RENK, Sudan – In 1922, the Soviet Union was born.
In 1948, three years after my parents got married and long before I was even a twinkle in their eyes, apartheid became the official policy of the Republic of South Africa.
In 1961, mere months after I was born, the Berlin Wall went up.
By 1968, the “Troubles” were well under way in Northern Ireland.
These were facts of life with which I grew up; I didn’t like any of them, but presumed that this simply was the way the world was, and I’d have to deal with them.
And then in 1989, the Wall came down in Berlin and I thought: My God, there is hope.
In 1991, the Soviet Union collapsed and the whole world was realigned, and hope grew. Then apartheid came to an end in South Africa, something I never thought would happen, and the hope grew some more. When Nelson Mandela was elected president of South Africa a few years later, I cried with joy.
And in April 1998, with the signing of the Good Friday Agreement in Northern Ireland, I knew that all things were possible.
But I still didn’t believe – not with my whole heart – that my country would elect a black man president.
Oh, I hoped. I believed – I knew – it would happen some day.
But I have to admit, I wasn’t confident that day would come in my lifetime. After all, I grew up in a country that didn’t even confirm the voting rights of African-Americans until I was 5 years old.
In January 2006, when Sen. Barack Obama of Illinois announced his candidacy for president, I thought there was a chance that once again, I would be wrong, and that that which I thought wouldn’t happen actually could happen. On that day, when Obama spoke with such power and clarity of restoring hope and seeking redemption, I knew, with all my heart, that I would have to support him.
After all, I’m a priest. I preach hope and redemption from the pulpit. I live in hope. I believe in hope. How could I not support someone who based his leadership on that same ideal? But even with all that hope, his and mine, I wasn’t sure it would happen. Not now. Not yet.
So when I woke up on that Wednesday morning here in Sudan, clutching my radio and trying to find a clear signal from the BBC, I was filled with hope, but still not quite believing.
Sudan is eight hours ahead of the East Coast, so waking up at 4:30 in the morning was a little silly. The polls were still open in the United States, and there would be no announcements for hours yet. Still, I woke again and again, seeking a radio signal, hoping to get some clue.
Finally, the BBC announced that the polls would close in California in “30 seconds,” and moments later, declared Obama’s victory. I let out a whispered shout of “YES!” (many of my neighbors were still sleeping), and felt a huge surge of joy.
My country had done something absolutely momentous: We had elected a black man president.
Within minutes, I received the first of many phone calls from Sudanese friends celebrating with me. “Mobruk! Mobruk! Congratulations! Congratulations!”
An hour later, when I heard Obama’s speech, I stood frozen in one spot, not daring to risk losing the signal, and cried … with joy, with some shame that it took so long for something so simple to happen, with pride because that simple thing had happened.
And when Obama spoke directly to those of us “huddled around our radios in forgotten corners of the world,” the tears flowed even more freely. For half the year, I live and move and have my being in one of those forgotten corners, and to be remembered at the moment of his greatest victory spoke to my heart, and to the hearts of so many people here. To hear the new president-elect remember those of us who live so far away in such different and difficult circumstances means more to us here than he will ever imagine.
You see, for the past six months or so, most of the Sudanese I know actually have supported Sen. John McCain. For a variety of reasons, they thought Obama would never win, and thus decided he shouldn’t win.
But today, the day after Obama’s election, those same Sudanese are celebrating. For in Obama, they see hope, and hope is something they most definitely understand. Sudan is a land that has been torn apart by war for most of the past five decades. Death still stalks the people daily. There is not enough food or clean water or health care or education. Malaria and typhoid kill people here daily. It’s hot and dirty and dirt-poor to boot.
The only thing most Sudanese have, really, is hope. Hope that their lives one day will improve and their children will live to adulthood. Hope that the fragile peace we have here will grow and expand into a real, lasting peace.
So they’ve been calling to tell me, “Mobruk! Mobruk! Congratulations! Congratulations!” Not just because Obama’s election is historic and almost unbelievable, but also because his election gives them hope as well.
The Rev. Lauren R. Stanley is an Appointed Missionary of the Episcopal Church serving in the Diocese of Renk, Sudan. She is a lecturer at the Renk Theological College, teaching Theology, Liturgy and English, and serves as chaplain for the students.