Tears of the Desert (20 page)

Upon arrival at Hashma I searched the crowded platform for my father. I’d phoned through to Uncle Ahmed, asking my father to meet me. Suddenly I spotted his distinctive figure easing through the crowd. I broke into a run, leaving my green metal trunk abandoned on the platform, and flung myself into his arms. Thank God! Thank God! At least my father was all right. And by the looks of him all was well in the village.

We hugged for what seemed like an age, and then my father held me at arm’s length, gazing into my face. I had worked so hard to achieve the dream that he had shared with me when I was a little girl. And now, sixteen years later, I had done it—I had achieved the impossible. I had returned to him as Halima Bashir, MD. But did it mean anything anymore? Did it matter? Was it even worthwhile?

I searched my father’s face for something—for a sign, perhaps, that it was all still valid, still worth something in this crazed country that was tearing itself apart. And what I saw there made me blush, as a warm rush of happiness surged through me. My father had tears in his eyes. Tears of happiness and pride. He seemed completely lost for words. But it didn’t matter. Words weren’t needed anymore. His look had said it all.

My father slung my trunk over his shoulder and beckoned for me to follow him to the car. We stepped out of the station and I glanced around me. The town seemed different somehow. What was it? There were no obvious signs of the war—no soldiers on the street, no tanks rumbling past, no aircraft overhead. Then I realized what it was: It was so quiet, and so tense. People hurried past, their heads bent and eyes furtive and distrustful.

As soon as we were in the privacy of the Land Rover, I asked my father if everyone was all right.

He smiled briefly, keeping his eyes on the busy road. “Don’t worry, Rathebe, everyone’s fine. Mo and crazy Omer are helping me with the livestock. Your mum’s looking after the house. Grandma’s been ill, but she’s recovering. And little Asia’s at secondary school now, but she’s nowhere near as gifted as you.”

“So there’s been no trouble?”

“No. None. None whatsoever in our area.”

“But we heard all these terrible things—villages being bombed, houses burned, people killed.”

“Not in our area. In fact, you’d hardly know there was a war on . . .”

I felt overwhelmed with relief. The dreaded war hadn’t so much as touched our village. I was returning home a proper medical doctor, and perhaps it was going to be a happy homecoming. I glanced out the window as we rattled though the bush, and there were no signs of the horrors that we had heard of. There were no plumes of smoke in the distance, no burning villages, no long lines of fleeing refugees, no bodies rotting in the sun.

I told myself to relax, to put my fears behind me. For a while my father and I talked about my degree. I told him about my cowardly tutor and how I had been cheated in the
viva.
A pass was still a pass, he smiled. But the conversation kept getting dragged back to the war. It overshadowed everything. At present the fighting was concentrated around Al Fasher and West Darfur, my father said. It had yet to touch our part of the province.

“When our people attacked the Arab forces they did very well,” my father said. “But the tables have been turned. Our people are being hit hard now.”

For a moment I was shocked to hear my father refer to the Darfuri rebels as “our people.” This was more than I had ever said at university. But these were the people who had taken up arms to fight for our rights, so why shouldn’t we refer to them as “our people”? I listened hard as my father continued talking.

“At first we outsmarted them. The rebels came out of the mountains, attacked, and melted away again. They stuck to the hills and valleys where the soldiers couldn’t use their tanks and helicopters. So you know how they responded? They attacked the villages instead.”

“We heard rumors,” I said. “It sounds so horrible.
So horrible.
That’s why I was so worried . . .”

“It is a living nightmare, Rathebe.” My father turned to me, his face dark with anger. “Imagine—they refuse to fight us fairly, face-to-face as men. Instead they attack the innocent women and children. The murderous cowards. People run and try to escape, for if you stay they just kill you. Villages are burned and looted, even the livestock stolen.”

“But what can we do to stop them?”

“How can you stop them? It’s only now that people are waking up to the danger. People are trying to band together, to find weapons, to join the rebels. But of course you need money, especially for weapons. And it takes time. . . . So far the fighting has been in the west, but we fear it will spread to our area. We fear that it is coming.”

My father paused, leaned forward, and tapped the fuel gauge. The needle wobbled, then dropped to indicate the tank was a quarter full. It was forever getting stuck, and if you forgot it was easy to run out of gas.

