by Jean Sasson
While it was true that the desert was always encroaching upon Jeddah, Saudis made it a goal to push the creeping sand back, hindering its stealthy crawl into the city streets. That did not seem to be the case in Khartoum. I thought perhaps the Sudanese did not possess the financial resources with which Jeddah was blessed.
I knew a few facts. Sudan was the largest country in the African continent, with an Islamic government. Egypt was a neighbor, as were Ethiopia and Eritrea, two countries I knew something about due to conversations with some of our tea girls, smart young women we had left behind in Saudi Arabia to work for other lucky families. Because Sudan was so vast in size, the country claimed a host of border-linked neighbors: Egypt, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Kenya, Uganda, Congo, the Central African Republic, Chad, and Libya. Just as in Saudi Arabia, the Red Sea bounded one side of Sudan.
Khartoum, the city where we were landing in the plane, was the capital of Sudan, although it was a relatively young city, founded in 1821. The White Nile, which flows down from Lake Victoria, and the Blue Nile, which flows west from Ethiopia, come together in Khartoum as twins, but leave the city as one, flowing north into Egypt, where it becomes the world-famous Egyptian Nile.
My girls gave a little jump and giggled when we felt the airplane wheels hop along the bumpy runway. Fatima joined me when I peered once more out the windows, gazing at the scenery of open fields of dirt and sagebrush. There were a few dust-laden trees that seemed so out of place one would wonder if they had unexpectedly popped out of the ground. We observed men and women scurrying about simple homes in small settlements. The Sudanese women were wearing loose, vividly-colored dresses with matching head wraps. Most of the men were wearing the traditional jalabiya, which is an ankle-long gown, with tagias (skullcaps) on their heads. Others were dressed in the sirwal and ragis, which are baggy pants and thigh-length tunics, generally of the same pastel color.
I wondered briefly about those people and the sort of lives they were living, but I lost sight of them as we pulled closer to the terminal, a concrete building about three storeys high. As we got ready to disembark, I had to concentrate on my children.
Carrying Iman in my arms and encouraging Fatima to remain by my side, I motioned to my six sons to stay nearby. There was a rush as everyone pushed to the door of the aeroplane and onto and down the steps the airport workers had rolled up to the door.
The moment I stepped outside the door, I recognized the tall figure of my husband standing beside a long black car that one usually associates with very important visitors, or VIPs. Well-armed security guards were circling the area. The car windows were blackened for privacy, an Osama family custom. There were other similar cars in a line, all waiting to carry my husband’s large family to our private homes.
I walked up to my husband. I knew him so well that without his speaking a word I could see that he was relieved we had arrived safely. We exchanged little other than a nod and a casual greeting. Muslim men and women do not express emotion or touch physically in public, even after many years of marriage and many children.
Everything had been arranged beforehand. Because of my husband’s influence, there was no requirement for our family to endure the formalities of passport control and customs.
The moment everyone was settled in the long black cars, security cars surrounded our motorcade and our drivers sped away from the airport. While my little daughters were leaping about with excitement at being out of the restraints of the aeroplane seat belts, I took occasional glimpses out of the dark windows, getting a closer view of Khartoum.
Soon we pulled into a posh area where I saw that many attractive homes had been recently constructed. I was informed that we would be living in that community, a well-to-do suburb of Khartoum known as al-Riyadh Village. The houses were all nicely-sized and built closely together.
Osama had arranged for four houses in al-Riyadh Village for the family and for his men who guaranteed our security. The house where his family would live was fine enough, a large house with three storeys. As always, I lived on the top storey, with my wife friends residing in various apartments below me.
My oldest sons were quick to choose their living space, while I made the decisions for the little ones. All in all, I was relieved and pleased, knowing that as long as we were all together all would be well. My husband resided that first night in my private apartment. His presence was agreeable to me.
After two weeks, we had settled into a routine that in many ways resembled our life in Saudi Arabia. My husband arranged for two local women to help with the home and children, although Osama had lately been hinting that I should take care of my children by myself. In my culture, the men of the family make all the important decisions, but I believed that with eight children, some of whom were toddlers and babies, I required assistance. On this point I was quietly determined, and in the end Osama appointed the two native girls, who were very helpful and more than pleasant.
Each morning we would rise with the sun to say our first prayers of the day, and then would go back to sleep. After resting for a short time, we would make certain that the boys were not late for school. As was the custom in Khartoum, our sons would have breakfast there.
I was glad to hear that Osama had arranged for the oldest boys to attend a very good private school. I knew by that time my sons had been miserable with the public schools they had attended in Jeddah and Medina. In Khartoum, they would be attending the Al-Majlis Al-Afriiki Ta’leen Alkhaas, or the African Council for Special Teaching. The school was open six days a week, every day but Friday, which of course is our Islamic holy day when the routine of daily life is suspended for twenty-four hours.
