Val’s eyes are tearing over as we stand at the dirt airstrip waiting for the mosquito-sized UN plane to pick her off this Yambio planet. The scene is surreal. Police recruits dressed in white scrubs are slashing the tall green grass running the length of the runway, singing and swinging their blades in shifts. A police captain blows a whistle and the recruits run across the strip, cheering in unity, to gather around a big man in a navy blue police uniform. Lurking in wait nearby is the mammoth UN helicopter with the floppy bunny rabbit ear propellers. Under the all-new iron-roofed open air waiting area are disaffected passengers, slumped back in their plastic chairs, legs spread akimbo in resignation.
The plane is late and we are anxious. This week has been nothing but wait. Val, our first-ever gender based violence (GBV) program manager, is off for her Canadian home, having tendered her resignation six weeks early out of frustration in working for an abusive boss. A few days prior we learned the news that -- beyond the limited prospects for future funding -- our program budgets throughout South Sudan are seriously overspent. And now, just now as we tune our ears to the sky for the whine of the plane, we’re told that one of our GBV employees, a single mother of an infant, not only has Bell’s Palsy but also HIV.
I wish for a different ending for Val. She deserves more for all she has given in successfully launching a potentially controversial program to end violence in the home and community. Under her tutelage, 10 GBV team members I’m now tasked with managing have conducted dozens of workshops and awareness raising activities to combat inter-marital rape, the forced early marriage of girls as young as 14, epidemic levels of domestic violence, and the Sha’ria-influenced laws that allow women to be incarcerated for adultery (mind you, even if they’ve been raped) or for fleeing abusive and violent relationships. They have explored the intersection of GBV, alcohol and HIV. They have trained police captains, health care workers, students and government officials. They have done if for Val, for themselves and for their communities. The work will go on.
The plane is late and we are anxious. This week has been nothing but wait. Val, our first-ever gender based violence (GBV) program manager, is off for her Canadian home, having tendered her resignation six weeks early out of frustration in working for an abusive boss. A few days prior we learned the news that -- beyond the limited prospects for future funding -- our program budgets throughout South Sudan are seriously overspent. And now, just now as we tune our ears to the sky for the whine of the plane, we’re told that one of our GBV employees, a single mother of an infant, not only has Bell’s Palsy but also HIV.
I wish for a different ending for Val. She deserves more for all she has given in successfully launching a potentially controversial program to end violence in the home and community. Under her tutelage, 10 GBV team members I’m now tasked with managing have conducted dozens of workshops and awareness raising activities to combat inter-marital rape, the forced early marriage of girls as young as 14, epidemic levels of domestic violence, and the Sha’ria-influenced laws that allow women to be incarcerated for adultery (mind you, even if they’ve been raped) or for fleeing abusive and violent relationships. They have explored the intersection of GBV, alcohol and HIV. They have trained police captains, health care workers, students and government officials. They have done if for Val, for themselves and for their communities. The work will go on.
Oy-yaye GBV program.
Oy-yaye Yambio.
Oy-yaye Val.
