Tears of the Desert (23 page)

First I met the nurses, Sumah and Makka. I told them that one had my grandma’s name, and the other had the name of my mother’s sister, Makka. I asked them where they had studied. It turned out that they had only completed basic first aid courses, Makka’s in midwifery, and Sumah’s in general medicine. Then there was an orderly, a young man whose job it was to register the patients and ensure they formed an orderly line. Out the back of the clinic was a dispensary, where the fourth team member worked, keeping an eye on supplies and dispensing the prescription drugs.

Sayed explained that his job was to run the place, to make diagnosis, and write prescriptions. Now that I was here, he could concentrate more on the former. Before I could object he asked me to take a look at an old woman who was the sole patient resident in the treatment room. She was lying on a bed with sheets provided by her relatives, as the clinic had no means to provide such basic luxuries. Her problem, Sayed explained, was that she could keep no food down at all.

The old lady was as thin as a skeleton. I took her arm, checked her pulse, and had a good look in her eyes. They were yellowish, and I reckoned she might have a liver problem. I checked her hands, and sure enough she had “club finger”—with nails that were curved over like animal claws. This is a sure sign of chronic liver failure. Her family had tried to treat her using the traditional burning cure, but the burns had become infected. She was unable to eat anything much. I told Sayed my diagnosis, and that she had to go to the hospital in Hashma.

Sayed nodded. “I thought as much. We’ve tried to get her to go, but she refuses. See if you can persuade her, doctor. She’s a bit deaf, so you’ll have to speak up.”

I bent close to her ear. “Auntie, you have something wrong with your insides—your liver. You’ll have to go to the big town, for tests at the hospital.”

She fixed me with a suspicious eye. “I’ve heard all that before. Who are you?”

“I’m the new doctor. I’ve been sent here from the big town.”

She snorted. “You—a doctor! A young girl like you . . . I don’t believe it. A real doctor is an old man with gray hair and eyeglasses.”

“No, really, I am a doctor.”

“You’re not! You’re just a student, sent here to experiment with us! I won’t hear a word more. Go away! Don’t talk to me!”

I was at a loss for words. Makka grabbed my hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze.

“Ah, Dr. Halima, don’t worry—this lady is very old. And you know what old people are like. She’s always picking fights with us, then the next minute she’s laughing. Just pay no attention.”

I gave her a squeeze back. “It’s okay, sister, I’m not worried.”

Just then the old lady’s daughter arrived with her breakfast.

“You can’t speak to the lady doctor like that!” she scolded, once she’d heard what her mother had been saying. “You’re so rude. She’s only trying to help.”

“
You
may believe she’s a doctor,” the old lady retorted. “But
I
don’t. I’m not going anywhere. If I’m to die, I’ll do so in my own village. And what’s so wrong with that?”

Part of me was annoyed, but part of me saw in her just an older version of Grandma Sumah. She had the same stubborn spirit and refusal to be told what to do that we all adored in Grandma.

I gave her daughter a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave her alone if that’s what she wants. But she does need to get to a hospital. Maybe you can talk to her . . .”

By the end of that first day we’d had just a handful of people through the clinic. But word had gone around the village that a real doctor had arrived, and Sayed was expecting a flood of new patients. I made my way back to Abakher’s third wife’s house—my temporary home until something more permanent could be found for me—following a little path that snaked between tall stands of maize.

As I walked I reflected upon my day. I had come to this place fearing that dark powers had set a trap for me. I had come here fearing that the security services were after me, and that somehow Mazkhabad was going to be a place of fear and vengeance. Whatever the truth of why I had been sent here, I had found a simple village where people were in need of help. Far from being a “punishment posting,” I realized that I might actually enjoy my time here.

The next morning Sayed’s predictions seemed to have come true: The trickle of patients had become a flood. A line of mostly elderly people snaked out of the veranda and across the open ground in front of the clinic. More kept arriving. Sayed worked alongside me, and as I diagnosed he suggested what drugs to prescribe.

Pretty quickly I realized that half of the patients had nothing much wrong with them. If I tried sending them away with nothing it looked as if I’d have a full-scale riot on my hands, so I tried prescribing a full course of aspirin. But Sayed quickly took charge. He took two aspirin tablets, cut them in half and popped them into a plastic bag. Unless we rationed, we’d quickly be out of drugs, he warned me.

Once the patients had their bag of half-pills they were happy. Each wanted to return home with something they could show off as being from the new doctor. In most cases they wouldn’t even take the pills: They’d hoard them for the future, in case they really
did
get ill. It was an exhausting day but one that I really enjoyed. I returned to Abakher’s house that evening and fell into a deep sleep.

I awoke later to the sound of a voice calling me. It was Sayed, and I could tell by his tone that it was urgent. He was sorry for waking me, but there was an emergency at the clinic, he explained. Would I come? I was surprised at how much faith he had placed in me already, and I was determined not to let him down.