He glanced at me, pain etched in his eyes. “You know how bad it’s got, Rathebe? In some places whole villages have gone to live in the hills. They’re living in the mountains to try to avoid the killers. . . . A few weeks ago we talked about whether we should do the same. But the old people, your Grandma included, refused to abandon the village. They opted to stay and fight. Better to be brave than to run, they said. So, we’re staying—at least for now we are.”

“What did you want to do? What did you say?”

“I said it was fine to talk of bravery, but it was guns that we needed. I said that if we waited for the fighting to reach us it would be too late. But I understand why people want to stay. It’s our land, our houses, our farms. It’s our community. I don’t blame them.”

“So what now? What do we do next? It’s all so horrible . . .”

“Don’t get me wrong, Rathebe,” my father cut in. “We need to shake off the past. For too long the Arabs have abused us and this is the start of the fight for our rights. I’m happy it’s started—this is a good thing. I just hope and pray that we succeed. We’ll know we have won when we take our rights, when we have true equality.”

The men of the village had started a watch duty, my father explained. Day and night someone was on guard to warn of an attack. They had marked out the best escape routes, in case the women and children had to flee to the forest. People kept talking about trying to get some guns, but how did simple farmers become gun dealers overnight? In any case, where was the money to come from? My father was the richest man in the village, and he could hardly afford to arm everyone, even if the weapons could be found.

Everyone was hoping and praying that the soldiers wouldn’t come, while at the same time trying to ready themselves for an attack. Fear was stalking our village—fear and horror and evil. A darkness had descended upon my home.

It was terrifying, and totally chilling.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Medicine Woman

The morning after my return I awoke late to a hubbub of voices outside. I emerged from Grandma’s hut with a sleepy yawn. A line of people snaked away from the gate and down the street. I wondered what was going on. My father was organizing a welcome-home party, but it wasn’t supposed to start until the following evening.

“What’s this?” I asked Grandma, trying to stifle another yawn.

“What time d’you call this?” she countered, with a smile in her eyes. “You’ve kept your patients waiting long enough. I’ll prepare some breakfast, while you do your rounds.”

For a moment I stared at Grandma in confusion. What was she going on about? What patients? And then I realized that the woman at the front of the line was pointing at me. She lifted up her
tope
to reveal a swollen abdomen, and motioned for me to go and take a look. Oh no . . . I glanced at Grandma, half in amusement and half in horror.

“Go on,” she urged. “What’re you waiting for? Six years studying and now’s your chance to get your hands on some real patients. Go on
—Doctor
Halima Bashir.”

As I made my way across to the group of waiting women I felt myself cringing with embarrassment. How was I going to explain that in spite of being a doctor, I couldn’t cure most of their ills? I felt hopelessly inadequate. My father had set up a little table by the gate. On it was a stethoscope and a blood pressure monitor that he’d purchased in Hashma. As I sat down behind the desk I was painfully aware that my family was watching, their pride like a fire burning all around me.

The first woman stepped up, her stomach thrust forward. She pointed at the black rubber coil of the stethoscope. “Put that one on me and tell me what’s wrong.”

I tried a smile. “Well, first I need you to tell me what you think the trouble is.”

She snorted. “Anyone can see that. My tummy is far too big. Just put that one on me and tell me what’s wrong.”

“Look, it doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t talk to me. It can’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“Huh! Calls herself a doctor . . .” she remarked to the woman behind her. “Look, I’ve been pregnant before and it was never like this. Look at the size of me! I mean, is there a monster in there or something?”

She was speaking at the top of her voice, and the rest of the women cracked up laughing. “Like I said, put that one on me and tell me what’s wrong.”

“All right, I’ll try. But I can’t do everything. You may still need to go to the hospital . . .”

I placed the earpieces in my ears, and the cold metal of the stethoscope against the soft skin of the woman’s stomach. As I did so she flinched.

“Watch out! It’s freezing! Are you going to freeze my monster baby, is that it?”

There was more laughter from the ladies. I soon discovered what the woman’s “problem” was. She was carrying twins. I could hear each of their wonderful little hearts hammering away. As far as I could tell they both sounded perfectly healthy. I felt a warm glow of happiness coursing through me, as I listened in on their world. This is what I had trained for.