Seeing my sons in their regulation school uniform brought back memories of a generation ago. My thoughts swirled back to the early years that suddenly seemed so far away. I felt the ache of those days when I was a young wife, dolefully watching my young husband in his carefully pressed school uniform as he left me to miss him while he was attending to his work and his schooling.
Now our handsome sons were following in their father’s steps. Abdullah, Abdul Rahman, Sa’ad, Omar, Osman, and even our youngest son, little Mohammed, created a clamor each morning as they leapt to don their dark green trousers and light green shirts. If their father was not staying with me, they were permitted to make a lot of noise. I would smile, watching as they became too boisterous and fell over each other, rushing from my living quarters to meet Ali, Khadijah’s oldest son. Together all seven of the boys would race on foot to the curb of the compound area to wait for a white school bus.
My apartment was very quiet after my six sons emptied out, leaving me with my two girls, Fatima and Iman, who were as calm as a blue sky after the passing of a sandstorm. My daughters and I would eat a nice leisurely break-fast, and then I would share important playtime with them, for they were still too small to learn to read the Koran or to help me with chores. We might play hide-and-seek if I was feeling up to it.
Afterwards, my maids would continue to play with my girls so that I might stretch and exercise. As I grew older and stiffer, I was discovering the importance of becoming more physically active. After exercise time, I might do some sketching, as I still derived much pleasure from drawing faces and, most especially, expressive eyes. After putting away my pencils and paper, I would read for a while, mainly concentrating on the Koran. Every morning the four wives of my husband would visit each other and chat for a while and then read religious texts together.
We had a very large private garden with grass, flowers, and short trees with fat trunks. Nearly every day when there was no one else around, and it was not too hot, I would take the younger children into the garden and watch them there. Sometimes the other mothers would bring their little ones out to the garden and we would guard our playful children.
With so much to do, the morning passed quickly and the boys would return one hour after noon. After their mental and physical exertions, their stomachs would be empty, so I would make certain the co
ok had prepared a good lunch. Afterwards, I might enjoy a nap. My girls often slumbered with me but the boys were left on their own as they were getting older.
My husband was not a believer in modern playthings for our children, but boys without toys will find many activities to pursue. Once I remember waking up from a nap and looking out the windows of my apartment to see my sons busily engaged constructing wooden tree houses in those short trees in the garden. The tree houses emerged as elaborate constructions with walkways from one tree house to the other. Where they found the large pieces of timber I do not know, but some of my husband’s employees probably provided my sons with the building materials.
After completing the tree houses, they lived in those make-believe homes for many long hours. Many times I would observe each boy perched in his house in the tree, to my mind resembling a big bird, staring at the blue sky or over the large walls surrounding our home. Sometimes they would devote whole days of their free time to doing nothing but sitting and staring. What dreams they were spinning I will never know.
I observed yet another special project lasting many weeks as they put together an oven under the ground, installing pipes for the air to transfer. Afterwards they started a project of growing kidney beans. Once mature, they picked those beans fresh from the plants and cooked them in various dishes.
Since moving to Khartoum, Osama had more time for his children. My husband spent hours explaining to his sons the importance of growing fine vegetables and other produce on the land. He set an example with his many farms growing corn and soybeans and even sunflowers. Perhaps that is where the boys got the idea to grow those kidney beans.
Whatever the reason, I was glad to see the boys entertaining themselves. They had led such isolated lives when we lived in Saudi Arabia that now their boyish games and pursuits created gladness in my heart. They grew bold, sometimes escaping from the al-Riyadh compound to explore our neighborhood. I believe that my husband was mainly unaware of their daring adventures. Knowing they were good boys who needed some little freedoms, I chose to remain silent, although I would have never lied to my husband had he asked me directly.
There were other good things about living in Khartoum. I was happy that my husband did not travel so much, and that he seemed more at ease tending to his many important projects. He had negotiated with high officials in the Sudanese government to build roads and factories and various businesses, including the farms I mentioned. Osama’s favorite undertaking was working the land, growing the best corn and the biggest sunflowers. He had seriously overworked his mind to discover new ways of producing the largest sunflowers in the world. Nothing made my husband happier than showing off his huge sunflowers.
I smile when I remember those rewarding days. In fact, some of my fondest memories are the times when the corn or the sunflowers were ready to be harvested and off we would go to one of the farms, usually to al-Damazin, which was south of Khartoum. The outings reminded me of the days when we used to gather up the family to visit our Jeddah farm.
The sunflower harvest was the most fun. I would select a big pair of scissors and be happy to settle myself in a caravan of big black vehicles. Once at the farm, Osama would arrange the timing so that there would be private hours when his wives and children might work harvesting the sunflowers without concern that we would accidentally mingle with strangers. Although we wives would wear our customary veils, when no one else was in the vicinity our veils might slip away from our faces because we were concentrating on clipping the sunflowers. Of course, if we heard any human voices unfamiliar to our ears, we would quickly conceal our naked faces.
Some of those enormous sunflowers were many times the size of our heads. I often studied those huge plants in admiration, knowing that Osama was the reason for such beauty. Those are the best memories, of being busy and part of a worthy mission to produce something practical.