As we hurried down to the clinic Sayed briefed me on what had happened. A local man had been opening a big can of cooking oil, his six-year-old son helping hold it steady. A shard of tin had sheered off and sliced into the boy’s thigh. Sayed hadn’t inspected the wound yet, but there was a lot of blood and it looked serious. We lit the clinic’s oil lamps, and quickly got the man and his son into the treatment room.

The boy had blood oozing down his leg, and he was clearly frightened and in shock. I inspected the wound, probing around with my fingers, the child crying out in agony as I did so. I could tell that the boy’s father was close to tears. Could I help his son, he pleaded? He’d been torn between trying to get to the hospital in town, or bringing his boy here. The fact that we now had a proper doctor had decided it for him. But could I do anything to help?

The first priority was to stop the bleeding, I told him. With Sayed’s help I tied a tourniquet tight around the boy’s leg, just below the wound. Blood was coming up the leg and pumping out through ruptured veins, but at least the tourniquet lessened the flow. I asked Sayed to boil some water and sterilize a needle and thread. He lit the charcoal stove and put a pan on to boil. Sayed was unflappable in his actions, and he inspired me with confidence for what lay ahead.

I had never in my life sutured up something as serious as this. The tin had sliced right through the little boy’s muscle. I could see his thighbone gleaming ghostly white in the bloody depths of the wound. My main worry was the loss of blood. We had no painkillers, and I knew that I had to work fast, for the long journey to hospital in Hashma would be the death of him, of that I was certain.

Sayed handed me the sterilized needle and thread. I asked the boy’s father to hold his son down, for this was going to hurt. With the little boy screaming in agony, Sayed pulled each side of the ragged wound together as I began to sew. By the time I had finished I was sweating and weak with nervous exhaustion. But at least the gaping wound was clamped tightly shut. We cleaned and bandaged the wound and then we were done.

I turned to the little boy’s parents—by now the mother had joined us—and I could see fear, and gratitude, shining in their eyes. I told them that their son had to remain in the clinic so that I could keep an eye on him. Early the next morning I wanted them back again, so we could start him on a course of antibiotics to fight any infection.

Before leaving the father insisted on making some proper introductions. His name was Osman, and his wife was Mounah. They had four children. The little boy that I had treated was their youngest, and he was called Ibrahim. They were from the Berti tribe, a black African people whose lands border those of the Zaghawa. Mounah was about my age, and I sensed a great warmth from her. I had a feeling that she, Osman, and I were going to become good friends.

Little Ibrahim slept well during the night and by morning he had strengthened. For all of that first week I forbade him from leaving his bed or going out to play. After that, I figured the worst of the danger was over. Mounah and Osman made a point of inviting me to their house to eat and drink, and to chat and relax. They were affluent by village standards, for Osman was a trader with high connections among the Zaghawa chiefs of the area. I enjoyed their company and their friendship so very much. And no matter what I might say to the contrary, they were convinced that I had saved their son’s life.

Who knows, perhaps I had. Either way, they were soon going to be called upon to save my own.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Rebel Doctor

Abakher’s first wife—the eldest—lived close by the clinic. Her children were grown up and had left home, so she had a hut free. As I was now his “daughter,” Abakher wouldn’t hear of me staying anywhere else. His first wife’s name was Aisha. She was in her fifties, so closer to Grandma Sumah’s age than my mother’s. Aisha quickly took me under her wing, becoming like my mother and my best friend all rolled into one. She would do my washing and cook my favorite foods.

During the day Aisha did a little trade in the village marketplace. She sold
ghou,
the flour used to make
acidah;
spices; and
mousarran—
dried bundles of animal intestines that are used in a traditional Zaghawa stew. Every third night Abakher would come to visit her. She would cook his favorite food and chat with him, and once he’d finished she’d tell him to go and stay with one of his younger wives. She was old and infertile, she’d say, so he might as well go and try his stuff with one of the young ones.

Abakher was in his midsixties, yet already he had four children with his youngest wife. He wanted to keep on having children until he couldn’t do so anymore, or until he died. If he died, his youngest children would grow up as part of his big, extended family, being looked after by their older brothers and sisters. Abakher started bringing people to the house at all hours to meet his new “daughter.” She was a real live medical doctor, he’d tell them, proudly. I didn’t mind, and I was happy to treat any ills they might have.

Each evening Aisha and I would finish our dinner and sit out under the stars. Sometimes she detected a deep sadness within me. I was still worried for what the future might hold. I hadn’t forgotten the secret police in Hashma, or their dark threats. But most of all I was scared for my village. War might come at any time, and if it did I would know nothing about it stuck out here in Mazkhabad.

