crush our souls. With God's help and guidance, good can result from suffering. Remember that. Don't be discouraged about the future. Life will get better. It always does. God is a living God. Pray for peace, pray that justice will be done, and pray that righteousness will stand strong and triumph.”

When I finished my sermon, they clapped and shouted. I left the stage, totally dumbfounded, and made my way back to the truck. Dr. Bromberg said the final words, comforting the families of the victims and offering hope that those who had been displaced would return home soon. Sweat seeping through my shirt and pants, I sat in the truck, fanning myself with an old copy of
Elle
magazine.

This was the day on which I wanted to have a showdown with Addie. My recent talk with her had had no effect on her reckless behavior, she had become the joke of the camp. I had thought that maybe Elsa should talk to her as well, but I now ruled out that idea. If things went really badly, then I'd bring in Elsa for a woman-to-woman talk as a last resort.

Since the day before the funeral, I had not seen the country gal anywhere. I ran into her Dinka friend as he was oiling his weapon near the shed that housed the generators, and spoke to him. Elsa was right. He was a mountain of a man, big arms and legs, a Paul Bunyan type. His appearance conflicted with his temperament, because he was a mild-mannered soul with a deep bass laugh.

“Hello. I don't know if you know me,” I said. “I'm the reverend and a friend of Addie. I think you know Addie.”

He laughed that booming laugh of his. “Sure, I know Addie. I know you too. You've been working with the doctors. People around here like you.”

“Thanks for that,” I said. “I've not seen Addie. Have you seen her?”

His face became serious. “Addie is a fresh girl. She's taken up with another guard, a bad man who likes to drink and mess around. She got tired of me. She wants fun and lots of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“All the boys know her,” the guard said. “If you're her friend, you need to tell her to stop the easy ways. They don't care about her. If they treat their women bad, just think of how they'll treat her.”

A chill crept up my back. I was really concerned. I thanked him for his wise words, and then I set out to find her. This had to stop.

I didn't find her until late that night. It was after midnight. She was sitting on her bunk in her tent, dressed in her bra, which was stained with sweat and dust.

“Hello, Reverend. What can I do for you?” she said, giving me her sweetest smile. “I just got in. Had a great time.”

“That's good,” I replied.

Her brow furrowed slightly. She made no attempt to pull her blouse over her bare flesh. She seemed proud that she could tempt me.

“Everybody thinks I should warn you, Addie,” I said. “You're running around with some bad men. These guys mean you no good. I told you that before.”

There was nobody else in the tent. Everybody was watching the staff and the drivers play a midnight soccer match.

She put her hands on her hips and struck a seductive pose. “I'm glad I came over here,” she said, winking. “I was a coward at home, and now I'm a lioness here. At first, I was nervous around men. I felt awful, but now I rather like it.”

“Addie, you've got to stop this foolishness,” I said strongly.

“Or what, Clint?” She glared at me with malice.

“Or something might happen to you,” I said. “Sudan is not kind to women.”

“Reverend, you know what I told you about needing attention,” she said. “I love this place for that reason. I came down to the truck sheds, and the men went crazy. I never got that in Alabama. It's entirely sexual. They stared at me, wolf whistled, made bedroom remarks. I lapped it up. I loved it. It completely made me feel good about myself.”

“The camp folks say you're violating their security precautions by traveling in the area at all times of the night,” I said. “They don't want you to be a victim.”

She looked in the direction of the camp's far entrance. “Don't pretend you know me. You don't have any idea what makes me tick.”

“Most men have no idea what makes women tick,” I answered.

“Clint, you're boring. You're afraid of women, love, and contentment. I told you this before too. I don't want a wimp. I want a hot-blooded man who knows what's what.”

“What happened to you and the Dinka guard?”

“His name is Mickey,” she said. “Like most Dinka men, he became jealous and mean. He wanted to own me. I told him I'm not his wife.” Then she began to cry.

I stepped up to her and put my arms around her. “Addie, what happened to the good, old-fashioned country gal I knew in New York?”

“Clint, maybe something's wrong with my head.”

“I don't know. I don't think so.”

The tears flowed down her cheeks. “To be honest, I'm so confused. I don't feel right. I thought my life would be changed when I left the South. I couldn't wait to get away from there, but nothing changed.”

“Sweetie, what's wrong with you?” I asked. “It seems like you're fighting yourself over something you did in the past. Is that it?”

Her arms went slack by her sides as her crying increased.

“I try to forget the past,” she mumbled softly. “My father walked around the house in his drawers. You could see his thing. My mother was no better, walking around with her titties hanging out. My two male cousins stripped down to their drawers when they were in the house. I remember I was ordered to bring a bar of soap to my father in the shower. He would tell me that I wasn't seeing anything that I wouldn't see when I went out in the world. My cousin asked me to bring him toilet paper when he was using the bathroom. I saw everything.”

“How did those experiences make you feel, Addie?”

“I got sexualized at an early age,” she said. “I don't think I was ever a child. I developed early, getting curves way before my friends in school. My folks didn't talk anything about sex, but I was aware of it.”

“Were your folks strict?”

“Oh yes, they were. They didn't let me go anywhere. While the other girls were allowed to date, my father kept me home. He kept me under lock and key. I was pleasuring myself like crazy. When I came of age, I left home with the first man who paid attention to me.”

“Your husband, the one who died?”

“Yes, Clint.”

She didn't stop crying. “Being with these guys and drinking doesn't make my inner feelings of being alone go away. I feel shame and guilt when I do this mess. But being bad can feel so good.”

“You sound like you enjoy it,” I said.

“When I get with one of these guys, I get a rush from the spark between us,” she said, smiling. “It's almost like a high, a rush. I do it in the moment because it feels great. Sometimes I tell myself that I don't care what they think of me, but I do. Still, my body knows the difference, because my heart has no part in the sex.”

I swallowed hard. “You've made a choice to have fun.”

“I feel like crap after I do all these things, right after I'm with them, and I tell myself that I'm never going back,” she said, wiping her eyes. “But the desire comes back full force later. Then I go and find the big black men.”

“We've made a mess of us, huh?” I asked.

She sucked her teeth and spat, “Clint, you're a liar. You're a hypocrite. You don't mean the things you say. When we were in New York, you were all lovey-dovey, but here you act like you don't know me. I feel left out.”

“But you disappear and nobody knows where you are,” I replied. “You're good at vanishing. Somebody should know where you are all the time. This is Sudan, a very dangerous place.”

Shrugging, she moved away from me, turned her back, and unfastened her bra. She knew what she was doing. She realized I was not going to take her to bed. She turned back around. Facing me, she stood there between the rows of cots with her full mocha-brown breasts exposed.

“I'm tired, very tired, sugah,” she said, yawning. “I've got to get some sleep now.”