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Adeel Jafferi, Islamic Relief Press Officer, flew out to join IR staff in Darfur, western Sudan last week, and is  writing a diary for Islamic-Relief.com about his experiences.

11.30 am

Arriving in Darfur was not the traumatic journey from hell I had imagined. I'm a bad flyer, but even the decrepit state of the Antonov we were flying in did not faze me too much. I was just glad to be on my way to Darfur after having spent a week in Khartoum trying to find a flight. With UN flights grounded and the rains destroying part of the runway in Darfur, I was becoming adept at kicking my heels in the Green Village Hotel, Khartoum.

The climate is definitely better in Darfur . The heat in Khartoum , although bearable, is not designed for comfort. Arriving in the Islamic Relief office we rushed off to pay the local government representative a courtesy call. He reminded us that Islamic Relief was the first NGO to have provided money for the relief operations in West Darfur and this, combined with the fact that many of our staff are Darfur locals, ensured us a warm welcome.

13.30 pm – Arriving in Al-Riyadh Camp

I have been anxious to get to the Al Riyadh camp in El-Geneina, West Darfur's main town, which Islamic Relief have been managing since the crisis began. My first view was from the rise of a hill and the scene was overwhelming.

The staff in Khartoum had given me an idea of what to expect, but nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. Stretched out for miles were tiny makeshift shelters made of twigs. People were wandering the camp looking dazed. Children were playing with anything they could make into toys including water pumps – the pump handles seem to make great seesaws. As I wander in I am immediately immersed in camp life.

Stretched out for miles were tiny makeshift shelters made of twigs. People were wandering the camp looking dazed. Children run screaming toward me and start shouting “Hawaji, Hawaji”. I am told by my interpreter, Abdullah, that this means white man. It's the first time I've been called that and it seems a little strange considering I am dark skinned. Still, it becomes the shout I hear everywhere I go and I begin to like it so much that when anyone asks my name I say it's Hawaji. The children howl with laughter at this and I realise that this is the best entertainment they have had in a long time. Many have lost their fathers in the continuing conflict. To watch loved one's die before one's eyes is unimaginable and to then have to make your home in inadequate shelters adds to the trauma of the children of Darfur. I proceed to make an even greater fool of myself - doing anything to see them carry on smiling.

4.30 pm – Isra's Grandfather

I meet a young girl on a donkey with jerry cans of water which she has collected from the nearby pump. Her name is Isra and she is 7 years old – an Internally Displaced Person – forced from her home with her family when the fighting came too close for comfort.

She asks me to visit her grandfather who is suffering from malnutrition. When I walk in a frail old man is lying on a bed. He sees me and tries to rise. The effort is too much and he lies back with a resigned sigh. He echoes what I have heard from everybody I have met today. The family needs food. They also need shelter.

When the rains come, the twigs which make up their homes are no cover from the rain. Plastic sheeting is a coveted item here.

He tells me he doesn't have long to live but he wants to make sure his family are adequately protected. In 2 days Islamic Relief are distributing blankets, jerry cans and, most importantly, plastic sheeting.

I promise him that I will return tomorrow to visit him and make sure his family are provided for.

6.00 pm – Rain

The clouds are starting to look ominous. My interpreter begins to look nervous, but I'm from the UK and a little rain isn't going to stop me from seeing more of the camp. And then the rain begins.

It's like nothing I have ever seen. Sand starts to fly and it hits my face like small fragments of glass. People are running everywhere trying to find shelter. Within minutes the bustling camp is deserted. I see people huddling under sack cloth and blankets.

It is then that I catch my first glimpse of the Janjaweed. My interpreter sees them first and tells me to get into the jeep. 3 horsemen, heavily armed look in my direction and then spur their horses out of the camp, like the camp-dwellers, searching for shelter. Against the elements, everybody's needs are equal. It was a brief view, but enough to convince me that people were scared for a reason.

I get in the car and once the rain stops we head back to the Islamic Relief office where I will be staying while in El-Geneina

7.30 pm

The storm has knocked out the electricity so I figure maybe an early night would be good. I get into my bed and get up just as quickly. The roof has leaked and my bed is drenched. It's going to be a long night.

9.00 am – Funeral

I decide that I should go and visit Isra and her grandfather before I get too busy with the day's routine. A little girl I met yesterday offers to guide me to Isra's home. In this maze each shelter looks the same so I'm grateful for her help. As we walk she points to a large group of men standing in the distance. Apparently there's a funeral for somebody who died last night of malnutrition.