I sat back and smiled. “There’s nothing wrong, and there’s no monster in there. You’re carrying two babies, that’s all. You’re going to have twins.”

The woman threw up her hands in amazement. “What rubbish! Two babies! It’s my stomach and I can tell you there’s only the one in there.” She turned to the woman behind her. “I told you she was too young to be a real doctor, didn’t I?”

The other woman peered at me for a second. “She does look very young . . .”

“Let me show you,” I suggested. “Here, give me your hand. Now, there’s the first head. Can you feel it? And now, here—here’s the second. That’s two heads. Two babies. Like I said, you’re going to give birth to twins.”

“Well, I don’t know . . . The second ‘head’ felt just as much like an arse to me . . .”

The pregnant woman wondered off, the rest of the ladies dissolving into fits of giggles. “Did you hear what she said? . . . Felt like an arse . . . She’s a one . . .”

And so my first genuine patient had been dealt with. As more of the women presented themselves, I realized that with many there was nothing the matter. Most complained of “blood pressure,” as they wanted me to use the blood pressure monitor on them. With each I did so. Few if any had the slightest idea what their blood pressure should be, but in any case they went away happy. They had seen the doctor, she had used the newfangled gadget on them, and they’d been told they were okay. That was good enough for them.

One old lady demanded to have both the blood pressure monitor and the stethoscope “treatment.” I tried explaining that neither machine actually did anything, they were just tools to better arrive at a medical diagnosis. But the old lady was having none of it. Why shouldn’t she have both, she demanded? She was feeling ill enough to warrant it. I tried getting her to explain to me exactly what was wrong, but she just told me that whatever the machines could cure, that was good enough for her. It’s what she’d come for.

“Just touch me here with that machine,” she said, indicating her stomach for the stethoscope. “And here with that one,” she added, indicating her arm for the blood pressure monitor. “Once you’ve done that I just know I’ll feel better.”

I did as the old woman instructed, and she went away as happy as could be. The line dwindled to just a few remaining patients. I glanced up to catch my mother and Grandma watching me, as proud as proud could be. I asked Grandma if she might make a cup of mint tea, as I was parched. I excused myself from the last of my patients and went to take a break. My father, Mo, and Omer came and joined us.

“There’s nothing wrong with half of them,” I muttered. “So don’t look so impressed. Anyone could do it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” my mother said. “Look how happy you’re making them.”

“But it isn’t a game,” I objected. “It’s medicine. It’s serious. I can’t just pretend to treat people.”

“You’re doing a fine job,” Grandma remarked happily. “I don’t know what you’re worried about. Maybe you got it wrong with the twins, but with the rest of them . . .”

“It is twins!” I snapped. “That’s the best diagnosis I’ve done all morning! It’s the rest that worry me. Even if I do find high blood pressure or something, I can’t treat it. They’ll still have to go to the hospital . . .”

“Well, you’re making people happy, and that’s never a bad thing,” my father said. “If you can make an occasional diagnosis at the same time, so much the better. The lady with the twins will go away and think about what you said, and she’ll see sense. Don’t worry.”

As we were talking, Omer wandered over to the table and picked up the stethoscope. He popped the earpieces into his ears, and brought the listening device to his mouth. Then he placed his one free hand on his pelvis, his thumb tucked into his belt, and started to gyrate his hips in a provocative manner. He was seventeen years old, and he was a fine-looking young man. As the remaining patients gazed at him in bewilderment, he opened his mouth and started to sing—doing his very best Elvis Presley impression (although the lyrics weren’t quite right).

With each successive “uhuhu,” Omer flicked his pelvis around in a wild gyration. For a second or so I was beside myself with anger. How dare he turn my surgery into a stage to perform his crap pop songs? I glanced at the line of waiting women. There was consternation written all over their faces. And then I caught Omer winking at me, as he did another pelvic thrust, and I cracked up laughing. I just couldn’t help myself.

“Look, I’m a famous singer and this is my microphone,” he announced to the waiting women. “It’s transmitting my song all over the world. You have to guess who I am.”

“My brother’s not right in the head,” I remarked, as I went to reclaim my table. “He thinks he’s Elvis, the famous American pop star who died many years ago.”

By the time I had finished with my patients I was exhausted. I had charged nothing for my services, of course. I would never have dreamed of taking money from anyone in the village.

