A prayer for the Sudan I: "moros y cristianos"

(from Saturday, April 7, 2007 journal entry)

Some members of the US delegation chatted in hushed tones, while others sat pensively, musing over the remarkable events of the day. The few who had previously been to Khartoum greeted old acquaintances, hugging in the ritualistic yet intimate Sudanese style characteristic among friends. White-turbaned sheiks and dignitaries, captains of industry and assorted government ministers circulated among the dozen and a half Americans, their flowing white jalibayas contrasting with the crisp, dark-toned business attire of the westerners.

We had been ushered into the delegate section at the front of the cavernous Friendship Hall, a national assembly venue located in the heart of the city along the banks of the Blue Nile. These rows were equipped with headsets for simultaneous translation—presumably to ensure that we would understand each other—and were separated from the vast auditorium behind us by a wooden balustrade. Some 1500 invited guests from around the country, and beyond, were expected for tonight’s gathering, and the room was filling up, swelling with a buzz of anticipation.

I forced myself to turn and look into the sea of eyes, many looking intently, curiously, skeptically at us, at me. I smiled weakly, vainly telegraphing my heart—and the genuineness of our intent—for being there. The space between us was defined by so much more than the deceptively low banister over which we studied each other. A millennium of wall-building is not reversed in a weekend visit, no matter how sincere. I breathed out a prayer for the God-sized task facing us all.

A phrase bubbled up from the depths of my childhood, sending an involuntary shudder down my spine. “Moros y cristianos”—“Moors and Christians”: shorthand for black beans and white rice throughout the Latin Caribbean. How many times had I happily accepted a full plate of that ubiquitous fare from my adopted Puerto Rican grandma, oblivious to the history embedded in the name?

My white face flushed red at the thought, as hundreds of dark faces stared back. Waves of white robes crowded my peripheral vision, metaphorically engulfing the black suits huddled near the stage. Take a deep breath, Doug. Rice and beans really do taste better, together.

I could hear—no, feel—the questions looming in the air.

• Why had president al-Bashir called this strange assembly, inviting his American “friends” to Khartoum for a Day of Prayer for Peace—as the banner over the empty dais so boldly proclaimed?
• Who are these people? Do they really even pray?  And ... why should we pray with them?
• These are Americans, right? How did they get past their own government’s travel embargo to even get to Khartoum?
• Do they really want peace? Do we?
• What on earth are “bridges to the common ground?”

And those questions were obviously not confined to that room. I brought my own versions with me to the Sudan. I later heard them echoed by the Coptic bishop of Khartoum, by the Sudanese businessman in Bahrain, by young entrepreneurs in Dubai, as they doubtless are by many others. Do we HAVE any common ground? Is this for real?

The day’s previous activities had already been ground-breaking, unprecedented in those circles. A smaller gathering of leaders, representatives from many spheres of Sudanese society, had met with this unofficial American delegation back at the hotel, along with assorted religious and business leaders from Syria, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia.

American and middle-eastern Muslim followers of Jesus had broken bread with their Sudanese hosts. Together they shared honestly, reflected earnestly, pontificated occasionally—and had even done some praying. Powerful songs were sung, friendships formed, dreams dreamed, and plans birthed. But the throng gathering in Friendship Hall, awaiting the President’s arrival, didn’t know about all that.

They did know what they read in today’s headlines, referencing the Darfur conflict hanging like a dark cloud on the horizon, and about the looming UN sanctions. They also knew what they heard on al-Jazeera news about ongoing US aggression around the world. And now this?

So we all sat in the big room, waiting, peering at each other over the railing, pondering what all this might mean. I found myself wondering why so many seats were still empty, almost half an hour past the scheduled starting time. They were expecting a packed house, and it looked to me like the room was only about two-thirds full. And where was the president?