Tears of the Desert (7 page)

Just as soon as Grandma heard this she flew into a towering rage. She had branded her goats on the ears with three vertical marks, using a dagger heated over the fire. She tried to raise a war party to go after the
Ahrao
and recover her animals. Omer strutted about with his wooden sword and was all for going with her, but my father told her not to be so hotheaded. The
Ahrao
would be long gone by now, he argued. And even if we did catch them, there would be a big fight and people might get killed.

My father promised that the very next day he would go and buy Grandma a replacement herd. He would make sure the goats were the finest animals—the strongest, healthiest specimens in the marketplace. He had the money to do so, and that way no one risked getting hurt. In the long run Grandma would end up better off, he argued. Grandma agreed to my father’s suggestion, but still she couldn’t bear it that the
Ahrao
had got one over on her.

The
Ahrao
were drawn to our lands, and especially the foothills of the Jebel Marra, by the rich grazing. During the dry season they would drive their livestock westward, searching for water and forage. They would travel through our area, herding their animals before them. It was at times like these that most of the rustling would take place. The
Ahrao
men were armed with knives and swords and ancient guns, and it was they who led the risky animal-stealing raids.

Whenever I saw the
Ahrao
approaching I would recognize them by their light skins, their pointed features, and their beards. The very sight of them made everyone fearful, and in the months of the dry season no one went out alone. After the theft of Grandma’s goats my father sat me down and told me all about the
Ahrao.
We Zaghawa, together with the other black African tribes, had to resist them, he said. Otherwise, they would push and push and push until we had lost our villages, our fields, and our very identity.

“Never trust the
Ahrao,
” he warned me. “They smile on one side of their face, but behind that smile they hide another face.”

How horribly prophetic my father’s words would prove.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Cutting Time

Shortly after the
Ahrao
’s raid on our goats, my luck almost ran out. Mo, Omer, and I were playing a game of chase in the market. An old man stopped me, and I presumed he was going to complain about all the noise we were making. Instead, he bent down to inspect my face.

“You’ve something caught in your eye, little one. It must be a piece of grass . . .”

In an instant his hand shot out and grabbed hold of my white eyelash. As he tugged I felt a searing pain in my eyesocket, and my vision went blurry with tears. Omer launched himself at the old man and started to beat him around the legs. I tore myself away from his grasp and raced home to my parents. But the whole of the side of my face was in agony, and I felt the muscles around my eye going into a series of spasms.

By the time I reached home my left eye had closed over completely, and my father practically had a heart attack. He got my mother to bandage me up, and then all three of us set off for the hospital. I was in so much pain that all I could think of was how a tiny white eyelash could cause me such agony. It was only a little hair, after all.

As soon as we reached the hospital my father rushed me in to see the white-coated eye specialist. He pried apart the swollen mess, shined a little light into it, and announced that I would have to undergo surgery. The only solution was to have the white eyelash removed, he said. But my father refused. Instead, we drove across town to see a Chinese doctor. My father hoped that he could help save my white eyelash, and our family’s good fortune.

Of course, I had never seen anyone looking even remotely like Dr. Hing, the Chinese physician. He was a little, wizened man with yellowish skin, wispy hair, and odd, slanting eyes. He took me into his examination room and listened intently as my father explained what had happened. Every now and then he peered at me with his bright, beady eyes. When my father had finished speaking he asked if he could take a look at my eye. I told him that he could, but it was very painful so would he please be careful. Dr. Hing nodded and smiled and said that he wouldn’t hurt me at all. Strangely enough I felt quite at ease with him. Gently, he pried apart my swollen eyelids and peered inside. He took a good look and then he straightened up, a faint smile creasing his oddly serene features.

“Ah, this is a very lucky one,” he announced, softly. “Very, very lucky.”

Did he mean that I was lucky in that my eye wasn’t too badly damaged, I wondered? I hoped that he did. I allowed myself to relax a little. I had been worried for my sight in my left eye, as much as for the survival of my white eyelash.

“What exactly d’you mean, doctor?” my father asked.

“Your daughter—she is very lucky,” Dr. Hing repeated. “You know, she has the
white eyelash.
In Chinese culture white eyelash very lucky. Very, very lucky . . .”

