But it was the mental injuries that I was least able to treat. In the worst cases women had lost their entire families—husbands, children, and parents all dead. Many of these women had also lost their minds. They sat and muttered and cried and laughed aloud. They hugged themselves and rocked back and forth, gazing at nothing for hours on end. They refused to eat and had no idea of day or night. And I could do nothing to help them.
As I did my rounds everyone was talking about the same thing. What would we do if they came to attack again? How would we escape this time, with no men to defend us? Some were considering going to join their relatives in other villages, but what was there to prevent those from being attacked, just as ours had been? Others were planning to head south, all the way to the Nuba Mountains where we hoped that our black African brothers would offer us sanctuary. Was it in those mountains that we could find safety?
Or was it better to flee across the border to Chad? Our fellow Zaghawa lived there, as that was also the land of our tribe. But was the border guarded? Would the government soldiers or the Janjaweed catch us as we tried to cross to safety? Or was it better to try for the big towns? There was little fighting in the towns, so maybe they offered the best chance of escape.
The village was dying all around us. We knew that it was finished. It was about to be scattered to the four corners of the desert, like so much chaff on the wind. People were preparing themselves for that eventuality: remembering how a burned hut had once been so-and-so’s family home; remembering what a wonderful wedding we had had in so-and-so’s yard; remembering how as children we had played in that field, stolen fruit from that orchard, and fought with our clay warrior horsemen in the dust by that fence.
There was an old woman whose only child had been killed. Her husband was already dead, so now she was all alone. She would sit by herself and cry: “No family . . . Nobody at all . . . All of them gone . . .” One evening I found her wandering in her burned hut and singing tearfully to herself. She had composed a lament for the death of the village.
The raiders took the young men,
And cut them down.
The raiders took the old men,
And cut them down.
The raiders took the women,
And cut them down.
The raiders took the children,
And cut them down.
We have no home,
It was cut down.
We have no crops,
They were cut down.
We have no milk,
It was cut down.
Now our children have gone to fight,
They will be cut down.
Villagers gathered around to hear her sing. As they listened, people started to cry once more. When she had finished, the old woman said that she would never leave the village. She would die here. She had no family, so where could she go? We tried to persuade her to make some plans to leave, but she refused. Why would she even want to save her life? Everyone was leaving and the village was finished, so she just wanted to die. Others had their children, and something to live for. But she had nothing.
I felt as if I was taking over the role of head of the family. My little sister, Asia, was crying the whole time. As for my mother, mostly she tried to be strong. I may have felt like death inside, but I knew that I had to think and use my head, and find a way to escape. Now and then I reached a place where I just wanted to give up, but I held on.
I kept telling myself that what we needed now was Grandma Sumah’s fire and anger, not lamentations and tears. I tried to imagine what Grandma would have done in the present situation. I tried to put myself into her mindset. What would she have done? I felt certain that she would have chosen to move. She would have led us out of this hell into a place of survival. She would have opted for the journey to Chad.
We will survive it, Grandma would have said. We are Zaghawa, we are Zaghawa, and we are strong . . .
By now we were nearing starvation point, so we had little choice but to leave. And, like it or not, that decision was about to be thrust upon us. In the middle of a searing hot afternoon we heard that hateful sound again—the thud-thud-thud of rotor blades clawing through the air. This time no one hesitated for an instant: We turned as one and ran to the forest. The pounding of explosions followed us, as the helicopters tore into the village.
We were terrified, fearing that this time there was no one left to defend us and that we would all be overrun and killed. But the three helicopters seemed content to loop around in lazy circles, blasting the last remnants of the village into fire and dust and oblivion.
The noise of the attack helicopters pounding the village faded away. For hours we waited in trembling fear, crouched in the dappled shadows and straining our ears to hear the bloodcurdling cries and gunfire as the dreaded Janjaweed swept in to attack. A pall of smoke drifted above the village, but there was only an eerie silence. If anything this was more frightening, and we wondered if they were sneaking up on us to attack.
With the setting of the sun we crept back into the village. The huts that had escaped the first attack were burning, but there was no sign of the enemy. It was as if the helicopters had been sent to finish off the village, and that was all. With the fiery glow all around us, and the acrid smoke thick in our lungs, we camped out in huddled groups wherever we could. It was clear what we had to do now. Tomorrow we would leave. Tomorrow we would leave. Tomorrow we would all leave and the village would be no more.
Early the next morning I decided to make one last round of my patients. I was their doctor still and I owed them this much. I set off, telling my mother and my little sister to be ready to leave on my return. I went around checking injuries, dressing burns and doing what I could for my patients. With each I talked about where they would go. I feared that some of them—especially the children—would never survive the journey. But what more could I do for them?
By midday I was back, but there was no sign of my mother or my sister. I went next door, to speak with Kadiga’s uncle. Like us he was readying himself to leave. I found him in his yard, stuffing a few possessions into an old sack in preparation for the journey.
“Where’s my family, Uncle?” I asked.
