Goodbyes in Kadugli

Yesterday, few friends and myself came around to say goodbye (again) to a friend who's leaving back home for Tehran. He spent about 3 months here. Perhaps a short time but it was still sad to see a friend leaving.

Tonight, we had dinner and said goodbye to another friend, who is returning to Mazar Al-Sharif after more than 4 years out here in Kadugli. It wasn't easy. He was my first friend out here and over the time I've been here, has been nothing less but exceptionally kind and warm. Certainly it made the goodbye a sad occasion not just for me but the many others around us as well.

Anyone working in the development world can attest to the fact that we all say goodbye to people we care about far too many times. No matter where and when, it's always hard. Especially when you live out in a small community with a handful of souls you count as dear friends. You can say it's part and parcel of the nature of what we do and where we are. Perhaps. But as I've written before, I have definitely developed a strong distaste for goodbyes. I don't know if one needs to make a ceremony of it. What I know is that goodbyes are never simple and never happy no matter what the future presumes to hold.

We say goodbye, wish each other luck and promised to stay in touch and many of us know that in the development industry, somehow, we may end up finding each other again. It's still a small world after all. But my point is, if we reflect on every goodbye we say, we know a part of our heart goes to the other. Those friends that you spent days at meetings with and nights laughing and merry making - they take a part of you away.

This time around, while it is sad, I feel a tinge of my heart hardening. I know I ought not to make a human tragedy about my friends leaving. They are all either leaving to be with their families or found something better. And in the next few weeks, more people will go, leaving me to wonder what my life will look like in the next few months or even weeks. I dread the quietness, the change and above all, the ominous loneliness that comes along with living in a small community as this. Each one of us here feels like a part of a family, a dysfunctional one no matter but a part of something close and we bonded in the time we are here. I always say it's a bunch of misfits put together. I learnt to care and look after my friends and they do the same for me. I would be rotten if I say I didn't. They've made my life here ever more pleasant and comfortable when I first stepped off the UN flight, all new and bright-eyed.

Which brings me to the fact that no matter how fulfilling this industry or job is, it'll never be the same without the very souls around it. The ones who helped you, who listened to your whining and complaints, and your heartbreaking stories. So many things we've shared - family photos, cooking dinner, hiking out in the mountains, roaming about town looking for what-nots and so on. Professionally and socially.

I envy people whose lives are normal in many parts of the world - finish work, meet friend, go to the cinemas and so forth. Lives I sometimes now think is foreign to me but secretly yearn. People like to say that our lives as development workers are exciting, seeing different things and doing our small part for humanity. Many people get into this for very different reasons. For me, after almost 4.5 years away from normality of what I used to have is perhaps taking its toll. Of course others in my industry might feel otherwise. I'm only speaking of my own experiences.

If this was anywhere else in a developed place, I might be less saddened tonight but I'm in Kadugli, almost in the middle of nowhere and every other day and week, someone is going out for good and I'll probably never see their faces again or for a very long time. That makes all the difference of why being out here is sometimes heart wrenching. Here, these friends of mine gave me a life and showed me what it means to truly care about the other. If I've learnt nothing else out here, that much I have.

Kopernik and Igniting Creativity

I couldn' seem to upload this video but here is the link - Toshi Nakamura, Founder of Kopernik at TEDx Tokyo talk. Having worked directly with Toshi and volunteering with Kopernik, am proud to say this talk was inspiring.

http://tedxtokyo.com/tedxtokyo-2011-enter-the-unknown/program/toshi-nakamura/

Murakami's Spaghetti

My current read on a Saturday afternoon as this is Murakami's Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. I have been jumping books in the last few weeks, from Jack Kerouc's Dharma Bums to Dambisa Moyo's Dead Aid. Different days, different needs I say. 

In one of the 24 short stories, The Year of Spaghetti, the character makes spaghetti every day, every week and for a long time. Cooks and eats alone, convinced that it's best enjoy alone. It's a simple story really, revolves around the character and spaghetti cooking and one telephone call. 

But I thought the best part of the story is when it ends with this:

Durum semolina, golden wheat wafting in Italian fields.

Can you imagine how astonished the Italians would be if they knew what they were exporting in 1971 was really loneliness?