I get a sinking feeling. As I wander over I meet Isra's uncle. As I feared, the funeral is for Abu Adai, Isra's grandfather. I watch them dig his grave and bury a man that I had been talking to only a day ago.

He'd known he was going to die soon and his last thoughts had been for his family.

His own shelter is now elsewhere. I pay my respects and start to leave. I look around and see dozens of newly dug graves. How long, I wonder, before the whole camp becomes one large graveyard.

11.00 am – Attacks

A group of women have gathered to speak to me of what they have suffered. Their stories are chillingly similar.

Their husbands and, in some cases, their young sons have been killed in their homes or in mosques. They are all desperate for food and protection. They have walked many miles from their villages to reach Al Riyadh camp. Their cries, they say, have gone unheard.

Each one says that they are still scared that the horror is not over, even in the relative safety of an IDP camp. I have heard rumours that women are being raped, but they all say that they have not, but know of women and young girls who have suffered. I thank them for sharing their stories with me.

I have only listened to their stories and feel shell-shocked. As I leave, the oldest woman in the group takes my hand and weeps. She thanks me for listening. It seems nobody wants to hear their stories and this is the first time they have really been able to open up. I feel inadequate to share their burden. I have only listened to their stories and feel shell-shocked. They have lived through it. I walk away from the hut and want nothing more than to go home and put this behind me.

But it is not over yet. One of the women – a girl, really, aged 17 who lost her brothers and father – calls me to follow her. When we are away from the other women, she tells me that she was raped by 5 men for 3 days. She had been too ashamed to say anything in front of the other women. Her greatest fear is that she will fall pregnant. She is even more afraid that I think badly of her because she did not tell me the truth when I asked her the question. How does one reassure somebody whose priorities are so tragically skewed by the trauma she has endured?

4.00 pm – Preparing to Distribute Aid

The Islamic Relief staff have been preparing for tomorrow's distribution and tensions are high. A potential donor is coming to see us tomorrow and we have to get this right. Donations for Sudan have been pitifully small. Without money, none of the NGOs working here can operate. Without more money, people will die. The equation is that simple. The situation is that bleak.

Our staff in Sudan and in the UK have worked tirelessly to help during this crisis. The organisation was founded in 1984 after the famine here and the country holds a special significance for us, we cannot fail the people of Sudan now.

Donations for Sudan have been pitifully small. Without money, none of the NGOs working here can operate. Without more money, people will die. Distributions have to be planned to the last detail and our staff are working flat out to avoid the chaos that is usual in large distributions. Over 8000 people will be coming over the next 2 days.

Many more, who have no ration cards will be turned away. Emotions will be close to the surface.

6.00 pm – Meeting the Elders

The camp elders – around 20 of them have come to see us about the distribution. They are concerned that many people have not received ration cards. They feel that they should be responsible for the distributions. This is something that the Islamic Relief deputy country director, Seifeldin is prepared for. He diplomatically tells them why this would not be possible and asks them if they can suggest other ways they could help.

This turns out to be a stroke of genius. One of the elders suggests that each elder bring 30 people at a time to the distribution area. When they have received the relief items the next elder can bring his first 30. It's difficult to hide my joy at this. In one second he has solved the problem of how to control so many people. It's great news because with the support of the camp elders we are virtually assured of a smooth distribution. I don't want to tempt fate however.

A lot is riding on them having the control they claim to have. Nonetheless it does give us some degree of comfort and we go back to the office with a lighter step.

8.00 pm

Dinner is brought in from the only restaurant in town and we are told something guaranteed to give us indigestion. Some local students were found with grenades and a curfew has been imposed. Dare I say, another long night.

6.30 am

I slept really well last night for the first time in days. There seemed to be a lot more insects than usual, but who can begrudge them a bit of shelter from the storm that was raging outside.

I go outside to have a very cold shower only to come out in my towel to see dozens of volunteers in the yard - mainly women - being briefed by Islamic Relief staff. It's a little unnerving, especially as I had been singing quite loudly. I say a quick prayer that today's distribution goes well and gird myself for what promises to be a difficult day.

9.00 am – Aid Distribution

I don't think I expected what meets me when I arrive at the distribution centre. The numbers of people who have been waiting since daybreak is staggering. I got the figures for how many people are in the camp - there are 22,000 people here and we will be distributing to nearly all of them. We're supposed to do it within 2 days!

