A week before doing so my father returned from town with a bulging bag of school supplies. He proudly presented me with my brand-new beige-and-white school uniform. There was a fustan—a long, loose dress, but with two ribbons to tie it at the waist. There was a snow-white Muslim headscarf and black leather shoes. And there was a bright red plastic rucksack, which was full of pens and pencils and pristine white notebooks.
I tried the uniform on and I could tell that my father was so proud. I was dancing around the yard showing off, but then my mum made me take it off again. Mo and Omer were trying not to show it, but they were green with envy. My father must have noticed, for he promised that when they were old enough he would send them away to the big school.
The day of my departure dawned, and early that morning I loaded my bags into the Land Rover. I knew that I was going away for three months—the whole of my first term—so I had to take everything with me that I might need. My father and I were just about to depart, when my mother came rushing up to the car. She had changed her mind, she declared. She had decided that she wanted to come with us, after all.
“I want to see where you’re taking her,” she announced, as she squeezed into the front. “I want to see where she will live and eat and sleep. I need to see it for myself.”
My father shrugged his shoulders and chuckled. “You’re welcome . . . Glad you’re taking an interest in Rathebe’s education at last.”
He was just about to pull away when Omer cannoned into the canvas rear of the Land Rover, and leaped inside. Grandma was at the gate, holding Mohammed by the scruff of his neck, as he too tried to join us.
“Out!” she bellowed at Omer. “Get back here now! NOW!”
Omer was just about to reply with something cheeky and defiant, when my father silenced him.
“Get out, Omer,” he commanded. “Do as your grandma says, before you make her angry.”
The one person in the world that Omer would never defy was my father. Behind his calm, quiet exterior there was a huge authority and firmness about him. Omer got down from the vehicle and returned to Grandma, his feet dragging and his head held low.
“And Omer, be good to your Grandma while we’re away,” my father called after him. “You make sure you do what she says, you hear me?”
“Yes, abba,” Omer replied.
As we pulled away I could hear Grandma scolding him. “You just calm yourself down. So much fuss over nothing! Driving all that distance, and just to read a few books. No good will come of it . . .”
The Land Rover had a single bench seat running across the cab, which meant that my father, my mother, and I could sit there in relative comfort. In the rear there were only our bags, which left plenty of spare room. As we wove our way between the houses, my father stopped and picked up some passengers. There was an old woman who needed to go to the hospital, and men who had business in town. It was a rare occasion when his car would leave without a full load. If he had the room, my father would take people.
I pushed my face toward the window, jeering and making faces at the children. I didn’t want anyone to miss the fact that I was in a vehicle being driven away to the big school, while they were stuck in the village.
The road ahead was really a series of rough tracks that crisscrossed the bush and desert. As I watched the scenery go past, I couldn’t for the life of me understand how my father could find his way. It all looked the same to me. Luckily, he had driven the route countless times before, and he knew it like the back of his hand. As we chugged along I couldn’t hide my excitement.
And I couldn’t stop talking. “Where are we now? Are we nearly there yet? When will we get there?”
All of a sudden I heard a loud hissing through the open window. I looked at my father. He glanced at me and frowned, bringing the car to a halt in a cloud of dust.
“I think, Rathebe, we have a puncture,” he announced.
Sure enough, a sharp stone had blown out one of the inner tubes. We dismounted, and before my father could say a word the male passengers had started to change the wheel. One fetched the big jack from the rear, while another unscrewed the spare tire from the hood. My father went to undo the wheel nuts, but they stopped him with insistent gestures and firm words. He was the esteemed owner of the vehicle, and the least they could do in exchange for the free lift was to fix the car.
When we reached town the first thing my father would do was get the puncture repaired. He hated driving without a spare, for if the car had another puncture then we would be stuck in the desert. Even though it was fast and powerful, a car was not as reliable as a camel, he explained. If a camel went lame, still it would hobble on until it got its rider to safety. But if a car ran out of gas, or broke down, then that was it—it was finished. As for me, my biggest worry was arriving late and missing my first day at school.
With the spare tire fitted we continued on our journey. My father stopped at the next village to buy some fruit, which we shared with the passengers. It had been hot, dusty work changing the wheel, and the fruit was deliciously refreshing. As always, I saved the bananas till last. Mo, Omer, and me would have a competition to see who could throw the banana skins out of the car the farthest. But I was feeling far too grown up for such things now.
Late in the afternoon we reached the town. My father headed directly for a garage to fix the tire, and then on to his brother’s house. I had been to town once before, when I had ended up being treated by the Chinese doctor. Now I was back again, hoping that my white eyelash had brought me wisdom, as well as good fortune.
My uncle’s house turned out to be very similar to our own. There were four buildings arranged around a central living area. Each building was about the same size as our mud huts, but made from cement and bricks instead. Each had a flat roof, with a thick layer of mud at the edges to weigh down the thatch. Out the front of each was a wooden veranda, and as most of the neighborhood was Zaghawa it was similar to the setup in our village.