TED: Ideas worth sharing

Let the taxi drivers talk! Who else but them can spread an idea faster and make you to listen? Visit www.ted.com

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There is a girl no different from any other. She stands on a land of dust and sand around her, where breeze is an occasional visitor. She took off her shoes and dug her feet into the hot sand; it burns and tingles at the same time. She likes the feeling but everyday she longs for the ocean and ravenous wind blowing in every direction. When she was a little girl, she used to play at the edge of the waters. Half-afraid yet half-excited if she went any further, the waters might sweep her away into the unknown. If she shuts her eyes tightly and prayed to the gods above, the universe might transport her there again. She was young, free and oblivious to the realities of the world around her.

These days, she dreams a lot. When she wakes up in the morning, she pens these dreams down detailing everything she could remember, desperate to hold on its recognition and its relevance. Last night, she thinks she dreams of driving a truck and running over a small child. But a man came out of thin air and made the child disappear. It frightens her. Not about running the child over but the man. He’s been in so many of her dreams. The same man dressed always in a black suit, a white open collared shirt and a boutonnière of white gardenia. She can’t see his face but it is always the same man. Who is he?

She reads too much into every sign, working out every possibility. Words comfort her, it gives meaning to hold on to. She made herself a cup of chamomile tea and sits at her desk, thinking. She eyed her notebook that she’s been filling out the past two weeks. Thick and dripping with every dream she’s had about the elusive character in her dreams.

Flipping the pages of her notebook, she searches for the first recollection of memory she had of him. She reread her entry, hoping to find a clue. But it’s hopeless. They live in different worlds and her memory is failing her. Maybe he was just a memory invented or an illusion crafted. He doesn’t exist. He only visits her in her dream, when she is sleeping because he knows that way, she can’t chase him and he can still linger about, taunting her. On the first dream, she was in her room, lying on her bed reading when he appeared with an old, blue wooden cupboard. It juxtaposed with the other furniture in her room. He placed it down, opened it and went inside. She walked to the cupboard, unsure what to think and tried opening it but couldn’t. Knock knock, is anyone in there? No answer. A while later, she heard a whisper, don’t worry, I am here. I just miss you. She knocked on it again but no more words came out.

In the morning, she got up, opened a fresh page and jot what she could remember from her sleep. She wrote a string of sentences which doesn’t make sense but then again, her dream didn’t make sense either. Inspecting her room, she focused on where the cupboard was placed. She thought she smelled something, a whiff of him perhaps.

I just miss you. But who are you?

The next few dreams were all different but he was always there. He continues to visit her at night and in the morning; she jots down every detail she could possibly remember. Some days, when she is confused, she writes him a letter. She concocts her words like a potion, in the magical belief that the wind might carry them off to him somewhere in the globe where he actually existed. She sprinkled it with her words and sounds, occasionally peppering it with little stories of her day. It is certainly a desperate act she realizes but she feels a strong compulsion to know him. Maybe when he reads this, he will want to find her too. Sometimes, she thinks she can see him from a distance, if she tries hard enough. Perhaps if she concentrates really hard, she can bring him to life.

It frustrates her badly and she felt foolish.  Today especially. She lit up a cigarette, let it fills her lung. She drank her cold tea and stared into the empty space.  Dreams can manipulate but they can also cast some meaning, don't they, she queried. Holding the notebook in her small hands, she whispered, you must be somewhere and you must mean something, why else would you come to see me every night?

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As I get older, a lot of things changed. I no longer have patience for time when in fact I should. I don't understand why people get so excited about new movies, fashion or latest gossip. It's different when I was younger. I was braver, riskier and sometime relish the desire to be in some sort of trouble.

Now it's different. I used to think travelling solo was enjoyable, not so the case now. I get annoyed at the hawkers trying to sell my their wares, I hate queues, I dislike other tourists, I secretly think they are nothing but one bunch of ignorant fools and above all I get irritated at not being able to share and swap stories and grievances.

As I get older, loneliness suddenly seem scary. I yearn for company, even with the strangest of soul. I yearn for easy chatter in the early hours of morning and yet when they go off tangent, I get irritable under my skin.

And yet the more I seek company, the more obstinate I become in isolating myself from the troubles of the everyday, preferring my own solitude and its quietness. The paradox of all these continues to baffle me. Sometimes perhaps I over thought these things.

The more I live, the more I ought to have learnt, which means I should be wiser and yet I am not. It's strange sometimes. I used to presume getting older means I understand the world better but I haven't and I'm still lost. I have no clue how to solve poverty or cure AIDS. There are days when my heart is empty of empathy.

