And that's the story of my first death threat.

I was out in a village not too long ago, overseeing some data collection. I was there on a day trip basically to provide moral support to the MICS Overall Supervisors that provide support to our data collection teams. (Not sure what the MICS is? That’s cause you haven’t read this).

So I was traipsing around the village, smiling on the outside but cursing on the inside because I wasn’t allowed to take photos. The village I was in was home to a traditionally nomadic tribe called the Hadendowa, who can often be quite conservative. I was decked out in my usual Sudan-appropriate attire of a head scarf, long loose trousers and a long sleeve shirt, and wasn’t sure how my colleagues were managing in the heat under all their layers – on top of what we would call a ‘regular’ outfit, they all then had on an abaya (a long loose, usually black, robe that hits the floor and has long sleeves), plus a headscarf. Instead of an abaya, others were wrapped up in colourful fabric that circles the body and comes up and over the head and drapes (again, on top of another outfit). Plus some of them even wore gloves. I nearly got heat stroke just looking at them.

We asked our guide from the community if I could take photos. He said no. I hated him a little.

The reason that it sucked so much was because this is the sort of tribe that is any photographers dream. We were visiting households, so we were mostly surrounded by women and children. The women in this area wear brightly coloured swaths of fabric, mostly in a single colour, have arms full of bangles and noses pierced with large gold hoop earrings – sometimes with an extra stud that goes right in the centre of the bridge of their nose. The tribe also practices ritual scarification, and at some point all girls have three long slices cut into each of their cheeks. And kids? Well of course I was disappointed not to be allowed to photograph them because kids are always good fun.

The village was also really interesting. As nomads, they don’t put up permanent structures. The roofing of their homes are made of really large grass mats woven together and draped over wooden poles that provide structure. The centre of the hut is very high but the grass matting comes down close to the ground on all sides and you have to crouch down really low to get under the edge. The underside of the roof once you are inside is the real treat though, because it is covered with a patchwork quilt that has clearly been made over the years from old scraps of fabric that can no longer be considered clothing. Incredible.

Near the end of my un-documented day I sat in the car in the shade of a tree waiting for some of the team to finish up. As usual, a crowd of kids formed. It was over 40 degrees out so I had the driver keep the air conditioning on so that everyone could cool down when they got in.

As is often the case (unless I’m in an utterly grumpy mood) I interacted humorously with the crowd of kids that stared at me through the closed window. There was waving and laughing and I probably stuck my tongue out a couple of times.

After awhile, there were two boys noticeably at the front of the crowd. They were perhaps 7 or 8 years old and were making all sorts of gestures and I didn’t understand what they were trying to say, so I just played along making stupid faces and doing stupid things back. The driver was laughing, the other kids were laughing, but after a few minutes of this, it was clear that these two boys weren’t laughing like the others were.

“Any idea what they’re saying?” I asked the driver 

“He’s doing guns” the driver said, just as I looked over to see one boy stare me down, and pull his finger slowly across his neck as if to slice his throat.

Hmm. Well that was a bit clearer.

“What’s going on?” I asked the driver.

“That one is doing guns. Shooting you”

Oh.

Another colleague got in the car and I asked her if she could figure out what was going on.

“They say you should be killed”

“Really? Why?”

“They say you should be killed because you are wearing trousers.

“Oh. Hmph. Well that’s not very nice”

I thought about how commonly people are armed in this part of the world. I mean, aside from small arms, many of the men carry swords (SWORDS!) on a daily basis. It's part of the traditional outfit. Like, walking around in town. I shit you not. 

“Chances are they’re not going to actually come and shoot me, right?”

“Probably not”.

Well that’s reassuring.

Needless to say, I stopped interacting with them. And I stayed in the car. And I locked my door.

In my head I engaged with them though. In my head I got out of the car and told them that they should be ashamed of themselves. In my head I scolded them and they were scared and sorry and ran away and grew up to be better men for it. But even in my head I knew how it probably would have gone down (something like this):

Me: You are being very rude. You need to apologize. I’m sure your parents taught you to respect adults.

Them: But you’re a woman.

Then it would have gotten heated. And ended badly for me.

Even though it all happened in my head, I could still taste the contempt. The superiority. The inflexibility. The lack of tolerance.

I can't imagine anything comparable in my childhood. As either a boy or a girl.

It should have made me really angry. Instead, it mostly just made me sad.

And grateful.    

The driver orchestrated this photo. These weren't the same boys from the story, but they're' from the same village.  The driver felt bad because he knew I wanted to take photos - turns out it's mostly just not allowed to photograph the women., but he missed the point. Kudos for trying, Driver.

(Good thing I already know how to write up an Incident Report)