Made. In. Iran.

That's what it said on the side of the freight train that passed by me on the bridge this morning. (Yes, that's right, out for another walk by the Nile again - I just can't get enough of it now that the weather is so, well, tolerable! Was up there taking in the scenery and watching the water pass under my feet on the bridge when I heard the train come across behind me on the other side. Ok, well it was kinda hard to hear over the Jay Z/Linkin Park, Cheb Khaled, and other tunes I had blaring on my ipod, but, I digress . . .)

It's not everyday that you see something like that, not even way-out-here on the other-side-of -the-planet-Khartoum. And it got me thinking . . .

If we had more goods from places like Iran in common circulation, would it affect the way we conceptualize the Other? What would most Americans think if they were out on the road and saw those big, black, faded letters in Farsi and English on the side of a train?

And it got me thinking about fear. Fear has been on the brain quite a lot since coming back to Sudan after a few weeks in the US over the holidays. At first, it was this thick, heavy fear of the unknown: If John and his driver were killed, well, then, it could be any of us! Then it was dull and pervasive fear: Hmm, no, I don't think we can go to that restaurant . . . tables are too close to the road . . . Why don't we just eat in tonight?

Then it was confusing: On the one hand, we have heightened security requirements from the authorities. On the other hand, everything still looks pretty much the same to me. My friends who work for other organizations here are still going about their normal lives. People are still exceedingly friendly to me in random interactions in and around our neighborhood:

• The guys in the cardboard hut at the corner with the new road have jumped up to hold back their dogs on multiple occasions when I approach for a jog. We exchange greetings.
• They're right next to a group of squatters with, like, 10 of THE cutest kids. When the kids shout out to me, the whitey, running in the street, I talk to them and greet their parents.
• If I'm out walking anywhere other than on the sidewalk by the Nile I'll get all kinds of people who stop and want to give me rides. (No, I don't get in . . .) But still, and this is men AND women we're talking about here.
• Just this past week I lobbed my tennis ball over the wall and as I was out looking for it, groups of children and adults came over to help.

The examples go on and on. Our experiences here are dominated by frequent random acts of kindness. I think it comes from the communal nature of the culture. As soon as it is clear that we are human (as opposed to some strange white aliens), people are pretty quick to extend a hand and whatever it is they might have to share.

Now I'm not sure what to be afraid of. The tension seems to be dissipating. Experience is teaching me beyond fear. Be careful, yes. But also be curious! Be loving. Be engaged.