I'm not as confident as I was last night. The village elders we met yesterday are there, but they seem to have less control over the people than they suggested. Either that or they have reneged on their undertaking to bring in only 30 people at a time. Any way you look at it, this is a bad start and my blood pressure starts to rise. The local staff, however, seem relaxed, confident and, most importantly, competent.

Then the distribution begins and suddenly the elders become different people. I have seen drill sergeants with less control over their troops. Suddenly everybody falls silent and forms orderly lines of 15 men and 15 women. It's a sight to behold. My blood pressure is beginning to drop. People come into the distribution tent in an orderly manner, receive their goods - blankets, jerry cans and the all important plastic sheets - and leave. There has been an addition to the items they receive. Other camps have reported cases of Hepatitis, so soap has been included in the relief pack. At one stage a group of people try to enter the compound before their allotted time. One stern look from a venerable looking old man and they are immediately contrite. They sheepishly return to their space apologising profusely. Any other time and the sight would have me laughing.

Their husbands and sons have been killed before their eyes. If they do not cry, it is because they have no tears left to shedWhen I look at the faces of the people, though, I'm amazed that they are so patient after having suffered so much. It's hard to imagine what they must have been through. Their ravaged bodies, their dishevelled clothes and their dust covered hair and faces tell only part of the story. Even their words fail to convey the true horror they have endured. Look in their eyes, however, and, fanciful as it sounds, you see real pain and heartache. It's hard to look too long upon such naked grief. They are a proud people reduced, once again, to queuing for things we would take for granted. It's hard to describe, but I know that I could never be that strong.

At a funeral I attended yesterday, I asked Abdullah, my interpreter, why nobody was crying or wailing when the body was lowered into its final resting place. His answer was chilling: "they have suffered. Their husbands and sons have been killed before their eyes. If they do not cry, it is because they have no tears left to shed." And then he was quiet. He is from Darfur. He too has lost loved ones and he too has run out of tears.

1.00 pm – Visiting Isra

The distribution is going well and I have gone to see Isra, the girl whose grandfather died yesterday. I spend some time with her and we film her going about her daily routine, she is a lovely child and obviously popular with her friends. She left her village with her older sister, Hawwa, who is 15, her 2 year old brother, Abdul Aziz and her grandfather, to live with her uncle's family. She tells me that she can't go to school because there is no money to pay for her education.

She was very close to her grandfather and now feels as if another link to her old life has been cut. I teach her some English nursery rhymes and play some games with her. It's depressing to see that she has no toys - no dolls or anything else that any 7 year old girl would love. I spend longer than I intended with her, but it was time well spent. When I leave, she is beaming and I think her smile as she waves to me is the memory I will carry with me from Sudan.

3.30 pm – Publicity

I return to the camp and see we have a celebrity amongst us. Christianne Ammanpour of CNN is filming our distribution. I give a brief interview and spend an hour showing her around the camp. Publicity like this is vital to the survival of Darfur emergency relief programmes like ours. People will watch the report and donations will increase. It's publicity we cannot buy and is worth potentially hundreds of thousands of pounds.

It's been a good day. We have reached 75% of the IDPs we wanted to distribute to. Our volunteers and staff have achieved what few others, I believe, could have done. I feel proud to be a part of the Islamic Relief family when I see such dedication in the field. These people do not ask for pay - they are there because they care for their fellow humans.

It's a sobering thought that many of our volunteers have suffered in the same way that those they are serving have. At 5 pm the distribution ends to allow them to get some rest. We return to the office where we congratulate the staff for their outstanding efforts today. We then go to the local restaurant. It's apparently the best in town and I've been looking forward to seeing this fine dining establishment. It turns out to be an open air place with only two things on the menu: smoked chicken and grilled goats meat. If you're coming to Sudan, give up any pretensions to vegetarianism. Here it's meat all the way.

8.30 pm

Curfew begins in half an hour so we quickly get back to our office and sit and chat about the day's events. All in all it's been a good day. I hope the night is as peaceful as the distribution was. There's no electricity and no rain either. The ultimate irony: now that the IDPs have plastic to cover their tents, there is no rain. It's going to be a hot night.

8.30 am

We have had no water to wash with for the past couple of days and things are starting to get a little funky in the sleeping quarters we all share. Using a flannel doused in mineral water sounds an extravagant way to wash, but it leaves a huge amount to be desired.

