{ 2 bars + 3 stars }

The following is a guest post by Evelyn, who lost a dear friend and mentor over the weekend.

Ken and Evelyn

In July 2006, I spent three weeks traveling through the Darfur region of Sudan with the President of Refugees International, Ken Bacon, and his colleague, Megan Fowler. It was my first trip to Africa, let alone Sudan. Shortly after arriving in Khartoum, at about 10 p.m., after more than 24 hours of non-stop travel, Ken spryly asked us if we cared to take a stroll along the Nile. Although a bit daunted from all I knew of this conflict-stricken country and completely unaware of my surroundings, I gamely agreed, determined to prove myself as a hale and hearty traveler. That first brisk march over broken sidewalk and dozing security guards is emblematic of the vitality with which I soon learned Ken approached life.

Over the next several weeks, we flew over villages scorched by Arab militia — black rings where huts had stood against the orange sand of the desert interviewing dozens of the displaced living in crowded camps, and meeting with numerous Sudanese and international policymakers. Our hope was to gain a fresh understanding of the conflict in Darfur and identify how best we could advocate for enhanced security, a renewed peace process, and humanitarian aid.

Wherever we were, whoever we were with, Ken would always probe deeply for the full story with his unique mix of sensitivity, humor, and tenacity. For example, I vividly recall him leading us outside of Gareida, South Darfur, to interview members of the “force” (which turned out to be a motley crew of poorly trained young men with a mismatched collection of weapons) that was charged with protecting over 100,000 displaced persons taking refuge in the camp. An attack had occurred nearby the night before, a smattering of which we could hear from our huts. After 20 minutes or so of winding over the rutted track in the blazing desert sun, our jeep stopped at a small brown river. Across the way we saw a sprawling clump of men in rag-tag uniforms smoking and playing cards stand up and eye us suspiciously. Barely hesistating, Ken hiked up his trousers and off he went as I trailed behind, wading knee-deep through the rushing brown water. A few minutes later, he’d persuaded this hard-edged rebel detachment to put down their guns and talk. And just as with everyone else Ken encountered, out poured their story….

Each night after these excursions, I would be exhausted — both mind and body overwhelmed with the complexity of the conflict and the gravity of the humanitarian crisis. Meanwhile, Ken would always pop out for his evening walk, and then whip off a press release or report.

Ken died Saturday from an aggressive melanoma that metastasized to his brain. I learned this sorrowful news while checking my Blackberry between errands — one of which was to mail him a thinking-of-you card I had just finished writing…. As I rode teary-eyed toward my garden, I mourned over humankind’s loss of an amazing, inspiring person — one who has positively affected, directly and indirectly, the lives of thousands and thousands of people, mine included.

(Read more about Ken at Refugees International.)