[IslamOnLine] Mob Attacked in Darfur: Personal Account

In the final chapter of Saviors and Survivors, Columbia Professor Mahmood Mamdani mentions on p. 296 that external intervention in Darfur has created a culture of dependency on social services provided by International Non-Governmental Organizations (INGOs), and internally displaced Darfuris had with increasing degree assumed a "consumer mentality:"

The consumer in this instance stands as the antithesis of the citizen. The fading of the citizen goes alongside the rise of the consumer. In this sense, consumer mentality is both a key element and an important product of humanitarian intervention.

As the citizen fades, civic virtue and civil morality vanish.

Mob Attacked in Darfur: Personal Account Darfur's Deteriorating Social Fabric

By Isma’il Kushkush IOL Correspondent — Sudan

"Was I ready to die, and like this?! Ironically, it was not fear that consumed me but disappointment; would I be killed by those whose plight I came to write about?" A Nissan pick-up truck drove us through the Abu Shok internally displaced persons' (IDP) camp near the city of El-Fashir in Darfur. Sitting in the front seat, my eyes and mind were lost in a long stare. I recognized the camp's mud and straw buildings and its dusty roads. My mouth went dry. My lips tightened. I stopped breathing for half a minute. It was a frighteningly familiar place; it was only months ago that I was mobbed attacked here at Abu Shok. I flew out to Darfur from Khartoum last December on the day before the Muslim feast of Eid Al-Adha. I accompanied an American journalist and photographer as their translator, but I also intended to write about how displaced Darfuris "celebrated" Eid despite their situation. Early next morning, the first day of Eid, I took a taxi to Abu Shok. I asked several people along the way in the camp where the prayers would take place, and they led me to a straw-made mosque. I spoke with the imam who greeted me warmly and explained to him what I intended to do, and he agreed. When prayer time arrived, I joined the congregation, and when it was done and the imam began the sermon, I stood up, took a few pictures, and sat down again. Minutes later, a young man approached and asked to speak to me. He introduced himself as one of the camp's shabab (youth) and asked who I was and why I was taking pictures. I told him I was a journalist and that I spoke earlier to the imam, and I showed him my press card. Another young man approached and took my card and refused to return it. I suggested to the first young man that I could make a phone call and clear up any confusion, but he refused and grabbed my cell phone. More young men started to gather around us. My back now was to a mud-made wall as I was continuously questioned by the increasing number of apparently angry young men. "Who are you!?" they demanded to know. I asked them to call the imam, who came but could not be heard over the shouting voices of the nearly twenty young men who had now gathered around. I showed them every ID card in my wallet but that was useless. I continued to try to negotiate with my main "interrogator" until a few yanked my bag. Unsuccessfully, I tried to hold on to it, and then felt the blow of a large stick to the back of my head. The assault had begun. I was next hit by a large rock to the left side of my head, followed by a punch to my face. I fell to the ground and kicks, rocks, and sticks followed. At that moment, a thought constructed itself in my mind in a surprisingly calm manner: "There is a good chance I am going to die today." The following moments unfolded in my mind in slow-motion like the final scenes of a drama. Was I ready to die, and like this?! Ironically, it was not fear that consumed me but disappointment; would I be killed by those whose plight I came to write about? Even more ironic was the fact that I did not feel much physical pain for I was in a total state-of-shock. I was on the ground and both my nose and mouth were bleeding. Elders stared quietly seeming reluctant to say anything. I could see some in the mob ripping through my prided large black leather bag, the one I bought from a Berkeley Salvation Army store for only ten bucks. I lifted my right finger and said my prayers.

[To read the entire account, click here.]

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