On other occasions we traveled to a place called al-Kuttiya. The trip was very long and the roads unpaved, so the journey created many thrills. When it was the dry season we stirred up dust storms and when it was the rainy season the dust turned to mud, and our vehicles often became bogged down in the sticky muck. Everyone would groan in frustration at the delay. In truth we were not as displeased as we appeared because our lives were so quiet that we minded little to be trapped on the road.
Omar and his brothers would struggle to push the wheels free so that we might continue our trip. For some reason the sight was very funny to me and the other wives, watching our strong sons heave and push and strain. Sometimes the eager driver would push too hard against the gas pedal and the mud would fly in many directions. We would giggle under our veils watching the boys leap about, trying in vain to dodge that airborne mud.
On the way to the farm in the south, the boys would sometimes call for the caravan to stop at a certain area that only they knew was favorable for hunting. They would leave the women and the small children in the cars while they slipped away to hunt for food. There was a special type of big turkey that was most exceptional, and loved by all family members. Our boys were excellent hunters and never failed to shoot several. Once we arrived at the farm area, we would boil the turkeys, then pull away their feathers. It was a bit sad to eat them because those turkeys were quite attractive with their white-dotted feathers.
Other times Omar would call out for us to stop because his keen eyes had caught sight of a special tree that produces delicious fruits. The name of the tree is lost to memory but we would eagerly watch as Omar climbed the tree and selected the best fruits. My sweet son would present them to me so I could save them to eat once we arrived.
At the farm there were a few lovely huts, like little cottages. They were small and round, with tall thatch roofs shaped like a big ice cream cone. Those round huts had been constructed in the middle of a forest of big trees where large groups of monkeys lived. Those monkeys were more fun than a circus. The entire monkey family would become animated at our arrival and would amuse us with their antics. After watching the entertaining monkey show for a while, we would enter the cottages to settle ourselves for a much anticipated holiday that generally lasted four nights, or until Osama said it was time for us to leave.
The huts were masterfully constructed from dried twigs, foliage, and small branches. Osama had arranged for numerous cots to be placed in the huts so that everyone had their assigned beds. Osama also arranged for us to have mosquito nets to drape over our bodies, warning us about malaria, which is a deadly disease in that part of Africa, particularly for small children. I was meticulous about draping those nets over my smallest children.
I particularly liked the delicious mangoes that grew on trees right outside the hut. I have happy memories of sitting at the door of the hut, watching my children play under the twinkling stars while eating some of those juicy mangoes.
It was more common for us to take trips to Osama’s small horse farm, which was only a short distance away from our home in al-Riyadh Village. While the men of the family occupied themselves with the horses, the women enjoyed the private swimming pool. Once the men had gone for their rides and our seclusion was assured, some of the wives and daughters would take a cool dip. Of course we did not own swimming costumes, but we would splash in the pool while wearing our long dresses.
My older boys learned much while we lived in Khartoum because their father began to treat our eldest sons as young men. Osama would even take the six older boys along when going out on a special project. I remember the times they accompanied him in order to observe the building of a railroad. My sons were excited to tell me that Osama had explained the smallest details of how the rails were constructed, and the steps taken by the engineers. They were convinced that their father knew everything.
My husband had a dream that his many sons would one day be in charge of his numerous businesses in Sudan.
There were other unusual experiences. From the time our eldest sons were young boys in Saudi Arabia, Osama had focused on training the
m to endure long periods in the desert without outside assistance. One day Osama informed us that the state of the world had brought him to the conclusion that his wives and daughters must also be trained to become patient and courageous.
He came up with plans to help all the members of his family achieve strong, resilient characters. How he thought of those unique ideas remains a mystery to me. But when the notion struck, he would arrange transportation to take his family out of Khartoum to the edge of an undeveloped area. We were not allowed to take our usual supplies for an overnight trip, although we would notice shovels and other tools for digging stacked in the backs of the vehicles.
Once we arrived at an isolated place in the desert, we were told that we would be staying overnight under the stars. Osama said, “While on this training mission all must limit liquids and other nourishment.” Additionally, we would not be provided with any modern conveniences such as beds or blankets. We were most surprised when Osama said, “I did not bring mosquito nets, but do not worry. Mosquitoes rarely come into the desert.”
While the wives and daughters watched, Osama directed the biggest and strongest boys to use the digging tools to excavate hollows large enough for a human to stretch out lengthwise when sleeping.
Meanwhile, Osama was preaching: “You must be gallant. Do not think about foxes or snakes. Remember, you are in training. Challenging trials are coming to us. There will come a day when you will not have a shelter over your head. You will not have a blanket to cover your body.”
I blinked, wondering if snakes were common to the area.
Osama gestured at the holes taking shape in the ground. “Each one of you will sleep alone in a dirt hole.”
No one protested, not even our babies. Everyone did as told, slowly easing our bodies into those dirt holes, waiting for a long, long night to pass.