ABSTRACT
Sudan, in 1985. It contrasts strangely with the domestic coziness of their living room, where it sits. In it, I am kneeling down, holding up a spoon to the mouth of a tiny baby lying in its father’s arms. I remember nothing of the baby, not even whether it lived or died, though when I examine the picture closely, it’s hard to imagine how it could have lived in such a harsh climate and with such rudimentary facilities.