The staff are having a meeting to discuss the rest of the distribution, when from outside our compound I hear shouting from hundreds of voices. My first thought is that a food riot has broken out. I grab my camera and head outside. By the time I reach the street, the shouts have turned to singing in unison. I see a sea of people running past dressed in green military fatigues on morning manoeuvres. They see my camera and I remember that my official permit does not allow me to film military personnel.

Those in charge of the troop, however, signal that it's ok and as the soldiers run past, they take time to wave and smile, not stopping their song for a single beat.

10.30 am – Improving Conditions of the Camp

Having loaded up the rest of the trucks we arrive at the camp for the rest of the distribution. There are still hundreds of people we need to distribute to, but there is also the same level of control as yesterday.

By the end of August, the rainy season will be in full swing. Its intensity will be all but overwhelming As I look around the camp there is a transformation from earlier days. Many of the huts are still the same, but a large percentage of them now have the plastic sheeting secured on the roofs. It seems like meagre defence against the ferocity of the elements but I know that it is going to make a huge difference to those who have suffered so long. By the end of August, the rainy season will be in full swing. Its intensity will be all but overwhelming and this seemingly inadequate protection is vital to survival.

12.30 am

Because of the relatively short time I am in Darfur and because of the amount of work being carried out by Islamic Relief in the Riyadh camp, I have had no opportunity to visit other camps.

I'm determined, though, to visit the main hospital in Geneina. I've just had a meeting with some of our colleagues from Mercy Malaysia who have been staying with us. They have already been to visit the hospital and have told me some truly gruesome tales.

Mercy Malaysia is a relatively new and relatively small NGO. They are well known in Malaysia where there is little tradition of international aid work. Despite that they have established an enviable reputation in the field of medical relief around the world. After what they have told me about the hospital I feel it's important to visit and see the situation for myself.

1.30 pm – Al-Geneina Hospital

Arriving at the hospital I am ushered into meet the Chief of Surgery who doubles as the hospital administrator. Dr Abdul Latif Abdul Aziz is a simple man who obviously cares deeply for his patients. He shows me around and my mind is frantically trying to register all that he is telling me. The statistics are staggering, but all I need to know is that there are too few beds and too few doctors to cope with the hundreds of patients who are, as we speak, lying outside in the hot sun, waiting for attention.

They seem utterly without hope. It's hard to describe how bad the conditions are. Even for those who are lucky enough to be in beds, the smell, the infestation of insects and the utter lack of hygiene means that even after treatment there is a real risk of infection and death.

Morphine and even aspirin are beyond the means of patients like Mohammed. He cannot speak but his eyes speak volumes. There is eloquence in the tears which are falling freely down his grimy cheeks.As I look around I see all the different wards and marvel at how the staff can cope with the different specialist treatments that are needed. I see women with ectopic pregnancies being treated by the same doctor who yesterday would have extracted a bullet from her husband or amputated a leg.

The doctor shows me the equipment with which they are working. Even to my untrained eye it is woefully inadequate. Things like scissors and gauze - which I have in my own small first aid kit - are a luxury here. The doctor says they are not even asking for sophisticated machinery, just the basics like mattresses and scissors, scalpels, bandages and maybe - luxury of luxuries - hooks to hang drips from. Florence Nightingale would have her work cut out here.

3.00 pm – The Patients of Al-Geneina Hospital

I have had a chance to meet and talk with many of the patients. There are so many with bullet wounds who lie dejected on beds or on the floors of the hospital. They look up at me with such abject terror that I see that they are still in the throes of a trauma which will probably never heal.

For us in the West, war is something which happens far away and to other people. Well, this is far away and these people are no different from us. They have the same hopes and aspirations for themselves and for their children.

I talk to a man, Mohammed Abdul Hamid, who has had his leg amputated above the knee. He used to work as a labourer and barely managed to support his family. Now, he says, he fears his family will starve and there is nothing he can do about it. His sentences are disjointed because of the physical pain he is suffering. Morphine and even aspirin are beyond the means of patients like Mohammed. He cannot speak but his eyes speak volumes. There is eloquence in the tears which are falling freely down his grimy cheeks. Mohammed is a tall, handsome man but, he tells me, he feels like he is no longer a man because he cannot provide for his family.

