Separation vs Independance

Today, South Sudan became Africa’s 54^th country. I marked the occasion by watching the raising of the flag on tv like the rest of the world, with my housemates/colleagues who were also locked up as I was. I’m told by friends in Juba that the celebrations there were impressive, the mood charged and the energy jubilant. (They only got to watch on tv also, but the honking of horns and the burst of fireworks were still within earshot). Since half of my stuff was there with them, I suppose somehow I was too.

As an employee of a non-partisan organization, I will say no more.

What I will say is that yesterday I was struck by how appropriate the words Separation or Independence are to a break up.

Independence is an empowering concept. Cheer, dance, smile and celebrate however you see fit. You got what you wanted. You got what you felt was best for you. Freedom is yours.

Separation however, is a different story. Regardless of what you want, there is an implied powerlessness. You may or may not agree that being apart is better than being together; you may or may not understand why the line is being drawn and why your other half is pulling away from you, officially and effectively leaving you standing in the dust wondering how you will move on. Regardless, it certainly doesn’t feel good to be the one left behind.

Bitterness understandably remains. There are always loose ends to tie up. Some may never be tied. Broken hearts, like any other deep seeded and complex hurt, are a tough thing to fix. With time, I’m promised, they usually do though.

I was struck by the similarity yesterday, on the eve of South Sudan’s existence, when some of the stitches in the wounds that are very (very) slowly healing from my Big Breakup were ripped out before they had done their job. I’m feeling enormous kinship with Sudan at the moment.

South Sudan raised their new flag today, and I’ll work on raising mine. For now, it will be white, as I continue to try to surrender to the healing process, to the tending of old wounds, to the letting go. To the moving on.

(Author's note: Ok, so this post wasn’t ‘hilarious’ but things with Trainer have been going well -and that doesn't make for good material-… except that he had to fly to Darfur this morning and I probably won’t see him again until October. Thus is the curse of the humanitarian lifestyle. It was a minor blow to my ego that he didn't volunteer to quit his job and follow me around, but I suppose the people of Darfur need him more than I do. Sorry to disappoint, but know that he’ll probably fuck up soon enough and you’ll have plenty to read about.)