Maurice and I watched candles burn in the dark. The power had gone out again in Abéché, Chad's eastern city where even unlit candles soften in the natural heat. I traveled to Chad from Côte d'Ivoire where I direct communications at the regional office. I came with the regional advocacy officer to visit staff and beneficiaries in Abéché, Guéréda, Goz Beida, and Koukou - Sahel covered cities and towns where JRS runs its national office, trains teachers in sites for refugees and displaced persons, and helps children once involved with armed activities reintegrate into their families and communities. 

I accompanied Maurice, who knows some of the 180,000 displaced Chadians who were driven from their homes by armed raids and inter-ethnic violence near the Sudanese border. He directs the JRS Teacher Training Project in IDP (internally displaced persons) 1 sites around Koukou, an hour's flight southeast of Abéché. Through the programme, displaced men and women study to become state recognized teachers. They aim to educate their children during displacement and strengthen schools in their places of origin when they return home. Education needs in eastern Chad are serious. The literacy rate of children is less than 10% and qualified teachers are few - there were only 37 trained teachers for 104 primary schools during the 2005/2006 academic year. 

As we watched the candles burn in silence, I wondered how Maurice could face these immense challenges, the harsh climate, the near absence of luxury. He tries not to wander in and out of Koukou. He is there to ask the teachers what they need and to talk with the kids. He is there to sit with members of the parent-teacher association, and the men building school canteens that will feed their children. 

Such "being with" involves a certain degree of solitude, especially for those working abroad in places of profound suffering. Relationships are limited. They cannot be reciprocal as you leave the IDP site at mid day to eat and drink, knowing that the community teachers living in the site cannot do the same. 

The students in the camp shout in unison after their teacher, "We will wash our hands before we eat!!!" "How can they learn this phrase? They don't understand what they're saying because of the scarcity of food and water", says the teacher. Food rations in IDP sites are often insufficient and distributed irregularly. Instead of going to school or staying within the relative safety of their community, the displaced must search for water and firewood. 

The arid land onto which they were pushed is fruitless and washes away during the rainy season, making transport of food and supplies difficult. Shelters and schools made of tarpaulin, mud, and straw do not easily endure the climate. Despite vast insecurities, people have hope. In Guéréda, an eastern city struck by armed violence and political instability, I see a mother holding her son from whom she was separated for a year. That time he spent with an armed group means nothing when they embrace. In the same way, the community teachers are simply parents. Many of them did not finish primary school yet they are willing to learn in order to educate their own children. "We want them to hold pens instead of weapons", said one father. 

However, hope does not shield the body, spirit, or mind from abuse. Aside from the constant threat of insecurity, extreme heat and limited resources affect most people living in Chad - including aid workers. Physical and emotional sickness is inevitable. JRS staff like Maurice work and live in confined areas, with limited access to transportation and new surroundings. They choose to spend more than forty hours a week with the people. Separating work and private lives takes effort. 

"Being with", requires generosity and balance of any person. As you distill an identity in solitude you recall another. Sometimes you sit around a table with the people of your country and sing the songs you know. You tell old stories or let others tell, as you listen. Yet you are never truly abroad. Email and images of western culture seep into even remote settings. The colonial past also lives within many of the injustices you fight, sometimes reminding you of home. 

The community teachers trying to create a future for their children have the right not to understand your life and experiences just as you will never understand theirs. Still, you can ask people about their days. You can be there to listen. You can share the suffering of solitude and insecurity with people in refuge. You must stay together to know each other and share hope. Hope gives dignity to life.

The author is grateful to Maurice Joyeux, SJ, Elise Joisel, and Guillaume Chagnon of JRS Chad, who contributed their insights to this article.