To those who wonder why we should help people so far away, I would ask them to think of this man who is now reduced to hoping that someone he doesn't know will help him. Sudanese people are fiercely proud. For them to ask for help goes against their very nature. We can pity them or we can help. Pity is not what they need. It's a lacerating balm which only serves to add to their sense of humiliation. They need us not to forget that they are suffering. They need us to offer support - not because we are better than them, but because we share their sense of outrage and their sense of horror at what they have been reduced to through no fault of their own.

As I leave Mohammed and go into the corridor I realise that I can take no more of this today. I need to go to the car and sit and try to process all that I have seen and heard. I need to breathe air which does not have the taste of death about it. It's not over yet though.

In the corridor, the doctor points out a woman who has lost her family and who is suffering from a serious heart complaint. She sits on the floor, her feet swollen, taking short shallow breaths. The look of unbearable pain and misery in her eyes is more than I can stand. I think of thanking the doctor for his time and making a quick, undignified exit. Like some ghoulish master of ceremonies, however, he has saved the worst for last. He invites me to see what he describes as the most dreadful case in the hospital.

I am led to another corridor where a frail man lies on a bed. He has been shot in the kidney and is hooked up to a colostomy bag. He also suffers from severe malnutrition. I almost hate the doctor for showing me this, but how can I when the reality is that he cares for these people - really cares.

As a foreign educated professional he could work in a good hospital in Khartoum or even in the west. He chooses, however, to stay in Darfur and help people who seem beyond help. He says to me as I leave that he hopes that we and other NGOs can do something to help here.

He reminds me of a sad fact of life in humanitarian crises like these: all support goes to the area where refugees and IDPs have gathered. The camps and makeshift shelters become the focus for outside intervention. Functioning hospitals and other local infrastructure are neglected. This is what is happening to his hospital and even understanding the reasons as he does, makes it no easier to accept.

4.30 pm - Traumatised Children

I go back to the camp and see that the distribution is carrying on smoothly. A short while later, Isra, the little girl who has epitomised for me the stoicism and beauty of the people of Darfur, arrives with her sister and brother. Their turn has finally come to receive aid.

The family queue patiently and I take the opportunity to go and play with Isra and her little brother. He sees me and comes running over, knowing that I will throw him up in the air. I have nieces and nephews who squeal with delight when I do the same to them. Abdul Aziz is no different. This is what really brings home the reality of the situation in Darfur. People are the same whatever they endure and wherever they live. Children have the same needs in Africa as they do in Europe.

It often happens that the needs of children are neglected in favour of the wider human catastrophe. This is never deliberate, but sadly the trauma that these children have faced is not always the main priority. I imagine how my nieces would adapt if their world suddenly collapsed as Isra's and Abdul Aziz's, and so many other countless children's has.

Islamic Relief has a trauma centre in Palestine where children who have seen unimaginable horror are helped to gradually overcome the tragedies they have witnessed. In an ideal world this is what we would do everywhere there is a need. The reality is that this is something that requires more resources than are always available. These children will relive the horror they have endured until the day they die. It's a stark fact, but one which the world needs to ponder. The cycle of violence and deprivation could end now with these children, if we only had the resources. It doesn't seem like much to ask, does it? You'd be surprised!

5.30 pm

I accompany Isra and her family back to their home and spend some time with them. They seem to have adopted me and I feel really privileged to be welcomed so warmly into their family circle.

If I return to Darfur, they say, I must stay with them as their guest. This is not a hollow invitationI know I'm leaving for Khartoum tomorrow so prolong my visit as much as I can. The few sweets I have brought, I distribute to Isra and her friends and join in with some of their games. It's a surreal experience. I spent the day visiting the sick and dying and my evening is spent playing with children who are more alive than any children I have ever seen. They know that life is a precious gift and they make the most of any moments of happiness they can.

Tomorrow the harsh realities of life will encroach again on their no longer innocent minds. For today, however, they play. For now they are children again.

7.00 pm - The People of Darfur

I take my leave of the family. Isra's sister and uncle approach me and tell me that they have said special prayers that I return to Darfur in happier times. If I return to Darfur, they say, I must stay with them as their guest.

I see that this is not a hollow invitation. What little they have, they are willing to share. It is a testament to their generosity and spirit. It will be nice to get back to Khartoum, if only so I can have a shower. The reality is, though, that I prefer to be here, despite all the hardships.

The people here have taught me the real meaning of courage, strength, generosity and kindness. I know I will come back. They will not forget the kindness that people they do not know in the West have shown them. My only prayer is that we in the West do not forget them.