Tears of the Desert

by Halima Bashir

  The first woman stepped up, her stomach thrust forward. She pointed at the black rubber coil of the stethoscope. “Put that one on me and tell me what’s wrong.”

  I tried a smile. “Well, first I need you to tell me what you think the trouble is.”

  She snorted. “Anyone can see that. My tummy is far too big. Just put that one on me and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Look, it doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t talk to me. It can’t tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Huh! Calls herself a doctor . . .” she remarked to the woman behind her. “Look, I’ve been pregnant before and it was never like this. Look at the size of me! I mean, is there a monster in there or something?”

  She was speaking at the top of her voice, and the rest of the women cracked up laughing. “Like I said, put that one on me and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “All right, I’ll try. But I can’t do everything. You may still need to go to the hospital . . .”

  I placed the earpieces in my ears, and the cold metal of the stethoscope against the soft skin of the woman’s stomach. As I did so she flinched.

  “Watch out! It’s freezing! Are you going to freeze my monster baby, is that it?”

  There was more laughter from the ladies. I soon discovered what the woman’s “problem” was. She was carrying twins. I could hear each of their wonderful little hearts hammering away. As far as I could tell they both sounded perfectly healthy. I felt a warm glow of happiness coursing through me, as I listened in on their world. This is what I had trained for.

  I sat back and smiled. “There’s nothing wrong, and there’s no monster in there. You’re carrying two babies, that’s all. You’re going to have twins.”

  The woman threw up her hands in amazement. “What rubbish! Two babies! It’s my stomach and I can tell you there’s only the one in there.” She turned to the woman behind her. “I told you she was too young to be a real doctor, didn’t I?”

  The other woman peered at me for a second. “She does look very young . . .”

  “Let me show you,” I suggested. “Here, give me your hand. Now, there’s the first head. Can you feel it? And now, here—here’s the second. That’s two heads. Two babies. Like I said, you’re going to give birth to twins.”

  “Well, I don’t know . . . The second ‘head’ felt just as much like an arse to me . . .”

  The pregnant woman wondered off, the rest of the ladies dissolving into fits of giggles. “Did you hear what she said? . . . Felt like an arse . . . She’s a one . . .”

  And so my first genuine patient had been dealt with. As more of the women presented themselves, I realized that with many there was nothing the matter. Most complained of “blood pressure,” as they wanted me to use the blood pressure monitor on them. With each I did so. Few if any had the slightest idea what their blood pressure should be, but in any case they went away happy. They had seen the doctor, she had used the newfangled gadget on them, and they’d been told they were okay. That was good enough for them.

  One old lady demanded to have both the blood pressure monitor and the stethoscope “treatment.” I tried explaining that neither machine actually did anything, they were just tools to better arrive at a medical diagnosis. But the old lady was having none of it. Why shouldn’t she have both, she demanded? She was feeling ill enough to warrant it. I tried getting her to explain to me exactly what was wrong, but she just told me that whatever the machines could cure, that was good enough for her. It’s what she’d come for.

  “Just touch me here with that machine,” she said, indicating her stomach for the stethoscope. “And here with that one,” she added, indicating her arm for the blood pressure monitor. “Once you’ve done that I just know I’ll feel better.”

  I did as the old woman instructed, and she went away as happy as could be. The line dwindled to just a few remaining patients. I glanced up to catch my mother and Grandma watching me, as proud as proud could be. I asked Grandma if she might make a cup of mint tea, as I was parched. I excused myself from the last of my patients and went to take a break. My father, Mo, and Omer came and joined us.

  “There’s nothing wrong with half of them,” I muttered. “So don’t look so impressed. Anyone could do it.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” my mother said. “Look how happy you’re making them.”

  “But it isn’t a game,” I objected. “It’s medicine. It’s serious. I can’t just pretend to treat people.”

