Tears of the Desert

by Halima Bashir

  He didn’t believe that I was simply trying to escape from the war. What had I done, he asked? What was I running from? Had I killed someone? I told him that I had to escape from the military men, the security people. I was a target. If they found me they would kill me. I didn’t want to go into any more detail. It was too horrible and too private.

  “Are you certain they’re after you?” Abdul asked.

  I nodded. I was.

  “If you’re really certain then you’ll have to leave the country. If you stay in Sudan, they’ll find you. The danger will never pass.”

  I shrugged. “I know. But where would I go?”

  Abdul glanced at me. “Listen, I have to ask you this, but it is not the reason I’m helping you. You understand?”

  I told him that I did.

  “Right—do you have any money? I know people who can get you out of Sudan. But it’ll be costly. That’s why I’m asking . . .”

  Part of me feared to answer Abdul truthfully. Part of me feared that if I told him, he might rob me and hand me over to the government. After all that I had seen and experienced it was hard to trust anyone.

  “Where could you send me?” I asked, trying to avoid the money question. “Which country?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. It’s not up to me. There are agents who handle these things. They’d arrange everything. But they’d charge for doing so, obviously.”

  “How much?”

  Abdul shrugged. “I’m not sure. It wouldn’t be cheap. Millions of Sudanese pounds probably. So it’s whether you have that sort of money . . .”

  “How would we organize it?”

  Abdul thought for a moment. “You could come to Khartoum and stay with my family. I have a wife and four children. You don’t look so different from us—we could say you’re a relative. And when we’re all set, you leave the country.”

  It took four days to fix the truck. By the time it was done I had decided to go with Abdul to Khartoum. I had tried to think things through rationally, but at the end of the day it all boiled down to a feeling. Abdul was like my father. That’s how it felt to me. And because of that, I felt I could trust him to be my guide. As we set off again, I hoped and prayed that I was not mistaken.

  A day’s drive later we reached the town of Khosti, from where it was smooth tarmac all the way to Khartoum. It was evening by the time we reached the city outskirts. I was worried to be back here, for now I was a wanted person, and I was in the heart of the Arab regime that wanted to kill me. We drove directly to Abdul’s house. It was a low, concrete block building, with a yard where he parked the truck. His children came running out to greet him.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” they cried. “Daddy’s home!”

  Then they spotted me. “Who’s this?” they demanded, all curiosity now. “Who’s this person in Daddy’s truck?”

  Abdul’s wife came out to greet him. She was even more surprised to see me, although she did her best to hide it. Her name was Malaika, and she was tall and slim and quite beautiful. She invited me into the house for tea. Shortly, Abdul and Malaika excused themselves and disappeared into their bedroom. I guessed that Abdul wanted a private moment so he could explain who I was and why I was there.

  Meanwhile, I was surrounded by their curious children, of course. I tried my best to smile and answer all of their questions. As I did so, I glanced around the house. Apart from the kitchen-dining room, there was Abdul and Malaika’s bedroom and one other room that had to be for the children. The kitchen itself was well equipped—having an electric cooker, a fridge, and a TV set. The house seemed crowded but comfortable. There was a happy feel to the place, as if Abdul’s was a happy family.

  When they reappeared from the bedroom Malaika gave me a big smile and a hug. She showed me where the children slept and apologized that they had no guest room. I would share a bed with their oldest daughter, while the other kids shared the second bed. One of Abdul’s kids went to fetch the neighbor’s children, and they came rushing around to stare at the new arrival and ask yet more questions. Malaika was quick to tell them that I was her younger sister, and that I had come to help look after the children.

  After dinner, I helped Abdul’s kids with their homework. As I checked their sums and corrected their spelling and their grammar, I noticed that Malaika was watching me closely. Once the children were in bed Abdul, Malaika, and I sat down to watch TV. But all that was on was some sports program. Abdul was glued to it, but Malaika and I were bored. Malaika turned to me and I could tell that she wanted to talk.

