But the city girls found this very old-fashioned. They would lounge around on the grass with the male students, chatting and laughing. Sometimes, they’d try to get Rania and me to join them, but I was always very shy. Occasionally, late in the evening, one of the Arab girls would quietly slip away with one of the male students. Rania and I would exchange glances. Their families had sent them here to study, but look what they were doing!
There was a funny, crazy Arab girl called Dahlia who was forever teasing me. She accused me of having no heart because I didn’t seem interested in boys. Whenever a boy tried to make advances I would tell him to go away. But with her, a few nice words and she’d fall head over heels in love. It wasn’t fair, Dahlia declared. While she had to go and hunt for a man, my family would do it for me. Her parents were useless. And with an ugly face like hers what chance did she ever stand of getting her man?
For those parents who really did worry about their daughters, there were always the Islamic universities. They offered the same courses, but the lectures were segregated by sex. Our university wasn’t at all like that—only the boarding houses were segregated. My father could have sent me to an Islamic university, but his priority was to find a good place of study. People in the village used to say that “you can’t put the firewood next to the fire”—meaning that boys and girls were best kept apart. But my father trusted me, and he had his own progressive ideas.
Back in the village people were convinced that I’d been left behind by the marriage train. Who would want to marry me now, they argued, when I was so overeducated? I didn’t need all this learning to have children and look after the home. But my father disagreed. He argued that a woman should be able to depend on herself in life, not solely on a man. People wondered from where he had got such radical ideas. But I was happy with his views, of course, and I felt that I was different from the other Zaghawa girls.
There was one big advantage that the city girls had over us country girls—and it came as a complete shock to me. One night in the dorm Rania and I were telling the others about our circumcision time. They were both horrified and fascinated. They told us that this had never happened to them. At first I didn’t believe it: I had just presumed that all girls went through their cutting time. So Dahlia offered to show me. Sure enough, her womanhood was intact.
I was amazed. Hadn’t the other girls at school laughed at her, I asked? Wasn’t it unclean to be left like that? And how would she ever find a husband? Dahlia laughed. Many of the girls at her school were like her, she said. It was how God had made us, so what could be so wrong with it? And which of the boys at the university would turn her down, just because she had her full womanhood?
In fact, it was a great advantage, she said. We girls who had been circumcised—we didn’t know what we were missing. What we had been born with was a gift from God. How could it possibly be right to go through all the pain and bloodshed of circumcision, risking infection or death, and knowing that childbirth might present us with a real problem in the future?
The more I thought about what Dahlia had said the more I suspected that she was right. It was inexcusable. My circumcision was inexcusable. To put a small child through the hell of that life-threatening pain and injury was simply inexcusable.
The more I studied human anatomy at university, the more I realized the horrible long-term effects of what had been done to me as a child. All parts of the body are designed with a specific function in mind. To replace soft, pliable flesh with a tight ring of scar tissue could only cause problems in adult life, in particular with childbirth. I may have been different from most Zaghawa women, in my education and in my independence, but for sure I wanted to have a family. Yet the chance of my child—or even me—dying during childbirth was massively increased due to my circumcision.
And then there was the pleasure issue. Dahlia hadn’t been totally explicit about it, but she had said enough to make me understand. Rania and I had lost more than just a physical attribute—we had lost a sensual one also. And our life would be forever the poorer for it.
The more I thought about this, the more I felt angry and cheated somehow. My family and my tribe had taken advantage of my girlhood innocence and stolen something precious from me. I had been an unsuspecting child, and they had convinced me that what they were doing was right, that it was a wonderful part of my growing into womanhood. In fact, they had been stealing my very womanhood away from me.
But there was no way back now. What had been done could not be undone. The one thing I vowed to myself was that if I ever had a daughter, I would never let anyone steal her womanhood. She would go through her life blessed by what God had given her, and as nature certainly intended her to.
Dahlia was quite open with me about what she wanted from a future husband. She wanted to marry for love, and to share the responsibilities with her husband on a fifty-fifty basis. She wouldn’t start a family until her career was properly established. She would have her law degree, and so she would be quite capable of earning half the family income. The more I listened to her, the more a lot of what she said made sense. I was no longer a blinkered village girl, and at least some of the city girl ways were rubbing off on me.
Dahlia loved trying to shock me with stories of her teenage years. I was scandalized—yet also secretly thrilled—to hear how she had chased after the boys and kissed them. How she had tried drinking alcohol, and several times had ended up quite drunk. How she’d lied to her parents so she could go out to discos and nightclubs, dancing wildly, and partying long into the night. But the worst was when she tried to tell me about some of her adventures with the city bad boys.
“No, no, no—don’t tell me any more,” I said, pretending to block my ears. “I don’t want to hear!”
“You see what a different life we live!” she exclaimed. “Come and stay in the city with us. Your father could pay your living expenses, at least until you’re earning enough as a doctor. Do it—and then you’ll truly be free.”