  “You’re doing a fine job,” Grandma remarked happily. “I don’t know what you’re worried about. Maybe you got it wrong with the twins, but with the rest of them . . .”

  “It is twins!” I snapped. “That’s the best diagnosis I’ve done all morning! It’s the rest that worry me. Even if I do find high blood pressure or something, I can’t treat it. They’ll still have to go to the hospital . . .”

  “Well, you’re making people happy, and that’s never a bad thing,” my father said. “If you can make an occasional diagnosis at the same time, so much the better. The lady with the twins will go away and think about what you said, and she’ll see sense. Don’t worry.”

  As we were talking, Omer wandered over to the table and picked up the stethoscope. He popped the earpieces into his ears, and brought the listening device to his mouth. Then he placed his one free hand on his pelvis, his thumb tucked into his belt, and started to gyrate his hips in a provocative manner. He was seventeen years old, and he was a fine-looking young man. As the remaining patients gazed at him in bewilderment, he opened his mouth and started to sing—doing his very best Elvis Presley impression (although the lyrics weren’t quite right).

  Uhuhu! Uhuhu!

  I’m all shook out. I’m all shook out.

  Uhuhu! Uhuhu!

  I’m all shook out. I’m all shook out.

  With each successive “uhuhu,” Omer flicked his pelvis around in a wild gyration. For a second or so I was beside myself with anger. How dare he turn my surgery into a stage to perform his crap pop songs? I glanced at the line of waiting women. There was consternation written all over their faces. And then I caught Omer winking at me, as he did another pelvic thrust, and I cracked up laughing. I just couldn’t help myself.

  “Look, I’m a famous singer and this is my microphone,” he announced to the waiting women. “It’s transmitting my song all over the world. You have to guess who I am.”

  “My brother’s not right in the head,” I remarked, as I went to reclaim my table. “He thinks he’s Elvis, the famous American pop star who died many years ago.”

  By the time I had finished with my patients I was exhausted. I had charged nothing for my services, of course. I would never have dreamed of taking money from anyone in the village.

  The day after my village surgery I went to visit Halima the medicine woman’s family. Sadly, Halima had died during my final year at university. We mourned Halima’s passing, and shed a few tears as they told me the story of how she had died. Halima had become very ill—so sick, in fact, that she could no longer treat herself. This was the time we call sinya nee—when someone knows they are about to die. Within two days of her sinya nee time coming, Halima had peacefully passed away. Hers had been a gentle dying.

  I said my farewells to her family and made my way back to our house. As I wandered through the village it felt different somehow. It was quieter, and it felt tense and fearful—almost as if it was waiting. Every day the elders were meeting, trying to work out how to better organize the defense of the village. They kept debating whether it was better to run and hide, or to stand and fight.

  I reached a group of old women chatting by the roadside. I paused to listen to their conversation. They were talking about when the Zaghawa had fought the Arab tribes in ancient times. Always we had won, one old woman pointed out, so why would it be any different this time? It was different now because the Arab tribes had powerful people behind them, another answered, giving them guns and machines to fight. Without that they would never have t
he bravery, or the foolishness, to attack us.

  Even the little children seemed to be preparing themselves for war. I spotted one group hiding by the roadside. Suddenly, they jumped out and pounced on their friends, crying: “The Arabs are coming! The Arabs are coming!” Children screamed and scattered in all directions. I just hoped to God that scenes like these might never become a reality in our village.

  A few days later a neighbor came to visit our house. She was totally distraught. She had been to visit her village, which was situated on the far side of the Jebel Marra, in a green and fertile region. But when she arrived all she found was a deserted, burned-out ruin. She had discovered some of the village children, plus a handful of adult survivors, hiding in the hills. But as for her family, no one knew where they were or what had happened to them. The survivors had told her the story of the attack on the village.