  “You’re so clever,” she remarked. “I saw you with the children. . . . Where did you learn such things? Did you go to university?”

  “Not really,” I replied. “I just did well at school.”

  “Were you a teacher then? I can tell you’re educated. No one learns all that just at school.”

  I shook my head. “No, I wasn’t a teacher. I’m just good at math, that’s all. I got it from my grandma.”

  Malaika grinned at me. “I know you’re educated. Why does an educated person like you have to run away?”

  “Ah, sometimes you just have to get away because trouble follows you . . .”

  Malaika gripped my hand, excitedly. “Are you running from your family, is that it? Did they try to marry you to some horrible old man? Tell me!”

  “No, it’s not that. I just have to get out of Sudan, that’s all.”

  Malaika sat back, disappointedly. I didn’t blame her for her curiosity. I could tell that she wanted to be friends. She wanted to have some excitement in her life, which the story of a woman on the run was sure to deliver. But I wasn’t about to confide in her. I’d told her husband as much as I was willing to. My greatest fear was that if I revealed the truth, then they would be so afraid that they would hand me in to the authorities. Abdul may have been a good man and brave, but I didn’t know his wife well enough to judge.

  For eight weeks I stayed in their house, rarely if ever leaving. I was fearful myself, and I felt safer remaining hidden. Abdul said it was better the fewer people who knew that I was there. I spent my time helping Malaika clean the house and looking after little Mayay, their five-year-old daughter. I could tell that Malaika liked having me around. I was friendly and useful and someone for her to talk to. But I hated it. I was bored and lonely and my life was in limbo. And every day I had to cope with my fear.

  Every other day Malaika would go out to do the shopping. Alone in the house my mind drifted to thoughts of my family, of my dead father and our desecrated village. I would think of my mother and sister and try to imagine where they might be now and if they were safe, and of my brothers fighting with the rebels. Our family had been torn apart and scattered across Sudan. We no longer knew where each of us was, or even if we were still alive. How had it come to this, I wondered? How was it possible?

  Malaika would return to find me in tears. She’d put her arms around me and beg me to tell her what was wrong. She’d beg me to open my heart and treat her like a true sister. But I couldn’t do so. She and her husband had been good to me, but I couldn’t tell her my story. I was worried that if I revealed my tale of war, torture, rape, and being hunted by the police and the military, then they might desert me. I couldn’t take that risk, and so I let Malaika remain convinced that I was running from a forced marriage.

  Some two months after I had arrived in their house, Abdul brought home an Arab-looking man in his early thirties. This was the agent who would organize my escape. From the very beginning I instinctively disliked him. He told me that his services would cost eight million Sudanese pounds. I told him that I only had two million in cash, but I had some gold. His eyes lit up at the mention of gold. He would happily sell my gold for me, he said, and then we would see how much money I had.

  I knew that he was only in this for the money. But what had I expected—another good man, like Abdul? I showed him what I had, the wealth of our family. It was Grandma’s gold, my mother’s gold, my sister’s, and my ow
n. There was Grandma’s big gold bracelet and her three rings with rubies in them. There was her beautiful Nughar necklace—a traditional Zaghawa chain made of ancient tribal gold. The agent stared at it in glee.

  He needed it all, he said. All of it. And even then there still might not be enough. For a moment I resisted. So many memories, so much of my family, was bound up in its glittering beauty. But then I reflected on what was it worth to me here in Sudan, here where I was a dead woman walking. There was one big ring that had been Grandma’s favorite. I said he could take the rest, but that I wanted to keep that one. But he told me that he needed it all. Eventually, I gave in. I even gave away the four beautiful gold bracelets that my father had brought me as my wedding present.

  Every day after that I kept asking Abdul what had happened to the agent? What was to stop him running off with all my worldly wealth? If he did so, then I was finished. But Abdul told me not to worry. He knew where this man lived. He couldn’t simply disappear. Abdul promised he wouldn’t let me down. I had to stay calm and trust him.

