By Ellen Ratner
This past Sunday was Easter, arguably the most peaceful, joyous and hopeful celebration in all of Christendom.
As I glance outside my window, I can see the props of our wealthy civilization: Tall, sleek, buildings of glass and steel, late model automobiles, paved roads and stores offering an abundance of all that that makes life long, good and easy. Yet about one week ago on Palm Sunday, I looked out and saw something else. That day found me in a small village in southern Sudan. And what I saw were buildings of dried grass and open roofs, filled with people, some of whom did not resemble the people I see on the street today – they wore rags, not their Easter Sunday best. And these rags contained men, women and, heartbreakingly, children – so many, many children – who resembled only caricatures of human beings: Malnourished and stick thin, whose tight flesh hosted open, running and sometimes what might be gangrenous sores. Mothers’ breasts were dry; fathers and older male children were too weak to gather food that simply wasn’t there anyway.
These were the bodies of starvation and the faces of suffering. On Palm Sunday, I was in Southern Darfur.
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