Several years back my father had built this house, with the goal of moving our family to the town. He was drawn to the more educated, cosmopolitan lifestyle. But Grandma and my mother had refused to leave the village. My father had suggested a compromise: Half the year we would live in the village, half of the year in the town. But Grandma had argued that that if we lived like that we would be lost, never knowing which part of our life was home.
My mother liked the house as soon as she saw it, and she declared that I would be happy here. My Uncle Ahmed and his wife, Samiah, welcomed us in. They took me to the hut that I would be sharing with their two daughters, Salma and Fatma. The girls were a little older than I, but they were friendly and I warmed to them immediately. I had a bed next to theirs, and there were rugs on the floor for us to sit on and do our homework.
I had a day settling in with my parents, and then it was time to go to the big school. Early in the morning I dressed in my pristine uniform, my mother fussing over me, and then my father drove us to the school. He’d been there before to reserve my place, and to pay my fees. As we drove in through the big gates my heart was in my mouth. I gazed around me, my eyes drinking in the wondrous place to which my father had brought me.
There was a posh sign in Arabic and English announcing the school’s name—the hashma junior academy for girls. Then there was a large, dusty playing field, and beyond that a dozen low, oblong buildings, each with fine walls and a gleaming iron roof. These were the classrooms. We peeped inside the nearest. The floor was of earth, there was a blackboard at one end, and there were rows of wooden desks, each of which would seat three pupils. There was no glass in the windows, and the doorways had no doors. But to me this was still the smartest place that I had ever set foot in.
On the far side of the playing field was the teacher’s staff room, and the headmistress’s office. These buildings even had fine wooden doors and glass windows. In Sudan teachers were held in great respect, because they were educated people with status. These were just the sort of grand b
uildings that I had imagined them working in.
My father took me to the staff room. He signed some papers to hand me over to the care of the school. Then one of the teachers, a Miss Shadhia, took charge of me. Miss Shadhia was my form tutor, and she was friendly and kind looking. I was shy and self-conscious as my father said a rather stiff goodbye, and my mother did some last minute fussing, and then he turned her away by the shoulders and they stepped out of the door.
I watched through the window as he led her back to the Land Rover. They went to wave a last farewell, and I could see that my mother was crying. I waved back, but I couldn’t raise a tear. I was too excited about all the adventures that now lay ahead of me.
Of course, I had no inkling of the darker side of my school days to come.
PART TWO
SCHOOL of the DESERT
CHAPTER SIX
School Days
There was a mixture of Arabic and black African teachers at the school, just as there was with the pupils. Miss Shadhia was a black African, although I wasn’t sure from which tribe she came. She was both my tutor and my math teacher. I warmed to her immediately, and I felt that she did to me. In a stroke of good fortune I was to prove gifted at math, which would cement the friendship between us.
That first morning Miss Shadhia sorted out where we would sit. The shortest pupils went at the front and the tallest at the back, so that everyone could see the teacher and she them, in case anyone was misbehaving. My desk of three seats was halfway back and tucked in against the wall. I rather liked it. I could see the blackboard clearly, yet I wasn’t in the lime-light.
I took the seat against the wall. The seat next to me was filled by a little black girl. I took a peek at her face and my heart skipped with joy: She had scars that just had to be Zaghawa. I reached out and gave her hand a friendly squeeze. She smiled at me and gave me a squeeze in return. The last seat was taken by an Arab-looking girl. She had her hair done up in long, glossy pigtails, complete with bright red ribbons. I gave her a shy smile of welcome, and she half-smiled back at me. And with that our row of three was complete.
As the sun climbed into the sky the iron roof above our heads became like an oven. To make matters worse the lessons were all in Arabic. My father had given me a crash course in basic Arabic, but as we broke for lunch I found that my head was spinning. It was partly from the heat, and partly from the mental effort of trying to comprehend a language that was alien to my tribe. I went and sat on the grass, and delved into my school bag for my packed lunch. The girl who sat next to me in class came and joined me.
“Hello. What’s your name?” I ventured.
“It’s Mona,” she replied. “What’s yours?”
I told her it was Halima, but everyone called me Rathebe. “You’re Zaghawa, aren’t you?”
Mona nodded. “What about you? You look Zaghawa, but where are your ‘glasses’?”
She meant my “glasses” scars, the two deep cuts to my temples. I giggled. “Well, my nasty old Grandma tried to cut me, but I ran away. See,” I added, pointing to the faint scar running down my cheek. “That’s where they cut me when I escaped.”
Mona grinned. “You’re crazy. . . . But you are Zaghawa, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “So that makes two of us.” I looked around at the other girls. “I wonder how many more we are.”
Before Mona could answer, I felt a sharp crack on my head. I turned around to see a figure towering over us, a big stick in her hand. An instant later she cracked Mona around the head too.
“No speaking Zaghawa!” she snapped, her face like dark thunder. “You speak only Arabic at my school. I hear you doing so again, it’s in my office with you!”
Before we could answer she stalked off, searching for other offenders. It turned out that this fearsome lady was our headmistress. She and I were soon to become the best of enemies.
I turned back to Mona. “Nasty old bag,” I muttered. “Can you speak any Arabic?”