Dr. Hing busied himself at his desk, preparing some powders and some potions. He asked me to stick out my tongue, so he could examine it. He studied it for a few seconds, making some notes on a chart, and then he turned to speak with my father again.

“White eyelash very special,” he announced, softly. He held up a cardboard packet full of a brownish powder. “This is crushed Chinese herbs. Dilute one part to ten parts with clean water—for shock. Big shock to the system when white eyelash pulled so roughly.” Next he held up a paper envelope with some crumbly yellow pills inside. “And this is to boost immune system, to help fight off infection. And this,” he added, holding up a packet of dark green powder, “very special Chinese medicine to give strength to eye.”

He glanced from me to my father. “White eyelash so very, very lucky,” he repeated, beaming at us.

“So is that it?” my father asked. “It doesn’t need to be . . . cut out? No need for surgery?”

“Surgery?” Dr. Hing asked, quizzically. “Surgery? Why would you want to hurt white eyelash? White eyelash very lucky . . .”

Dr. Hing went on to explain that my white eyelash had its own distinct blood supply. This accounted for why it kept growing at a quicker rate than the others. If anyone tried to operate, it might damage the whole eye. And in any case, why take the risk? A white eyelash signified good fortune. And with the help of his herbs it would heal itself.

Dr. Hing proved to be right. A week later the swelling was almost gone. The Chinese medicines tasted disgusting, but they really did seem to be doing the trick. Even so my father was very angry with the old man who had tried to pull out my white eyelash.

“We’d better get Rathebe off to school,” he remarked to my mother. “Otherwise someone’s going to pull it out for real—and take away all our good luck and her wisdom!”

From then on every time my white eyelash grew too long my father would sit me down, take out a pair of tiny scissors and carefully trim it back to size. In that way he hoped I would avoid anyone else trying to rip it out of my eye socket.

I was approaching eight years old by now, and my father had always said that this was the age when I would be sent away to school. There was no school in our village, and the sum total of my education to date had been learning the Koran. Every Friday morning we were supposed to go to the Imam to memorize verses of the Koran. If we didn’t learn fast enough, the Imam would beat us with a big stick. So when it came to Friday morning and a toss-up between a morning with the Imam, or one climbing trees, fighting with our friends, and causing mayhem, there was no competition really.

But it was now time for me to start my proper learning in the big school in Hashma, the nearest town to our village. Yet before I could do so there was one thing I had to go through: my circumcision. All girls in our tribe were circumcised, most when they were ten or eleven years old. Grandma insisted that I couldn’t go away to school without first going through my cutting time. After my experience with the facial scarring, I was more than a little apprehensive. But I had been to the celebrations for other village girls—and their circumcision always seemed such a time of happiness, brightness, and laughter.

The night before I was to be cut there was a party for the women and girls. My mother, Grandma, Kadiga, and lots of my female relatives were there, and I had the place of honor. In our tradition circumcision is supposed to mark the passage from girlhood to womanhood, and so I was treated almost as if I were getting married. I had beautiful new clothes and shoes, all in red.

Grandma and my mother spent hours painting my hands and feet with beautiful red henna designs, just as if I were a bride. My skin was rubbed with oil, so that when the henna powder was applied it would take on a more intense color. The soles of my feet were painted in a layer of rich, dark red. Fancy whorls and flower patterns were painted from my ankles to just below my knees. The tips of my fingers were painted a splash of bright orange, with intricate circle and spiral designs running up my arms to my elbows.

By the end of the preparations all my misgivings over the cutting were gone. I felt so beautiful, so grown up, and so special that I positively wanted to go through with my circumcision. Early the next morning the
taihree
arrived—the traditional circumcision woman of our village. She had no formal training, but she did all the womanly things. I was taken into Grandma’s hut and perched nervously on the edge of her bed.

I watched as the
taihree
prepared her instruments—her razor blade, bowls of water, and cloths. I felt a stab of panic. It was so like my scarring time, when I had managed to run and escape. For a second I considered doing the same, but I knew that my family and friends were gathered outside. I couldn’t run. If I did, I would never live it down.

A huge, grotesquely fat woman came to join us. I recognized her immediately, for all the village children knew her. If we saw her out on the street we’d point and tell each other that that was the woman who held you down during your circumcision time.