He glanced at me and shook his head. “They’re gone. . . . A group of soldiers came in a vehicle right to your house. They were wearing uniforms and carrying guns. They asked your mother many questions. ‘Where is this Zaghawa doctor who escaped from Mazkhabad?’ they asked. Your mother told them that she had no daughter other than Asia. She told them that she didn’t know what they were talking about.”
“Oh my God . . . Oh my God! But where are they now?”
“The soldiers left a message with your mother. ‘We know she is your daughter. We know you are lying,’ they said. ‘Tell her from us—we are searching for her and one day soon we will find her. Tell your daughter she will never escape from us. Never.’ That was the message. Your mother and Asia were too afraid to stay any longer. They’re gone.”
“But where . . .”
“They’re heading to Hashma, to your Uncle Ahmed’s place. They couldn’t face the journey to Chad without you. Your mum says you must escape. But don’t go anywhere that the soldiers might find you. They said they knew eventually you would find each other again, and be reunited.”
“But did my mum say where I should go?” I asked, in bewilderment.
Kadiga’s uncle shrugged. “She didn’t know. Somewhere safe. Maybe south to the Nuba Mountains. Somewhere far away so those men cannot trace you and get you. And your mother told me to tell you this: ‘She knows where we have hidden the valuable things, the gold. Tell her to take it all, and use it to help her find her way.’ ”
I returned to our yard as if I were in a dream. I dug up the valuables from where I knew they were hidden and stuffed them into my pocket. I took a black plastic carrier bag, loaded into it a handful of dried dates, a spare tope, and a thick robe. Then I said my goodbyes to Kadiga’s uncle. I took one last look at my childho
od home, turned away, and started walking. I knew in my heart that I would never be returning to this place again.
I said nothing to Kadiga’s uncle about where I was going. I didn’t know for sure, and I wanted to leave no trail that the soldiers might follow. All I knew was that I would go south. Possibly I would try for the Nuba Mountains. It was a long way, but perhaps that was the only choice left open to me. Staying with family was impossible: It would bring the wrath of those who were hunting me down on the heads of those I loved. I set off alone walking south into the sun-baked bush and the desert.
When I was young, I’d seen how the government was trying to recruit Zaghawa men to fight in a jihad against the “unbelievers” of the south, including the Nuba. I knew that many Nuba were Christian, and others were moderate Muslims. Now I knew that religion was irrelevant in our country. All that mattered was the color of one’s skin. If someone had an Arab skin, they were my enemy; if they had a black skin, they were my friend. I would seek safety among black Africans, no matter what belief system they followed.
I walked all afternoon and into the night. I prayed to God to guide me. By the morning I knew what I would do. I was close to the railway line. It ran south to the district of Kordofan, which in turn borders the Nuba Mountains. I would walk the whole way, using the railway tracks to guide me. If a train came I would hide myself in the bushes, for a train might mean danger. At the main stops police would board the train, searching for guns or other contraband, and checking people’s identity papers. I would be far safer walking.
An hour or so after sunrise I reached the railway tracks. I turned southeast and started my journey. Now and then I passed small groups of people. Like me they were following the tracks to someplace, somewhere. It was a common enough practice, for it was a sure method of finding one’s way. I kept my head down and pushed onward. By midday I was hot and parched. I decided to sleep through the heat and continue my journey that night. It would be cooler then, and I would be less visible to any Arabs who might be on the prowl.
I spread my cloak under a tree where some travelers were gathered and laid down to rest. They were black Africans like me, but they were Fur, Massalit, and some other tribes. They asked me where I was going, and I told them I was visiting family in Kordofan. I shut my eyes and tried to sleep. I could hear them talking among themselves. From the odd Arabic word I realized they were talking about attacks on the villages in their area. It seemed that the madness and killing was everywhere.
At dusk I set off once more. At first the darkened railway line frightened me, but I soon realized that it was easy to follow the polished metal tracks that glinted in the moonlight. I walked and walked, alone in the vast emptiness of the desert night, with only my thoughts to keep me company. I traced the tungsten blue of the moonlit rails, and I was reminded for an instant of happier times—of the fun and laughter of the moon-bone game.
Around midnight I paused to eat the last of my dates. I was out of food now, and I would have to buy some more from the stalls that lined the way. I walked until I could see the glow of dawn to the east. I still felt strong and so I decided to push on until I reached El Dein. The tribes around there were Kordofani, a black African people, and I felt I would be safe among them. I reached El Dein station by sunrise.
I looked around me. Crowds of people were sleeping on the ground—men, women, and children huddled together. Were they all, like me, refugees? I lay down with my carrier bag under my head, wrapped myself in my robe, and fell asleep. I awoke hours later with the sun high in the sky. A woman was firing up a charcoal stove, preparing to sell coffee. Seeing that I was alone, she offered me a cup. It was hot, black, and sweet, and it was hugely energizing.
“Where are you headed, my sister?” she asked me.
I shrugged the sleepiness out of me. “I’m not sure. Where can I get to from here?”