Perhaps this is what it is - this is what it means to get older and be alive. There will be lost possibilities and things and events I cannot changed no matter how hard I tried. No way of changing the world or people. Just a way of accepting it. It's not resignation or accepting defeat but perhaps a means of coping and understanding why life turns out this way - bad or good.

This is what I think. We gained and we lose some along the way. We fall and we get hurt and then we get up again. The things we treasure so tightly sometimes are snatched under our noses and it hurts. We fall in love and it's not enough, we patched our hearts back and we move along, hoping. We trust and it's broken. We hurt other people unknowingly and we damaged them. We cry and there's no one to wipe our tears. We carry on our lives in silence and solitude.

4.5 years

I have been away from Singapore/home for almost 4.5 years now. Since January 2006. Fuck that is a damn long time.

18 months was spent studying and living in Canberra, lasted close to 2 years in Sierra Leone, 10 months freezing and sweating it out in Beijing and now almost 7 months in Kadugli. In between I have spent time in Europe, roaming about.

Actually today I celebrate my 7 months in the ‘doog. Deserve more than a pat on my back for being out here that long.

People occasionally ask me when I am returning home. Many Sudanese asked me this question and it puzzles them whenever I mentioned not yet or that every R&R, I just travelled somewhere else but home. I never really got the question: why did you leave home?

Obviously by now, I have accepted that the concept of ‘their’ home and ‘my’ home differs widely. Agreeably, there can be many explanations for this, practiced answers and deep philosophical ramblings on what we mean by home. But let’s not go there, least not today. I have a secret perfect answer that I’ve always wanted to use but never. It’s a quote by Maya Angelou, “The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”

I left because I wanted something different, like there was devilish inner voice whispering, “Get out, life is more than a paycheck in the civil service or shopping down Orchard Road..” so I stepped out of the rut and now utterly grateful that I made that first move. And I have gotten a lot from all the years even if I keep walking in circles, committing the same mistakes all over again. I have lived in places others only wonder about, slept under the stars, sometimes living on the charity of my friends and family and experience an almost full life. It’s never always rosy and there weren’t always happy moments and smiley faces all the times. The more you go, the harder it becomes to maintain human relationships with the ones you care about. There were many days when I was surrounded by people I didn’t like very much and happenings I rather banished from memory. I am not always proud of some things I’ve done but there’s no other way other than to move along. Right. 

I’ve got good things this year. The strengthening of friendship with some of the most heartwarming people I’ve ever met in my life, which deserves more than just my mere note of thanks. And meeting a man I love and continue to grow in love with. I pray that I’ll be lucky this time but it’s funny how I know luck has nothing to do with this. Some things are just meant to happen.

I haven’t come full circle yet; think I will keep walking on the circle I’ve drawn over and over again. And as I do this time, I will think of warm sunshine, clear blue water and pistachio ice-cream.

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Theirs was to be a difficult journey. One that would take them into strange lands, long distances, unspoken sacrifices and many days filled with tears and desperation. Equally this was a journey that only they two could understand. Coming from worlds apart, they were both hardened by what they have seen in life. Determined to make life work, they hold on to a profound conviction that life is hard but love is kind.

One cold morning, she opened her eyes and breathed in the moment as she watched him sleep. She well understood that time is a factor. Time is always tearing them apart. Time is their greatest enemy. He turned and looked at her, stoked by her beauty and strength. She is the other half of my soul that I have always been praying for. He is my muse, my best friend and my love, she smiled.


There were many times when they fought and sparred over unimportant things but they were many more moments when they quietly basked in their respect and admiration for each other. That kept them strong and anchored their love.

Their lives were unconventional but their love for each other simple and pure. The kind of love that asks for nothing, expects nothing and desires nothing. It is patient and kind. But it’s a love they both are willing to fight for. And they fought for it every single day and every day they will strive towards the day when they two will come whole.

When time comes for them to part, he kissed her gently and said, “I am nothing special of this is true but my heart beats with yours and is yours alone and I await the day when our lives will start.”

She took his hand and placed it to her cheek and quietly said, “When that day comes, I will not ask of you more than you can give. I know you have dreams, hopes and ambitions and I will not hold you back.”

That was the last time they spoke.