But no matter how close I felt to Aisha, I couldn’t share my problems with her. I kept my worries bottled up inside. I didn’t want anyone here to know my real story. If I told Aisha, I feared she might decide that it was too dangerous for me here. I feared she would tell me to stop doing my work and bringing trouble on myself, and go back to my village. I didn’t want that. I still felt my work was important. I still felt there was scope for serving my people, and a way that I might truly help in the struggle.

I thought about what my father would want me to do. I felt certain that he would want me to continue playing a role if I possibly could. He’d want me to use my medical skills to help the cause. In any case, I felt as if I had crossed a line in Hashma, and that I was now a part of this war. Of course, Aisha put my unhappiness down to my lifestyle. How could I hope to be happy, she asked, if I was alone and childless?

Aisha had a gentle way of saying such things. “Why aren’t you married, my daughter? You should be having children, not traveling and living alone.”

“Ah, it’s just not my time,” I’d reply. “Anyhow, you should stop asking questions and let me get on with my life.”

Aisha would chuckle softly at my teasing. “You should have three or four children by now, like Abakher’s youngest wife. What d’you think will come of this strange life of yours?”

“All this criticizing,” I’d counter, playfully. “You should show me some respect. Don’t you know I’m a medical doctor?”

“All that education, it’s confused your mind. I’m going to have to find you a man. There must be one free man somewhere in this village . . .”

One evening, a month or so after my arrival in Mazkhabad, Abakher brought a visitor to see me. I was used to this by now, but the young man had a very odd appearance. His head was almost completely covered in a scarf, only his eyes left showing. After chatting for a while I asked if he was sick. He told me that he wasn’t, but his friend was injured. He needed dressings, bandages, antiseptic ointment, and antibiotics. I told him that his friend should come to the clinic. I couldn’t just hand out medicines to anyone who came and asked.

I saw the young man glance at Abakher. Abakher nodded. “You’d better show her. She’s like my daughter. You can trust her.”

The young man lifted up his robes to reveal a dirtied, bloodied bandage. For a second he gazed at me, then indicated the wound.

“So it’s
you
who’s injured?” I asked. “But why did you say . . .”

I let my words trail off. I had a good idea why he might have been hesitant to tell me. It was best if I didn’t know. At least then I could claim ignorance if anything happened to me as a result of helping him.

“D’you mind?” I asked. I reached to inspect his injured leg. I saw him flinch, and glance again at Abakher. “I have to see the wound. I’m a doctor. I can help.”

By the light of an oil lantern I unwrapped the dirty bandage. He was lucky. The bullet had passed clean through the calf muscle, just missing the bone. But it was still nasty and in danger of going septic.

“When did this happen?” I asked.

“Three days ago,” he replied. “I heard there was a Zaghawa doctor here, a sister who would help.”

I turned to Abakher. “I need to get him to the clinic. I need to clean and dress the wound, and I can’t do that here.”

Abakher smiled. “Anything, my doctor daughter.”

I made the young man comfortable on one of the clinic beds. I got Abakher to boil some water and sterilize the instruments. I told the young man to watch carefully what I was doing and learn to do it himself, for I guessed he wouldn’t be coming back again any time soon. I removed the dressing, swabbed down the wound, cleared away the dead skin, and applied antiseptic cream. Then I packed the wound with fresh dressing and bandaged it up again.

“Can you stay for a day or so?” I asked. “I want to keep an eye on it, in case there’s any infection.”

He shook his head. “No, sister. But thank you for what you’ve done . . .”

“Well, d’you think you can manage all of that on your own?” I asked. He smiled. “I’m no doctor, but I think so.”

“I’ll get you enough materials so you can clean and dress the wound yourself, okay?”

He reached out a hand. “Sister, there’s one more thing. I have a friend in the bush with bad gunshot wounds. He can’t risk coming to the village. Can you give me medicine for him?”

“Tell me about his injuries,” I said. “I’ll prepare a package for him also.”

It was past midnight by the time the injured fighter left. As Abakher and I made our way back to Aisha’s house, not a word was spoken between us about what had happened. There was an unspoken understanding that it was best left that way. I knew by now that Abakher was helping the Zaghawa fighters, and he knew for sure now that as a doctor I was willing to help. Today, I had well and truly crossed the line.

Word must have spread rapidly among the fighters in the bush. Two days later another came to see me, and this one came directly to the clinic. He was dressed in a long robe that completely covered his wounds. He spoke to me in Zaghawa, a language that none of the others would understand. Sayed was from the Berti tribe, and the nurses were Massalit. I made up a package of dressings, ointments, and antibiotics and sent him on his way.

Gunshot wounds are nearly always recognizable for exactly what they are, but he had kept his injuries hidden. More wounded fighters started coming. They either came to see me at home if I needed to examine them, or they came to the clinic. Those at the clinic explained what was wrong, and I sent them on their way with a package of medicines and instructions on how to treat themselves.

