What to say when you don’t know what to say?  I guess I’ll just share what happened.

For those weren’t aware, this year I spent the fourth of July commemorating American Independence by attending a celebration of Sudanese culture here in Utah.  More specifically, of Abyei Ngok Dinka culture.  (That such things happen here is a better testament to American values than anything else I can say.)  The Abyei, as was explained to me, are a regional subgroup of the very large Dinka tribe that populates southern Sudan, and Ngok is the name of the subtribe, which is not completely contained in Abyei.  Thus, as I am a western American living in Utah, they are Ngok Dinka Sudanese native to Abyei, though all those in attendance either live in the states or Canada now.  As if that isn’t confusing enough, the Abyei Ngok are broken down further into what might be called nine regional clans, the names of which I don’t pretend to remember.

Now that you know the who, it’s time for the what.  I arrived for the lunch at 1:00, as scheduled.  It started at 3:00.  This didn’t surprise me as much as it might others as I’m somewhat familiar with the meaning and value some African tribes place on time.  Here in the states, and increasingly throughout the developed world, time’s meaning is best encapsulated in the metaphor “time is money.”  We consider time, ours’ as well as others’, a precious commodity, more valuable in many ways than any other possession.  To us, time is something that can saved, lost, spent, wasted, capitalized on, etc.  Thus any appointment with other people is a potential theft; if we arrive late, we have stolen their time.  While there is no legal punishment for this in our culture, few things are considered more disrespectful.

It isn’t like that among the Dinka and many other African tribes (as well as Polynesians and others).  We mistakenly assume this means they are disrespectful, which is not the case at all; rather, their culture privileges respect of different things, people, and scenarios in a different hierarchy than we do.  If I have made an appointment, only very severe family needs would justify my breaking the appointment or arriving late.  That isn’t true with the Dinka.  Socializing, maintaining the informal cohesion of society provided by personal relations, is of the utmost importance.  Family relationships and respect for elders is particularly important.  Thus when a social gathering has been planned, it does not take priority over current socializing and must wait for what is currently going on to be politely concluded.  It makes sense if you think about it, especially for a culture that prizes personal relationships more than the value of time.  However, it is not without its consequences.  A number of the Abyei I talked with (almost all students of mine and/or leaders among the SLC Sudanese community) expressed frustration that many of their fellow Sudanese do not realize the potential value of time.  They understand that in the increasingly global economy understanding the value of time is essential to effectively competing in the market and building a strong Sudanese economy.  It was remarkable to witness these individuals making public encouragements for their community to reconsider notions of time etiquette and value, to actually see a culture in flux and trying to control its transformation.

Anyway, the lunch was held in a church cultural center.  We started by sipping drinks (bottled water and cans of pop, mostly Pepsi, for those who wanted them).  Then the food was served.  I don’t remember the names of the dishes—other than fried chicken—but in terms of weirdness, least to most, they ranked like this: fried chicken; a mixture of fried potatoes, peas, and maybe a few carrots; a dessert a lot like porridge but more yogurty, flavored with cinnamon and butter (really, really good); a crape-like bread dipped in a sour vegetable sauce that reminded me quite a bit of spinach; and goat stomach.  I think it was goat.  It may have been sheep.  I know it was stomach.  Got to talk to my friend Achual, who I learned is the outgoing chairman of the Salt Lake Dinka community.  He never told me he was the big guy organizing all this.  Poor, misguided modesty. 

A side note: Friends in high places are great when you can get them.  One day when Achual’s Finance Minister of Southern Sudan—which may be an independent nation as a result of a secession referendum in 2011—I’m gonna mooch.

So, after lunch we were supposed to go to the Red Lion Hotel for the party.  It was scheduled to begin at 4:00; they told me to arrive at 5:30; things kicked off at 7:00.  Yeah, it was like being in a time warp.  But the experience was great, and very unique.  There was lots of Sudanese music, which includes reggae, Arabic pop, and hip hop in Dinka, all really loud.  Kind of the sonic equivalent of being in a bag of popcorn as its being popped.  The women wore terrific colors, some more traditional dresses and others western, though frequently in wonderful blues, reds, oranges, yellows, and the like.  Men were often times more subdued, though one guy had on an electric blue pinstripe with pink buttons, which earned my amazement and eternal admiration.

A man named James Ngong Monjor performed two songs while people swayed and danced and raised their fists.  Both songs were about cultural resistance and tribal unity, important concepts and values for a people under assault and with a history of tribal rivalry.  Then came the speakers, some of whom spoke in English and Dinka while a few others spoke only in Dinka.  There were pleas for great cohesion on the part of western-dwelling Sudanese of all tribes, much praise for education and activism, and heartrending descriptions of Abyei without clinics or hospitals, without schools, and even without water.  Then guest representatives from other tribes donated money, two or three hundred dollars at most, which means a lot more when you realize the financial challenges so many of these people face.  More music.  Mingling.  Lots of hugs and laughter and smiles, and similar things that function as universal language.

I enjoyed myself immensely…then Abraham arrived.  Abraham is the first Sudanese student I worked with at the college.  He is also as impressive a person as I have ever met.  Unfailingly diligent, ambitious, and cheerful, he was a student leader in the Sudanese community the day I met him, and I knew early on that he was going to do important things.  It was immeasurably gratifying to learn that he is now a regional representative of the SPLM (the Sudanese People’s Liberation Movement).  I got to shake his hand and chat for a while, despite all the others that needed to speak to him due to his influence.  Smiling as brightly as ever, he told me that he’d decided to minor in literature, because his time at the college and working with me had taught him the power and importance of the ability to communicate through writing.  Talk about speechless.  That I played any positive influence in Abraham’s life, and the lives of these other remarkable Sudanese students, no matter how minor, is something of which I am truly proud.

Then to end the night the single most surprising thing that could happen, did (other than my getting my forehead ritually scarred and being adopted into the Abyei Ngok, which might have happened but didn’t): they asked me to speak.  Now, given that I wasn’t even certain why I was invited to attend given my obvious insignificance in the world, this invitation came as quite a shock.  But when people pay you the compliment of believing you have something of value to say, you don’t turn them down, even if you disagree.  So I took a minute to thank a few hundred heroic survivors of conditions I can’t imagine enduring for the honor of celebrating their culture with them.  I expressed the great pleasure and pride I felt at seeing my students, present and past, and how they have succeeded, especially Abraham.  I told them how remarkably driven their students are, how persistent and cheerful, and that the next generation of leaders would do Sudan proud.  I told them it was an honor to be of the minor service I have and that I’ve learned far more from them than they from me, which is the simple truth.

Then I drove home, watching fireworks burst across the valley sky, and thought about what I’d witnessed and what an unearned opportunity it had been.  I also thought about what it all meant, and have been thinking about that off and on ever since.  I suspect I will for some time to come.