  The Arabs had come at dawn, riding on horses and firing machine guns. Many villagers had escaped and fled into the hills, but many more were caught and killed. The Arabs brought their families with them and settled in the village, eating all the food and slaughtering the livestock. If any villagers tried to return to their homes, they were gunned down. No one could understand where the Arabs had got such powerful weapons.

  When they had eaten their fill, the Arabs had set fire to the village and left.

  My father reacted to our neighbor’s story with a burning anger. It was clear now that we would have to defend ourselves, he declared. If we died trying so be it. We would be doing so for the coming generation—that one day they might be free. In spite of his fighting talk, I detected an enormous sadness within him. His politics, his belief in democracy, his hopes for the future of the country—all of it had failed, for now it was war. As for the rest of my family, they reacted in different ways.

  Predictably, Omer was all fire and bravado. “You just watch—when they come I’ll kill them all!”

  Mohammed snorted in derision. “When they come you won’t kill anyone. You’ll run and hide.”

  Omer brandished his dagger at Mohammed. “You’ll see—I’m not scared. I’ll fight and save the village.”

  Mo turned to me. “Why did they start this fight? It’s as if they want to destroy us. We were living in peace. What did we do to them?”

  “It’s simple, Mo. They want to take the land for themselves. As they always have done. So, you’d better get ready. But if the Arabs come, I bet you’ll be the first to run.”

  Mo shrugged. “Well, what are you going to do? Whatever you do, so will I.”

  “I’m going to fight,” I told him. “We all are. Me, you, Daddy, Grandma—we all are. We don’t have much choice.”

  “Okay, I’ll stay and fight if you will.”

  “If you don’t the Arabs will come and steal your new bicycle!” I teased. “How would you like that?”

  Mo and Omer both had new bikes that my father had bought them. They used them to cycle out to the farms to check on the livestock. Few people in the village had a bicycle, and they were a real status symbol. If there was one thing that might persuade gentle Mo to fight, it was the thought of the Arabs nicking his bike. But really I was teasing Mo and trying to cheer him up, for he did look very confused and fearful.

  Word about the raid went around the village like wildfire. The attacks were still distant from our area, but even so it all felt horribly real. The men broke out the few weapons that we did have—a handful of hunting rifles inherited from their grandfathers. Some of the ancient guns didn’t even work, but their owners still stalked around the village looking fierce. Zaghawa knives and swords were sharpened, and the Fakirs made up special hijabs with the power to render their wearer bulletproof.

  In spite of the atmosphere of imminent war, life had to go on. For me that meant waiting to be allocated a place where I would work my year as a trainee doctor. The Ministry of Health would be writing to me, posting me to one of the teaching hospitals. I waited for three months for my instructions, but none came. At first I passed my time running my makeshift surgery, but eventually my stream of patients dwindled to a trickle. Either I had treated all the ailments that I could, or they had lost faith in me.

  I knew that life couldn’t go on like this forever. I shared my disquiet with my father. Why didn’t I volunteer to work in the hospital in Hashma, he suggested? If I did perhaps the whole family could move to town, which would get us away from the dangers now facing us.

  My father was torn between his loyalty to the village and his fear for his family. He said that I’d have to persuade my mother and Grandma, if we were to move to Hashma. We still had a house there, so the move would be easy enough to make. But they would have to be talked into it. Choosing my moment carefully, I broached the subject with my mother. My suggestion of moving to town didn’t go down very well.

  “Oh, so you want to change your skin, do you?” she demanded. “You want to forget your roots, to turn your back on who you are?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I countered.

  “You want us to go and live in the Arab town among the Arabs? The very people who are trying to kill us?”

  “It’s not like that. There’re lots of tribes living in town. Anyway, it’s only temporary . . .”

  “Go and speak with your Grandma about it. Go tell her you want to abandon the village—just when everyone needs us. And you a trained doctor, and so able to help your people!”

  “Look, you’ve only ever lived here, in this remote place. A change, something different—it’s not so bad. Why won’t you even try? You don’t know how people live there . . .”