Elections in Southern Kordofan

Southern Kordofan, where I am based, is awaiting the results of its recently concluded elections Both sides has claimed victory. The ruling party of the north, the NCP is represented by the state's incumbent governor, Ahmed Haroun, who is infamously wanted by the ICC for crimes allegedly committed in Darfur. His opponent is the present deputy Governor, Abdul Aziz Al-Hilu, of the SPLM/SPLA (dominant party of the south).

Situated along the north-south undefined border, Southern Kordofan is a strategic spot. It sits on oilfields, have been the battle ground of years of conflict, its neighbours Darfur and Abyei (another volatile region sitting on oil and one of the Three Transitional Areas awaiting its referendum). The Three Transitional Areas (Blue Nile state, Southern Kordofan and Abyei) were tricky negotiating points of the CPA.

For many years, the people of the Nuba Mountains/SK fought alongside the southerners in the war with the north. War in the Nuba Mountains has killed tens of thousands although much of it unrecorded due to Khartoum blockade of the region (sealed off between 1991 and 1995). The Nuba were cut off from the SPLA in the south in 1991, leaving them to fight on their own and in that time suffered a three-year famine.

The CPA, which will conclude on July 9 has failed to bring satisfactory improvements and for most parts, implementation is slow or worse neglected. The aspirations of the Nuba for self-determination to protect their way of lives, religion and culture may never be realised. For a long time, the Nuba has been left to starve by the Khartoum government, sidelined by their southern counterpart and essentially forgotten by the international community.

As I sit here, waiting to hear what's going on with the elections results, I am left to wonder what fate awaits these people who has been fighting for their lands for decades. The mood has been quietly tense. It's not the same Kadugli I know when I first arrived 7 months ago. A number of my friends have left or will be leaving, some for different reasons, others unsure about what will happen next. The truth is no one knows. But this is not my fight. To predict what would happen would essentially ignore all the intricacies of the politics around here. One can only have a little faith that everything will turn out fine. A little faith.

Voting in Singapore's General Elections

Come this weekend, Singaporeans will go to the polls and vote in the General Elections. I have never voted in my life before and will be unable to do so this time. My living situation doesn't quite permit me to do so.

I wish I could vote. This year's elections promises more excitement that I can recall. Singapore has been run and manned by the men in white i.e. the Peoples' Action Party since independence in 1965. Without wanting to sound like a PAP mouthpiece, I acknowledge that the PAP has done very well and many Singaporeans including myself have benefited tremendously. From a village of nothing, Singapore has become one of the shining example of economic success in the world today. A leap from 3rd world status to 1st in a generation (my ex-boss at the World Bank often reminds me of this).

Having said that, the PAP has over the years turned itself (knowingly or not) into a self-preserving, elitist and selfish group of men/women that presumingly view Singaporeans as just another digit, a working machine only capable of producing more (never less), another wheel in the economic grind - seriously. Our worth as Singaporeans is seen primarily in terms of value and productivity. Nothing less. Your opinion and thoughts matter less than what you are capable of producing.

Precisely in this elections, the PAP has failed to convince Singaporeans why it should remain in power and repeating the same mistakes. Someone in PAP should have thought about hiring a PR guru from the beginning - the blunders were too many. For example, my favourite (on why choose PAP), "If your wife is unable to cook, there's no point. You must choose a wife who is able to do things for you". No score for you there, Desmond Choo. What a chauvinist pig!   


To add to that, the smear tactics against opposition, questioning their credibility etc were seriously desperate moves to distract one's attention away from the real core issues. Someone should have reminded the PAP that humility is still a prized quality. I am tired of being dumbed down by a government who somewhat perceives me as maybe never being good enough to understand the complexities of politics and policy issues. 


There can never be real democracy without an opposition. Singaporeans are not keen to overthrow the PAP but what we want to see is more vibrancy and participation in the debate that define our lives. That there are more voices looking out for those who are not able to be part of that discourse, more diversity in perspectives on what's important to ALL Singaporeans, that we don't just grow and grow without understanding and that heart to look out for those that might get left behind. 


I used to be ashamed that Singaporeans has no compassion and empathy but this elections has proved otherwise. That all we cared about is making money and buying the next condo. It's refreshing to hear people talked and openly discussed politics, the real issues at hand, what matters and so on. While it's unfortunate that I can't vote this time (again), let it be known that I am proud of my fellow Singaporeans and my friends there. Good luck!