I shook my head. “My family would never accept being so separated from me. And I could never force them to live in the city. Just three or four days and they’d be more than ready to leave. They say it’s overcrowded, with unfriendly people and bad air.”
“You don’t need your family,” Dahlia countered. “You can live here on your own.”
“Let me tell you a story,” I replied. “One time my whole family had been staying in Hashma, with my Uncle Ahmed. A thief came in the night. We woke up and ran after him, but none of the neighbors did anything to help. In the village, if you heard someone chasing a thief you’d rush to their aid, no matter which house he had tried to rob . . .”
Dahlia shrugged. “So?”
“The story’s not finished yet. The next day the neighbors came and asked why we had been screaming in the night. My mum got really upset with them. ‘We had a thief in the house, and you didn’t help! Shame on you,’ she told them. ‘Why didn’t you come to our aid, like you would have done in the village?’ They didn’t know what to say.”
“So? So it’s a nice, quaint story. What’s it got to do with you coming to live in the city?”
“If I came to live in the city, I’d not be with the people—the village, the community—that I grew up in. And I can’t move the village to the city in one lump, can I?”
Dahlia laughed and shook her head. “Sounds like you’ll always be a country girl!”
My first three months at university were a challenge, a revelation, and a joy to me. I was among my academic peers, and I was tested and stimulated by being so. I had made good friends, and I even found myself enjoying the company of the male students. I was looking forward to the years of study that lay ahead, eager to learn and to advance myself. There was little sign here of the dark powers that had seized control of our country, little sense that my father’s fears might come to pass.
It couldn’t last.
One morning toward the end of our first term, I awoke to a sense of a strange electric
tension in the air. A buzz of whispered conversation was going around the dorm. It turned out that the dreaded secret police had arrived on campus. There were scores of them in plainclothes, plus their regular colleagues in khaki green uniforms. As of yet none of us had any idea why they were here—but we all felt in our hearts that it couldn’t be for any positive reasons. We dreaded whatever was coming.
We headed down to the lecture hall under the dark gaze of these men. The dean of the university was there to address us, which in itself was highly unusual. He was looking drawn and haggard. He gave a short address in which he explained that a nephirh—a state of national emergency—had been declared across the country. He was sorry to tell us that the university was to be closed immediately, and until further notice.
The dean left the podium and one of the plainclothes officers took his place. In a strident, badgering tone he proceeded to inform us that the country was in crisis. The National Islamic Front needed volunteers to join the jihad in the south, otherwise the infidels would overrun the country. All people of the right age must volunteer to fight. Women were not allowed to take up arms, but they could join the jihad in an auxiliary role. As for the young men, jihad was no longer voluntary. It was their obligation to fight.
Those who agreed to fight for a year would be treated well. Their studies would be fast-tracked, and they would graduate early with good results. Jihad was superior to academic study, and so it was only right that the jihadists should be rewarded. All universities were being closed until further notice, so there was no possibility to continue studying. The only option was to join the jihad on behalf of the country and for Islam. Any who refused would lose their place at university, the security officer declared in a menacing tone.
As he finished speaking a video started playing. It showed bloodthirsty scenes from the Fisah hart el fidah TV program, accompanied by patriotic and religious music. The faces of the martyrs were paraded on the screen as the music swelled to a heroic intensity. Mothers spoke of how proud they were that their sons had been martyred for the cause. The final minutes of the video urged all men to join the jihad, and the women to support them.
As I watched, I felt sick in my heart. I knew from my father what a pack of lies this all was. I knew what the people of the south were fighting for. Many were Muslims, just like us, and I knew that they were fighting for the return of democracy. Few of the students supported the National Islamic Front. All we wanted was to continue our studies in peace. Yet here we were being bribed and threatened into fighting an unjust and unholy war.
The video ended with scenes of officials handing out money and gifts to the mothers of the so-called martyrs. The security officer informed us that he and his colleagues were ready to sign up “volunteers.” In the deathly silence that followed there was practically a stampede for the door. We herded out of the lecture hall with downcast eyes. As we hurried away, we could feel the hostile stares of the security men boring into our backs. The very thought of it sent shivers up my spine.
There was only one thing to do now, and that was to get away as fast as possible. Back in the dorm many of the students seemed frozen with shock. What were we to do, they cried? Should we try to leave? Would they try to stop us? I told them to pull themselves together. We should all of us go, and as quickly as we could. The longer we stayed, the more risk that one or more of us would be forcibly taken to join this “plastic jihad.”
As quickly as I could I threw some essential items into a travel bag. Rania and I decided to travel to the station together, whereupon she would take a train north to her village, myself heading west toward my own. If anything happened on the way, perhaps one of us might be able to raise the alarm. As we hurried across campus, we could see uniformed men locking shut the lecture halls with massive padlocks and chains. It was such a depressing sight. My heart sank.
