The last day

More on Chad in the news today, and now the situation is being compared to Rwanda – by UNHCR, no less. Matthew, Matthew… what are you saying?

Of course, the cynic in me knows exactly why Matthew is invoking the grim spectre of the Rwandan genocide. It’s because the international community in general, and the UN in particular, remains (justifiably) traumatized by what happened in Rwanda. It is the albatross around the neck of the UN and the world powers. To mention Rwanda is to tweak a raw nerve, to remind nations that they said “never again”. The trouble is, when you whisper, “Rwanda” enough, it becomes like accusing someone of being a Nazi. It no longer holds any shock, any revulsion, any meaning at all. It inures us to the memory, makes it familiar, robs it of the impact it should rightfully have.

The timing of all this increased hoo-hah is no coincidence either. The UN Security Council is set to deliberate early next week on sending a peacekeeping force into eastern Chad. The increased news coverage represents the fruits of some intensive advocacy behind the scenes by UNHCR, Oxfam and others who want to see this force deployed without delay.

Today is my last day here. In all, it went much better than last time. The work-related stress was as great or greater, but the underlying discomfort of living in Abeche was gone. It just goes to show how rough living conditions and the rather constant fear of being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time tips your internal balance and makes it very hard to take the little things in stride.

Chad feels almost familiar to me at this point. I have already become desensitized to the sights that had me gawking out the window last fall. Now that I have gotten past the initial awe, I am more interested in the why of things. Like, why does everyone seem to be transporting bundles of sticks? Where are these sticks coming from, and how come every donkey cart and buzzing motorbike seems to carry them? Or, where do the gasoline vendors actually get their wares? Isn’t it illegal to sell fuel in a Coke bottle? I have also become accustomed to the sight of camouflage uniforms and AK-47s. It is impossible to exaggerate the prominence of the security apparatus here. Police, gendarmes and soldiers are simply everywhere; the only way to tell them apart is by the colour of their berets (black for police, blue for gendarmes and red for soldiers).

I’m used to being a curiosity, drawing crowds of children asking for “cadeaux” and men who are intensely interested in helping me with whatever they can (suitcase, car door, shop door, choosing what to buy). At the airport, when my luggage went missing, I had a crowd of no less than eight men (no idea who they were) clustering around me holding their chins thoughtfully, offering opinions on what had happened to my suitcase and who was to blame. (Eventually they came to a group decision: not enough time between flights to get the luggage in place. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the connection time had been seven hours.) Yesterday morning at the post office, the local police captain was my personal stamp shopper, barking orders at the staff and ensuring Madame got the nicest stamps in the nicest envelope. He would not tolerate sloth or confusion, and made sure that I re-calculated the cost myself to see that no one was trying to cheat me.

I will miss the Chadians, for all their foibles. Unlike the last time I was here, I find myself hoping I will someday get to come back.