The Devil Came on Horseback (1 of 3 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
The Devil Came on Horseback by Brian Steidle and Gretchen Steidle Wallace. Copyright 2007 by Brian Steidle and Gretchen Steidle Wallace.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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THE DEVIL CAME ON HORSEBACK
Bearing Witness to the Genocide in Darfur

Brian Steidle
and Gretchen Steidle Wallace

Dedicated to the memory of Mihad Hamid.
She gave her life so that I could tell her story.
And to all those who have suffered
because of who they are.


LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS
http://www.dailylit.com/books/devil-came-on-horseback/abbreviations


PROLOGUE
http://www.dailylit.com/books/devil-came-on-horseback/prologue


AUTHOR'S NOTE
http://www.dailylit.com/books/devil-came-on-horseback/note


PART ONE

NUBA MOUNTAINS


CHAPTER 1

It was 8:00 p.m. on a Saturday night, January 24, 2004, and I had been traveling for nearly twenty-four hours. As our plane descended into Khartoum, dim lights outlined the city limits below, and I wondered what lay in wait for me in this troubled country. I stretched my legs and followed the other passengers down the stairs and onto the tarmac. The smell of hot dust mingled with the body odor of my travel companions. Bleary-eyed, heart pumping with adrenalin, I stepped onto the parched soil of North Africa. I could see a few white aid workers in hiking boots and backpacks among the predominantly African crowd as we crammed onto the waiting buses.

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Six months earlier, I had completed my four-and-a-half years of required service in the US Marine Corps. After a little travel and a brief woodworking apprenticeship, I was looking for more excitement. It was only two weeks before I first saw the lights of Khartoum that I had been exploring military contracting positions online. One of the jobs advertised had caught my eye: "Patrol Leader Sudan." I sent my résumé in by e-mail on Friday and received a call back from the contractor's project leader for the Joint Military Commission on Saturday. He offered me the job, explaining that the Joint Military Commission was a ceasefire monitoring mission created by an international body to oversee conflict in central Sudan. The job as a patrol leader would require a one-year contract, and they needed my answer within twenty-four hours. I knew very little about the situation on the ground and what "monitoring a ceasefire" would entail, but it seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up.
The next day I called to accept. On Tuesday, I received a FedEx package containing a contract and a plane ticket. The only other information provided was a phone number of someone on the ground whom I could call if necessary. Soon I was on a plane to Khartoum with no idea what I was getting into other than meeting a guy named Mohammed.

#
On the way to the terminal, we passed a warehouse of wrecked planes and scattered parts that was next to a long line of carefully parked military, United Nations, humanitarian aid, and commercial airplanes. The silence of our bus ride erupted into chaos as we entered the immigration hall. A haze of cigarette smoke hung beneath the already poor fluorescent lighting. Pushing toward the officials occupying two Plexiglas-encased booths, passengers stepped on each other's feet and propelled the crowd forward with their elbows. Hundreds of Arab and African Muslims swarmed on either side of the barrier in both Western clothing as well as white jelabias--thin one-piece cotton gowns. How the hell was I supposed to find a guy named Mohammed?

Just as I was cursing myself for not getting more details before my arrival, a towering, thin, black man approached me. I immediately noticed his official demeanor and clean clothes.

"Brian," he said, "hand me your passport."

"Who are you?" I asked guardedly.

"I'm Mohammed." Yeah, so is everyone else here, I thought to myself. "I'm with the Joint Military Commission," he added. "Come this way."

Reluctantly, I handed him my passport. He turned and disappeared into the crowd. A very long minute passed, and it dawned on me that I had just given my passport to a complete stranger in a developing country's airport halfway around the world from my home. What the hell was I thinking?

Just as I was preparing my escape from certain torture by local police, Mohammed returned with a form filled out in Arabic. I closed my eyes for a second and tried to appear relaxed. Mohammed instructed me to follow him as he pressed ahead, bypassing the impatient mob and rapping hard on the rear door of one of the Plexiglas booths. He shoved my passport and form at the official, who took it and, after a brief glance at me, stamped it. I had officially arrived in Khartoum.

My escort chatted with friends while I waited at the baggage claim. Mohammed seemed to know everyone. After identifying my luggage, we headed toward customs. I had crammed three months of supplies and clothing into one internal-frame backpack and a small day pack. One of the best lessons I had learned in the Marine Corps was to be prepared for anything, especially your own escape. My small day pack contained everything essential for ultimate mobility. I didn't know much about Sudan, but I knew the security situation was volatile. Despite my lack of sleep, I was on high alert.

The customs official smirked as I dropped my bags on his table. He began feeling the outside of the pack, asking me what I had in my bag. I heard him mention the word "Kalashnikov," even though my pack was obviously filled only with clothing. "Kalashnikov," I repeated with a nod. He seemed to get my joke, but he remained adamant about searching the contents of my luggage.

"Just give him his stickers!" Mohammed barked, and a shouting match ensued. Judging from their gestures, Mohammed was insisting that as a US contractor working for the Joint Military Commission, or JMC, I had immunity from such searches. This apparently disturbed the official. Finally, the guard slapped my pack with stickers and released me. Next to me were humanitarian aid workers, who were not as lucky; officials were confiscating their fashion magazines--considered pornography--and mouthwash--because it contained traces of alcohol, which was banned under Sudanese law.

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