  My mother’s eyes flashed anger. “I told you, go and speak with your Grandma! Or didn’t you hear me? You think I’m the soft touch—well go and try your arguments on her.”

  Without my mother’s backing I knew there was no way that I would ever persuade Grandma to leave the village. I abandoned the idea. But a few days later I overheard my mother talking about it with Asha, one of her best friends. I didn’t like Asha one bit. She was horribly small-minded and old-fashioned. They were chatting across the fence. My mother was expressing doubts as to whether she was right to refuse to move to town.

  “You know, she thinks we’ll be safer there,” my mother ventured. “And she can work in the hospital as a doctor.”

  “Ah, this is a big mistake,” Asha said. “Your daughter wants you to follow her everywhere! It isn’t right.”

  “You think so?”

  “Look, your daughter went off to the big city and she spent too long there. Too much city life. Too many books. She got a bit unbalanced in the head.”

  “But why d’you say that?”

  “You know what the city’s like. You don’t know your neighbors, you eat alone, someone dies and no one goes to the funeral. You can’t live like that. It’ll destroy you. But your daughter thinks it’s okay? Come on . . .”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “Remember that funeral in Hashma? Remember? None of the neighbors bothered to turn up. Not one. Without the people from the village there would have been no funeral. You want to make the same mistake as them, and all because of your daughter’s crazy ideas?”

  “But my husband’s all for it. He says the main thing is the family’s safety. He’s got a point, hasn’t he? Plus in town she can get a good job in the hospital . . .”

  “Look, just find her a man—that’ll sort her out. I mean, how old is she? And still not married? All of her friends have three or four children by now. She’ll soon be too old for anyone to want her. That’s no life for a woman. Even if she reaches the sky with all her studying, she’ll still come back to the village in the end. And for that she needs a man.”

  Asha’s views were typical of many in the village. I heard her telling my mum that I needed a man to tame me. Then she offered to go and have words with my father, but my mother said that he nearly always took my side. Asha said that that was the problem then—how could they hope to “tame” me i
f I always had the backing of my father?

  I’d heard enough of this rubbish. As noisily as I could I showed myself and stomped across the yard. As I did so, Asha quickly changed the topic of conversation to the state of her maize crop. I stormed out of the gate, giving her one of my hardest stares. If looks could have killed she would have died on the spot. I was especially angry because barely a week ago I had treated Asha in my surgery for a lesion on her foot.

  Eventually I decided to try for a voluntary placement at the hospital in Hashma. I would move to the town on my own if I had to. My father drove me in his Land Rover and we went to speak with Dr. Salih, one of his Zaghawa doctor friends. Dr. Salih was a specialist in obstetrics and gynecology—my chosen field—and he agreed at once to have me as his ward assistant. He was short of staff, and my help would be invaluable.

  At first I wanted to live in the junior doctor’s quarters, but Uncle Ahmed insisted that I stay with them. My father agreed that it might be better, at least for the first few months. I got to work immediately helping Dr. Salih deliver babies and looking after the mothers and newborns. Dr. Salih was very distinguished looking, and slim like a rake. The other junior doctors and I used to joke that one puff of wind might blow him away.

  I loved dealing with the young mums and bringing their babies into the world. And I was fortunate in that Dr. Salih was a gentle man and an inspiring teacher. I was now doing exactly what I had dreamed of during all my years of study, and I was so happy. I almost forgot about the troubles menacing the village. But they never quite went away. The worry was always there, a dull aching pain that was forever eating away at me.

  A month after starting work a letter arrived from the Ministry. It stated that there were staffing deficiencies in the accident and emergency ward, and I was being allocated a training placement there. The new man in charge was Dr. Rashid, an Arab from the Berti tribe. It was his job to teach me the ins and outs of the new ward. He was a true professional and I quickly warmed to him. He often gave me the chance to work by myself, leaning over my shoulder and gently guiding my hands.