When I returned from my first short-term trip, serving on a large team, to Sudan, I knew something shifted in me that would never be the same. The children’s stories, laughter and sorrow captivated my heart and life’s priorities. I couldn’t wait to get back!
My time finally came around, where I was blessed to go to Hope for Sudan
alone, and spend an entire month! Before my departure I spent a lot of
time talking with fellow travelers, who’ve spent time in Sudan alone,
about how to prepare emotionally, physically, and spiritually. I did as
best I could, but the truth is, you can never be fully prepared. I knew I
would feel fear, loneliness, joy, heartache, hope, and much more, but I
did not know to what depths I would feel each of those things.If you were following our blog in February, you will remember that a bacterial infection took all but three of our short-term team members out of action. Thankfully, with a couple of doctors being on our team, we received quick and successful treatment. Not even the doctors were certain of the cause of our illness though, so I became little anxious about my return. So, to help alleviate one possible cause, I packed all of my own food (i.e. protein bars and jerky). I didn’t feel guilty about this at the time, because, unless you are going to be in Sudan for the long haul, it is considered advisable to carry in your own food so that food-borne and carried viruses don’t take you out of commission for your whole visit!
However,
after being on the ground for about week and half, living off cliff
bars and beef jerky, I felt my body and will power weakening. Several
of the women incessantly offered me cooked greens, roasted corn, boiled
pumpkin and many other delicacies, all produced onsite from the new Hope
For Sudan Farm project.I refused to share in the spoils, out fear of my weak Kawaidga stomach, always explaining as not to offend. One evening, Hanan tried one more time. She said,” I am going to cook something special, and it would mean so much to me if you would try it. They are called pancakes. Do you promise you will try it?” I looked at her and said, “Did you say pancakes?” Surely I had misheard her. I felt a hunger in me like I have never felt before and the thought of homemade pancakes only made it worse. Trying to keep my cool I said, “I suppose I could try one…for you, Hanan.”
Baking and cooking are a delight and therapeutic hobby of mine. Intrigued, I asked Hanan if I could watch her make the pancakes wondering if they were what I would call pancakes. As she mixed the batter and poured it onto the sizzling skillet, the symphony of my watering mouth, growling stomach, growing excitement, and dissipation of fear of viruses, boiled up a hunger in me raging louder than the nighttime storms rainy season keeps cooking up!
Once
she flipped the first golden and crispy edged pancake I realized this
was a time for celebration. I told Hanan to pick her favorite type of
music from my computer tablet; and like a girl after my own heart, she
chose Christmas music—in September! My taste buds and stomach knew the
value of those pancakes, but I knew in the depth of my heart that there
was a deeper value and holiness of what was taking place than just
nutritional value.This small interaction birthed between Hanan and me grew into weeks of bonding among all the women at HFS. The following day, Jane taught us how to make Chapatti, an African flatbread. Each day more recipes were exchanged and more women joined in commotion. HFS’ cooks, caretakers, teacher’s wives, and washers all became a part of this experience.
HFS is unique in that women and children from many different tribes all live together in peace. Each woman that came showed us how to make the bread specific from her tribe; one woman even showed us how she creates her own oven to bake the yeast rolls she sells in the market.
Another asked me to teach them to make biscuits (cookies) and pizza. I was not sure at all how in the world we would be able to make pizza and cookies in the desert of Sudan in an “oven” thrown together of loose stones, open fires, and sheet metal! Still, not wanting to end the mood, I agreed to try. This only added to the adventure and bonding over how to use what is available and to not compare it to what I—or they—were used to or wished for.
What a joy it was to use only vegetables from our HFS garden, along with a few ingredients from the local market, we made innovative pizzas in our handmade oven. We even made cookies in a skillet over a coal fire.
I
don’t know how to express what took place during our time together. It
was a holy and sacred time. Creating food together, and sharing the
oddities from each of our cultures, somehow stirred our spirits to trust
and grow deeper together. We talked openly about cultural practices,
and I was astonished to learn that almost every woman on staff was from a
different tribe—and that every tribe had a completely different
culture.They openly shared about each of their practices, laughed and argued with each other and asked me about mine. I could feel each woman’s hunger to be heard and known, including my own, and I witnessed and experienced the beautiful cultivation of it through blessed sisterhood.
As my time was ending we excitedly made plans for recipes to exchange upon my return, but even better, they made plans amongst themselves as to when, how, and with whom in Sudan they would continue to share this new tradition.
I entered Sudan, this first time going in alone, shrunken by my clinging to fear and a set of rules for survival. Thanks to the love of a band of sisters, I left nourished and emboldened from the rich food of our Father’s table and the women He uses to prepare it.
Love, your sister, cooking her way to the Kingdom,
Olivia
Olivia Terry
Assistant Field Coordinator
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