“Shweah-shweah,”—a little, Mona replied.
“Me too. Well, we’re just going to have to learn quickly, otherwise that old bag will have a perfect reason for beating us . . .”
Our lessons that first term included science, math, Islamic studies, and Arabic. I found myself enjoying math most of all, especially with Miss Shadhia as teacher. It was also the only subject in which speaking Arabic wasn’t an advantage: Numbers are universal, crossing all language barriers. But in the other subjects the girls who spoke good Arabic were soon poking fun at us. The worst was our Arabic lessons. As we struggled to write, or to make ourselves understood in our bush Arabic, they would titter and tease.
Miss Jelibah, our Arabic teacher, tried her best to be fair. No matter that she was an Arab herself, she scolded the Arab girls and warned them to stop being nasty. They did quiet down a little when she was facing class. But as soon as she turned her back to write on the blackboard, the teasing resumed. As I struggled to answer a question in the Arabic words that my father had taught me, I noticed that the Arab girl with pigtails who sat next to Mona was laughing at me. I felt a burning resentment growing inside me.
The start of our school week was Saturday, with lessons through to Thursday. Friday—the Muslim holy day—was our one day off. I’d spend it with my uncle’s daughters, washing and ironing our school uniforms, and re-braiding our hair. Salma and Fatma went to the same school as me, but they were in senior classes. Whereas my school day was finished by one o’clock, they would have to stay long into the hot afternoon.
First thing each morning there was an assembly on the school playing field. The assembly bell rang at eight o’clock sharp. A teacher would be standing by the gate to catch any stragglers. Sometimes I was late, because I had such a long walk to school. Punishment would be to clean the toilets—a series of wooden shacks at one end of the playing field. Inside each was a wooden platform with a hole cut in it, and a bucket down below. Cleaning them was the very worst.
As soon as you opened the door a thick cloud of flies would come buzzing up from the depths, and you would be hit by the sickening smell. You had to fight your way inside, unhinge the wooden platform, lift the bucket, and carry it over to a wooden cart. Each week a man would haul the stinking slops off to the local dump. After emptying the bucket you had to return to scrub down the toilet with a mop and rags.
Some morning when I was late I would skulk outside the gates, waiting for the eleven o’clock break. I would try to mingle with the girls who came out to play and sneak into the classroom. But half the time I got caught and punished with a beating. The only alternative was to go home, but then my uncle and aunt would be upset, and they might tell my father. The only option really was to be on time for that dreaded assembly bell.
The assembly itself was still a trial. Pupils had to stand in rows, the youngest at the front and the oldest at the back. We had to hold out our hands as the headmistress inspected our nails, our clothes, our faces, and our hair. If you had a speck of dirt on you from walking to school, then she’d give you a crack with her stick. And we had to keep totally silent. Everyone had been beaten and no one wanted to be next.
But the worst was if you’d forgotten your socks, or if your nails were too long. Then she’d order you into her office. She had several different diameters of garden hose, and she would choose the size best suited to the crime. It was bad enough getting beaten on the bum. Over time I learned to wear extra knickers, to cushion the blows. But the headmistress soon got wise to that, and so she started beating us on the bare soles of our feet. The worst was the large hose across the feet. That was truly agony.
After the first two lessons we’d break for brunch, at eleven o’clock. By that time a jumble of stalls would have been set up at the school gates. Mona and I would race to be the first at the stall of the lady from the Felatta tribe, a black African people who originated in Nigeria. She sold the finest falafel, with eggplant salad and chili sauce, in a fresh bread sandwich. We’d follow that with an “ice-
lolly”—fruit juice frozen in a plastic bag. My favorite was made from the sap of a tree that tastes like the juice of fresh peas.
Whenever we tired of falafel we’d order foul—a bean stew mixed with tomato and sesame oil. It was delicious with fresh yogurt salad. If we were really lucky the Felatta lady would have some diluted yogurt blended with cucumber and spices. She’d give us a cup full to wash down our falafel sandwich or our bean stew.
After we’d eaten we’d head for the playground. We’d draw a hopscotch course, marking out a series of staggered squares in the dusty earth. While standing on the first square you had to throw a stone to land in the second, and then advance on to that one. If your stone fell outside the square, you’d have to start all over again. Others would be playing with skipping ropes, with two holding and one jumping in the middle.
But my favorite game was sock-ball, using an old sock stuffed full of rags and bound tightly into a ball. One girl would stand in the middle while the two on either side had to try to hit her with the sock-ball. If the girl in the middle got hit then she would become one of the throwers, and whoever had hit her would be piggy-in-the-middle. Sock-ball was the nearest we ever got to a rough and tumble at school, because fighting was totally banned.
After school Mona and I would walk most of the way home together. Her family had lived in town ever since she was little, and so she was streetwise and worldly. I felt secure and confident in her company. Our route took us through the bustling marketplace and past the central mosque, whereupon she would head for her house and I to my uncle’s.
One afternoon we were just leaving the market when she grabbed me by the arm. “Look! Look! Khawajat! Khawajat! Bet you’ve never seen anything like that before!”
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