All my dreams of learning had been so suddenly shattered.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
University of Jihad
Four days later I reached home. I had taken the train to Hashma, and the truck back to the village. Of course my parents weren’t expecting to see me, and they were surprised, and more than a little worried. I explained some of what had happened, trying to gloss over exactly why the university had been shut down. My mother had anxiety in her eyes, and I didn’t want to make matters any worse. As I finished speaking she burst into tears.
“Look at you! Look at you!” she sobbed. “So thin, like a skeleton. Bad food and studying all the time—just look what it’s done to you.”
“I’m fine, eya,” I replied, giving my mum a hug. “I’ve just slimmed down a bit, that’s all. I was fat when I left the village.”
“Nonsense, Rathebe, nonsense,” Grandma cut in. “You think we want you wasting away to nothing? We need you to be healthy and strong and to do well at your studies—our doctor daughter! All that time away—what you need is some good home cooking!”
I was glad that Grandma seemed to have recovered her good spirits. But why were they all so keen to stuff me full of food? I didn’t even feel hungry.
“Look, I ate some bread and fruit on the truck . . .”
“You think you can survive on that!” my mother exclaimed. “So thin, so thin looking . . .”
I shrugged and gave a little laugh. It wasn’t food that I was lacking—it was my studies, my wonderful university studies that had been so unexpectedly cut short. If anything had made me thin and pinched-looking it was that. Still, my mother and Grandma wanted to do something for me, and fattening me up was the best they could think of. I would speak to my father later, and have a proper talk. He, I knew, would understand.
“Get your money and take her to the market,” my mother announced to my father. “Get her a plate of meat. She has to eat meat, so she can regain her strength.”
My father rolled his eyes at me, and hurried off to fetch his money from the hut. He went to start his Land Rover, but I told him that I’d prefer to walk. As we strolled through the village I started telling him exactly what had happened. I saw a shadow pass across his face. All of the universities were facing problems, he told me, and in some cases it was even worse.
We headed for the restaurant in the village marketplace. It was a simple, basic place of wooden uprights topped off by a grass thatch roof. The meat was prepared on a huge wooden block out front, which was buzzing with flies. I chose to have a plate of flash-fried camel liver, which was my favorite dish. If you tried cooking it through it would go hard as a stone, so it had to be eaten practically raw. We took a table and dug into our plates of spicy meat, together with a fresh onion and chili salad.
My father lowered his voice and leaned across the table to me. My cousin, Sharif—the young man who had many years ago driven me home from the wedding in his donkey cart—was at another university in Khartoum. That one had also been shut down, but the students had gone on to the streets to protest. The police had broken up the demonstrations, beating the students and driving many into the river. Scores had drowned.
Sharif was all right, my father assured me, but he’d been arrested and questioned, which meant that he was now a marked man. The secret police would have a file on him, which was a big worry. Several times now Sharif had traveled to the south of the country, my father explained. He’d gone there to see for himself the reality of the war. He had even met the rebel leader, Dr. John Garang.
Sharif wanted to ascertain if the students might take up the fight in Khartoum. And if so, what help might Dr. John be able to provide. I was amazed. “Dr. John” was the legendary black African leader of the southern peoples. How was it that Sharif, the village boy with the donkey cart, could be moving in such circles? He was older than I and he had been at university longer, but even so it was quite a turnaround for the boy from the bush.
My father’s worry now—and that of all of Sharif’s family—was that his arrest might prompt the secret police to probe more deeply. If they did, they might discover his contacts with the
rebel leader, and his visits to Dr. John’s camps. And if that happened, Sharif was as good as dead.
My father finished his food and left me in the café to enjoy some sweet mint tea, while he went to find a couple of choice goats for Grandma. Grandma’s constitution wasn’t what it used to be, and my father reckoned a couple of nice animals might bolster her spirits. The mint tea arrived in a little glass, together with a box of sugar cubes. I took three and dropped them in. They lay on top of the mint leaves, dissolving slowly. As I watched them disappear, I wondered what on earth was happening to our country.
On my way through Hashma I’d been forced to wait for the truck for several hours, so I had gone to see my old school friend, Mona. She had a little baby daughter now, which had made her very happy. But in a frightened voice she had explained to me how the soldiers had been around her part of town, trying to force the men to go and fight in the jihad. Her husband had gone to hide in his village, leaving poor Mona with the baby.
And then there was Sharif. My country cousin had grown into a young man with dreams to lead a rebellion. How had that transformation taken place? And what sort of country was it where universities—places of learning—became the breeding grounds for armed revolt? Part of me felt proud of Sharif, and I was more than a little intrigued as to what he might be like now. Surely, he must be so different from the boy in the white robes who had eagerly offered us a ride home in his donkey cart? Perhaps one day I might find out.
As I considered the risks that Sharif had taken, part of me felt guilty—guilty that I was doing nothing to stand up to those who were destroying our country. When they had closed our university I had fled home to my village. Had some of the other students tried to make a stand? Had I deserted them? I kept telling myself that this wasn’t my struggle. I was a woman, and all this politics and war was for men. More important, my priority was to study. I wasn’t about to give up on that just because we had a bunch of madmen running the country.
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