“Let me have the child on my lap,” she offered Grandma. “I can hold her, while you help the
taihree.
”

Grandma nodded. The fat lady sat down next to me, and I felt the bed all but buckle under her weight. She patted her lap, smiled at me, and lifted me onto it. I realized that there was no escaping now. I was enveloped in her embrace, and she was hugely heavy and strong. The
taihree
turned to me with the razor blade gripped in her hand. As she did so, I saw my mother’s face turn pale.

She glanced at Grandma. “You don’t need me. . . . I’ll go help prepare the food.”

Grandma nodded, and with a quick kiss to the top of my head my mother was gone. Grandma took one of the cloths from the
taihree
and handed it to me.

“Put this in your mouth. Bite down hard. And remember, you mustn’t scream or cry—it’s shameful. Be brave.”

I did as Grandma instructed. Part of me still wanted to go through with this, to prove that I was a big, strong girl. I felt the fat woman move my legs apart, forcing me onto my back until all I could see was the roof of Grandma’s hut. There was a twitch at the door, as a curious child peeped inside. I heard Grandma yell for him or her to get out. For a second my fearful mind wondered if it might have been crazy Omer. It was just the sort of thing he would do. And then the
taihree
reached down between my legs.

With the first slash of the razor blade, a bolt of agony shot through me like nothing I had ever experienced. I let out a bloodcurdling scream, and as I did so I started kicking and fighting to get free. But all that happened was the huge woman bore down on me, clamping my legs in her viselike grip. I cried for them to stop, but as I did so I heard the women outside start making the
illil.
“Aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye!” they cried. It was supposed to be a celebratory chant, but in truth they were doing so to hide the noise of my screaming.

The
taihree
pawed at me again, and I felt Grandma grab me by the arm. She put her finger in her mouth and bit on it, to try to show me to bite the cloth and to shut me up. But as the blade cut into me again I screamed, wide-eyed with terror and pain.

“No! No! Mummy! Mummy! Make them stop! Make them stop!”

I felt Grandma hissing angrily in my ear. “Be brave, girl! You are
Zaghawa
! Cry and the children will laugh at you!
Be brave!
”

I didn’t give a damn for Grandma’s words. I was a terrified child with all the adults in the world that I trusted causing me unspeakable pain. The shock of the betrayal was beyond imagining. I tried, desperately, to fight and to get away, but the huge lady was crushing me into her vast bulk. I twisted my head and bit into her flesh, as hard and as viciously as I could. My hatred for this woman who had imprisoned me in pain knew no bounds. I wanted to wound and to kill her. But she hardly seemed to notice what I was doing.

I felt a gush of warm blood, as the
taihree
took hold of me again, slicing deeper and deeper. Through a mouthful of the fat woman’s flesh I screamed and screamed, hot tears rushing down my face, but the cutting and the cutting and the cutting just went on and on and on.

The
taihree
reached down once last time, grabbed something, sawed for a second, twisted, and dropped it into the bowl on the floor. The pain was so unbearable that it had taken over my whole head, driving me to the borders of sanity. I felt as if I was dying, and even death would have been preferable to where I was now. Through a state of half-consciousness I heard my own, pathetic whimpering filtering through to me.

Finally, with her arms covered in blood, the
taihree
straightened up. She turned to Grandma. “Almost there,” she announced.

“
Alhamdu lillah,
”—praise be to God, Grandma replied.

“
Alhamdu lillah,
” the
taihree
confirmed. “Is there boiling water?”

Grandma reached for a bowl on the fire. As she did so, her eyes met mine and she scowled, shaking her head despairingly—as if I was the one who had done something wrong.
As if I was the one who had done something wrong.

The
taihree
readied a needle and thick cotton thread. As she turned back to me, I felt myself withdraw into some inner world where the pain and the horror of whatever was coming next could never reach me.

With a sickening sound of tugging rawness she began to sew up my flesh. With each tug of the needle I felt a bolt of pain surge through me, but I was now in a place where I was insulated from the physical suffering. I knew that somewhere deep in my lost womanhood there was a burning heart of agony, but I had removed my mind to a place where it couldn’t be hurt anymore.

By the time the
taihree
had finished I had been completely sewn up, leaving only a tiny little hole. Everything else was gone. I was half-delirious. I barely noticed as Grandma went to the door of the hut and announced that it was done—that I had been circumcised.

A series of cheers went up from outside, and the women made the
illil
again: “Aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye! Aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye!”