  One month later the agent reappeared. He announced that everything was ready for my escape. The next day he would come with a car to take me to the airport. I asked him where I was going. All he would tell me was that it was a safe place where there were good people who would help me. We would travel together posing as man and wife. My role was to follow him and do exactly as he said. It was a condition of his work that at no stage was I to ask him any more questions. Like it or not, those were the rules.

  I didn’t even know his full name. I presumed he would tell me no more in case we were stopped. The less I knew the less I could reveal to the authorities. Now that I was going I was happy and fearful, all at the same time. I kept asking myself where I was going and what would happen when I got there. And what if he just abandoned me halfway? But the time for worrying was over. It was in the hands of God now. If God willed it, I would make it through safely.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. No matter how much I prayed to God to calm my fears, my mind remained a whirl of troubled thoughts. Would I be caught? Or was this the end of my terrible journey, to leave like this? Would I ever return to my country? Would I ever see my family again? How would I see them, if I was far away in a foreign land?

  The next morning Malaika gave me a little handbag in which I might carry my few possessions. All that I had was a spare tope, my travel cloak, a shawl, and a toothbrush. I had nothing with me that spoke of home—not a rock or a branch nor even a grain of sand. All I had were my memories. Malaika wished me luck. She smiled. She would never forget me, she said, and maybe one day I would tell her my story. As for Abdul, he told me not to worry. It was going to be all right, he could feel it in his bones.

  At three o’clock my agent turned up with a driver at the wheel of his car. We sat in the back and drove in silence through city. I was worried, and I tried to sink down in my seat so as not to be seen from outside. But the agent told me to sit up and act normal. Then I started worrying that he was taking me direct to the police himself. Why wouldn’t he? It would be far easier than undertaking the journey that now lay ahead of us. I knew that I would only feel safe when I was finally sitting aboard that airplane.

  As we approached the airport my agent started to issue me instructions again. Do as I tell you, never say a word or do anything without my permission. Behave like this and we would be all right. But if I forgot what he had said and did something stupid, then I would be found out. Remember that we were supposed to be married. I should at all times be obedient and walk a few paces behind him, like a good Muslim wife.

  The driver pulled up at the airport. He glanced in his mirror. “When are you back?”

  The agent shrugged. “Not sure exactly. I have nothing to do when I get there apart from getting her sorted. So, if all goes well, tomorrow.”

  “Shall I be here to collect you?”

  “Yeah, at the usual time. Unless I call.”

  There was a crowd milling around in the departure area. Gradually it thinned out, as people were checked in for their flights. The agent deliberately held back, and he only approached passport control when everyone else had gone. He reached over and shook the hand of the uniformed official, before handing him two passports. I stood back, acting like his obedient wife. I saw the official glance at me, and then he smiled at my agent. It was a knowing smile. They chatted away for a minute or so, and then our passports were stamped and we were waved through.

  “Goodbye and safe journey,” the official remarked to my agent. “We’ll see you again soon, eh?”

  He smiled. “You will. And thanks.”

  We reached a second set of officials. This time, we had our bags searched before being allowed to pass. We walked through the airport and down some steps. We waited on the tarmac with the rest of the passengers for a bus to appear. A short drive across the tarmac, and we were delivered to the airplane. It sat on the runway, squat and gleaming bright.

  A group of white people in smart blue uniforms were standing beside it. One of the white women gave the agent a smile of welcome, as she ushtered us onto the plane. I climbed up the steps, my heart in my mouth. With barely a backward glance I stepped inside the airplane. I was safe. I was safe. I was inside this machine that would fly me away to safety.