One day I asked Sayed to fetch me a parcel of medications from the store. The clinic had no budget as such, but it did have a certain monthly allocation of medicines. We charged patients a little for prescription medicines, and that money was used to buy charcoal for the stoves, oil for the lanterns, and any other supplies that we might need. The parcel that I’d asked Sayed to prepare chiefly consisted of dressings for gunshot wounds.

For a moment he gazed at me, quizzically, before asking me what it was for. I told him that my family was sick, and I was sending it to my home village. I was sure he knew what I was doing, as did the rest of the staff, but none of them had raised any objections. If any of them had felt that I was putting them in danger by my activities, I hoped they would have said so.

Once a week I went to have dinner with Mounah and Osman. It was their way of saying thank you for saving their son’s life. I instinctively felt that I could trust them. We would talk long into the night, and of course our main topic of conversation was the war. There had been some minor incidents in our area, but the village itself still felt secure. We spoke about how peaceful people’s lives had been, before the Arab tribes started attacking villages and killing people. Who could comprehend from where the hatred had sprung?

I confessed that I didn’t really feel at home in the village. But I felt as if I was doing good work there, which was the main thing. But sometimes, I wondered why I didn’t run a similar clinic in my home village. At least there I would have my family around me, in case of any trouble. Here, I felt as if I was on my own. Mounah and Osman tried to reassure me. I was far from alone, they said. I had saved their son’s life and I was like a sister to them. If anything happened, I was to come to them for help.

Dinner with Mounah and Osman invariably got me thinking about home again. I decided to try to get a call through to Uncle Ahmed. What I dreaded most was the thought that my village could be attacked, and that I would never know. In Mazkhabad marketplace was a radio, with a big cable antenna strung up in a tree. People called it a “radiotelephone,” and in return for a small charge it was possible to place a call to a telephone number anywhere in the country.

Or at least that was the theory. In practice it mostly didn’t seem to work. Once or twice I had tried to call Uncle Ahmed, but his words had come through all distorted, with lots of other voices talking over him, and fragments of other conversations bleeding through. As the radiophone was in the open market I had to be careful what I said, for I never knew who might be listening.

This time, I managed to get through to Uncle Ahmed on a reasonably clear line. My family was fine, he told me. There had been sporadic fighting in our area, but no trouble in the village itself. But how much longer this could go on was anyone’s guess. Here in Mazkhabad I had a steady stream of injured fighters coming to the clinic, so surely there had to be fighting going on. My greatest fear was that either here, or at home, one day soon an attack would come.

I left the marketplace and made my way back home, lost in my thoughts. All of a sudden there was the snarl of an engine behind me and I jumped to one side. The Mazkhabad police Land Rover thundered by. As it disappeared in a cloud of dust I saw a row of faces staring out at me. At least they were the regular police, and not the dreaded security men. But still I had this horrible feeling that they were watching me, and that sooner or later they would discover what I was up to at the clinic.

A week later I was just finishing dealing with the last of my patients when I heard a car pull up outside. This was in itself a rare thing, as few people in the village owned vehicles. I looked up to see the police Land Rover. For a moment I hoped that it might be an entirely innocent visit. Sayed had already warned me that the police dropped by now and then, to check how our work was going. Or perhaps one of the policemen was sick or injured.

Three Arab-looking men got down from the vehicle. I watched them squaring their shoulders, so as to make themselves look fierce, and with a swaggering posture they headed my way. This was no community visit, and none of them looked particularly unwell. I noticed Sayed dart out of the treatment room, so as to greet the policemen on the veranda. I didn’t know exactly why they had come, but I had a bad feeling already.

“Hello, Commander. Welcome. Come in, come in,” Sayed fawned. “What a pleasant surprise. Welcome. Everything is fine. Everything is good. How can we help?”

The police commander parked himself in the doorway, a cold and silent presence. He swept the room with his eyes, as if he owned the place.

“Ahem, so this is the new doctor,” Sayed continued. “Dr. Halima Bashir, just recently qualified in Khartoum. You know her? She’s doing great work . . .”

The commander held up his hand to silence Sayed. “Enough! Yes, we
know
her. We know all about her. We’ve heard many, many things.”

I did my best to ignore them. My patient was a young woman in advanced stages of pregnancy. I was trying to figure out exactly how her baby was situated, and whether she was going to have an easy birth. If not, she might have to go to Hashma to deliver. I felt along her tummy, trying to locate the baby’s head. As I did so, I could feel the commander’s eyes on me, boring into my back.

I heard boots scuffing across the floor. They came and stood near me—one on either side, the commander facing me across the bed. Sayed had made himself scarce, but I knew he was listening at the window. I could see his shadow. The commander hooked his thumbs into his belt, over which bulged the fat of his belly. He squared his shoulders, as he waited for me to acknowledge his presence.