The day after my village surgery I went to visit Halima the medicine woman’s family. Sadly, Halima had died during my final year at university. We mourned Halima’s passing, and shed a few tears as they told me the story of how she had died. Halima had become very ill—so sick, in fact, that she could no longer treat herself. This was the time we call
sinya nee—
when someone knows they are about to die. Within two days of her
sinya nee
time coming, Halima had peacefully passed away. Hers had been a gentle dying.

I said my farewells to her family and made my way back to our house. As I wandered through the village it felt different somehow. It was quieter, and it felt tense and fearful—almost as if it was waiting. Every day the elders were meeting, trying to work out how to better organize the defense of the village. They kept debating whether it was better to run and hide, or to stand and fight.

I reached a group of old women chatting by the roadside. I paused to listen to their conversation. They were talking about when the Zaghawa had fought the Arab tribes in ancient times. Always we had won, one old woman pointed out, so why would it be any different this time? It was different now because the Arab tribes had powerful people behind them, another answered, giving them guns and machines to fight. Without that they would never have the bravery, or the foolishness, to attack us.

Even the little children seemed to be preparing themselves for war. I spotted one group hiding by the roadside. Suddenly, they jumped out and pounced on their friends, crying: “The Arabs are coming! The Arabs are coming!” Children screamed and scattered in all directions. I just hoped to God that scenes like these might never become a reality in our village.

A few days later a neighbor came to visit our house. She was totally distraught. She had been to visit her village, which was situated on the far side of the Jebel Marra, in a green and fertile region. But when she arrived all she found was a deserted, burned-out ruin. She had discovered some of the village children, plus a handful of adult survivors, hiding in the hills. But as for her family, no one knew where they were or what had happened to them. The survivors had told her the story of the attack on the village.

The Arabs had come at dawn, riding on horses and firing machine guns. Many villagers had escaped and fled into the hills, but many more were caught and killed. The Arabs brought their families with them and settled in the village, eating all the food and slaughtering the livestock. If any villagers tried to return to their homes, they were gunned down. No one could understand where the Arabs had got such powerful weapons.

When they had eaten their fill, the Arabs had set fire to the village and left.

My father reacted to our neighbor’s story with a burning anger. It was clear now that we would have to defend ourselves, he declared. If we died trying so be it. We would be doing so for the coming generation—that one day they might be free. In spite of his fighting talk, I detected an enormous sadness within him. His politics, his belief in democracy, his hopes for the future of the country—all of it had failed, for now it was war. As for the rest of my family, they reacted in different ways.

Predictably, Omer was all fire and bravado. “You just watch—when they come I’ll kill them all!”

Mohammed snorted in derision. “When they come you won’t kill anyone. You’ll run and hide.”

Omer brandished his dagger at Mohammed. “You’ll see—I’m not scared. I’ll fight and save the village.”

Mo turned to me. “Why did they start this fight? It’s as if they want to destroy us. We were living in peace. What did we do to them?”

“It’s simple, Mo. They want to take the land for themselves. As they always have done. So, you’d better get ready. But if the Arabs come, I bet you’ll be the first to run.”

Mo shrugged. “Well, what are you going to do? Whatever you do, so will I.”

“I’m going to fight,” I told him. “We all are. Me, you, Daddy, Grandma—we all are. We don’t have much choice.”

“Okay, I’ll stay and fight if you will.”

“If you don’t the Arabs will come and steal your new bicycle!” I teased. “How would you like that?”

Mo and Omer both had new bikes that my father had bought them. They used them to cycle out to the farms to check on the livestock. Few people in the village had a bicycle, and they were a real status symbol. If there was one thing that might persuade gentle Mo to fight, it was the thought of the Arabs nicking his bike. But really I was teasing Mo and trying to cheer him up, for he did look very confused and fearful.

Word about the raid went around the village like wildfire. The attacks were still distant from our area, but even so it all felt horribly real. The men broke out the few weapons that we did have—a handful of hunting rifles inherited from their grandfathers. Some of the ancient guns didn’t even work, but their owners still stalked around the village looking fierce. Zaghawa knives and swords were sharpened, and the
Fakirs
made up special
hijabs
with the power to render their wearer bulletproof.