She pointed behind her. “Trucks leave from there going all places. You can even go to Khartoum—not that you’d want to.”
“I was thinking of farther into Kordofan—maybe toward the Nuba area?”
She nodded. “Then you’ll have to take the truck for Khartoum and change at one of the stops along the way. That’s the easiest.”
I thanked the woman for her kindness. I waited in the truck stop as a driver warmed his engine. He was a black African in his early forties, and he had a young assistant with him. I told the driver I wanted a ticket to ride in his cab. Did he have any seats available? He did, the driver confirmed. But he was curious as to who I might be—a young, smartlyt dressed woman traveling on her own, many, many miles from home. He was especially curious, as my one item of luggage was a half-empty, dusty carrier bag.
“So, it’s just the one of you, is it?” he asked.
“It is.”
“And where are you headed, sister? Khartoum?”
I told him that I was going all the way to Khartoum. I said this because I was worried that he might not agree to take me if I would soon be changing trucks.
“It’s a long way.” He grinned. He had an engaging smile. “It’ll be expensive. I’m just warning you, because I don’t want you thinking I’m taking you for a ride or anything.”
We negotiated a price, I paid him the money, and soon we were on our way. He stopped every now and then to pick up passengers. The rear of the truck was loaded with timber, so there was only so many he could carry. With an engaging frankness he explained that the more passengers he could carry, the more money he would earn. It was his little sideline, and without it he could never make ends meet. He had a wife and children and life was expensive. School fees to pay, uniforms to buy, a wife who spent too much on clothes . . . In no time he seemed to have told me his whole life story.
He glanced across at me. “So you know about me: How about you? Where are you from and why are you off to Khartoum?”
“I’m Zaghawa,” I replied. Then a small lie. “I’ve got relatives in Khartoum.”
“So you’re Zaghawa? But where’s the rest of your family? It’s not so good to be traveling alone, and so far from home.”
“I don’t mind. I’ve done a lot of it.”
“But why? Is it to do with your work or something?”
The questions went on an on until at last I decided to tell him a little of the truth, in the hope of shutting him up.
“Look, I don’t want to have to explain everything, okay? I’m just going away, that’s all. I need to get away. If you can help me, that’s good. If you can’t, I’ll get off at the next stop and take another truck.”
“No, no, no,” he objected, taking his hands from the steering wheel and gesturing in alarm. “I’m happy to help. Happy to. And you’ve paid for your journey . . . Are you from Darfur? Is that it?”
“I’m from Darfur. And things are not good there right now. I just need to get away, that’s all.”
“Sister, I’m happy to help,” the driver repeated. “My name is Abdul Rasul. You can trust me . . . I have children almost as old as you are. You’re like my daughter. When you need help you have to trust someone, don’t you?”
I sneaked a look at Abdul’s face. He had roundish, kindly features, and my instinct told me that I could trust him. But most of all, there was something about him that reminded me of my father. Something warm and open and likable. He even had the same name as my father. On my long walk through the desert I had prayed to God to give me guidance. Maybe this man, Abdul, was an answer to my prayers.
PART FOUR
DESERT of NO RETURN
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Escape from Darfur
We drove all day on rough desert tracks. Just before nightfall there was a nasty, metallic crunch from underneath the truck and we ground to a halt. Abdul got down from the cab and checked the underside of the vehicle. It wasn’t good news. The road was rough and the load heavy, and the piece of machinery that drives the wheels had snapped. We would have to wait for another truck and ask them to take it to the nearest town for repai
rs.
As luck would have it another truck came by shortly. All the passengers decamped to that vehicle, and Abdul’s young assistant left with the metal shaft to see to the repair job. I had decided to put my faith in Abdul, so he and I stayed with the crippled truck. We had broken down in the middle of the bush, and so he offered me the cab to sleep in, while he took the ground. It would be warmer in there, he said, and I would feel more secure.
“You know, my whole life is one bad luck story,” I remarked. “And now this. You should never have agreed to take me.”
Abdul grinned. “Ah, don’t worry. We’re always having problems with this old truck. We’ll get it sorted out. We always do.”
The following morning we sat out under a tree. Abdul brewed some tea on a charcoal stove that he carried with him. He had a tin kettle, some glasses, a pot of sugar, and fresh mint leaves. We might be here some time, he warned me, as we sipped the delicious mint tea. We should decide on a story to tell, just in case anyone asked any questions.
A man and woman traveling together who were unrelated and who weren’t married—it would immediately arouse suspicion. We should pretend to be man and wife, Abdul suggested. I knew that he was right. If anyone asked, I was to be Mrs. Rasul.
That day I really warmed to Abdul. He was a kind man. He walked to the nearest village to fetch food, which he heated over his charcoal stove. He urged me to eat and be strong, as I had a long journey ahead of me. He let me sit in his cab and listen to music on his radio. He urged me not to dwell on the past, but to try to be happy again. He told me funny stories and made me laugh. And bit by bit I started to reveal more about myself.
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