  I was on my way out of Sudan, to a place where the hunters couldn’t find me. God only knew which country I was headed for; all that was in front of me. What mattered now was that I was getting out of my country, and away from the people who were eating up my homeland and my tribe. I leaned back in my seat and felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. I was so tired. So tired. So tired. I had never felt so tired . . .

  As the aircraft clawed its way into the sky, I guess I should have been scared. I had never flown before and it should have been a terrifying experience. But after all that I had been through I didn’t care anymore. What could touch me? What could really hurt me or scare me? If we exploded in a fireball, what would I have lost? I had begged for death so many times, and death had failed to find me. What was there to fear if it did so now?

  I’d only ever seen aircraft from the ground, and now here I was high above the earth and speeding through the sky. As we climbed higher I saw the clouds shooting past the window. I gazed out right into the middle of a bank of puffy whiteness. We were inside the clouds and I wondered what was keeping us up here. For a moment I was lost in wonder at the magic of it all, as the soft hush of the sky rushed past the window.

  I gazed around at the passengers. Might there be a clue there as to where I was going? Most were dressed in the traditional robes of the Gulf Arabs, so it looked as if I might be going to one of those countries. Which might it be? I tried to remember my geography lessons from school. Was it Dubai, Saudi Arabia, or one of the smaller Arab Emirates? One of the ladies in the smart blue uniforms came up to us. She had snowy white hair and a smile in her eyes.

  “Madam? Tea? Coffee?” she asked. “Or perhaps a soft drink?”

  I shook my head. “No thank you.”

  I was too excited and too worried to think about drink or food. Plus I had no money on me, as my agent had taken everything, and I presumed I would have to pay. My agent asked for a tea, and as the lady leaned across me I caught its fragrance. It smelled simply delicious. I noticed that she asked for no money, so I changed my mind.

  “D’you mind?” I asked. “Could I actually have a tea?”

  Two hours later we started our descent. The sun had set during the flight and I felt the aircraft falling through the darkening sky toward earth. Where were we landing, I wondered? In which country was I to try to make my new home? And how would I ever survive there? We hit the runway with a gentle thud and taxied across to the airport building. I rose to my feet with the other passengers, only to feel a hand gripping my arm. It was my agent, and he was gesturing at me to sit down.

  He shook his head. “Not yet. There’s a second flight. Wait on board the aircraft.”

  For an
hour we sat on the runway. My agent slept. More people boarded the aircraft. Most of them were Gulf Arabs, with a handful of white Europeans. A middle-aged white man took the seat next to me, with a friendly smile. I tapped him on the arm and asked how long the flight would take. It was six hours, he said. In six hours time we would be in London.

  So that was where I was going! I was going to London, England, the country that I had learned about during my school days.

  I was going to the land of the khawajat—the white man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Hostel of Despair

  I awoke in the early hours. One of the stewardesses was handing me a plastic tray of breakfast things. The airline staff were so helpful and friendly. My agent had said that I was going to a country where people would help me, and I wondered whether everyone in England would be like this. I pulled off the tinfoil cover and inspected my breakfast. It wasn’t acidah mash, that was for sure!

  My agent prodded the food around on his plate. “Pork!” he muttered. “You’re going to a place where they love eating pig. You’ve been warned.”

  With that he pushed his tray away and stared out the window. Getting me out of Sudan had seemed so easy, but I wondered how he intended to spirit me into England. He had two passports, so one presumably bore the name of his supposed wife. I hadn’t managed to get a close look at the passport, and the agent had warned me not to ask any questions. But he had taken a photo of me back in Khartoum—for the travel papers, he’d said—so maybe that passport actually bore my real photo.

  I was worried again now. If my agent did get me into England, what was I to do then? All he had told me was that I should follow him and he would take me to a safe place. For a while I thought about my husband Sharif, and whether I might be able to find him. As far as I knew he was still in England, but it was months since there had been any contact. I concluded that my first priority had to be to get into England—for that meant that I was safely out of Sudan. Sharif, how I would live, my future—all of that could wait.