Tears of the Desert (21 page)

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 if 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.

Dr. Rashid dealt with his patients regardless of their race, color, or creed. But the new ward was full of tension and trauma. There was an endless stream of blood and guts and horror, and the work was tough and exhausting. Yet I knew that I could cope. Fairly quickly I realized that we were treating the victims of the conflict that was spreading across Darfur. As soon as I understood this, my worries for my family returned with a vengeance.

Of course, no one declared openly that they had been injured in the fighting. There was a police unit stationed inside the hospital itself, and every patient had to submit a form to them before they could be treated. The form had to be signed off by the doctor, and it recorded the patient’s injuries and how they had got them. The system was designed to identify any Darfuri rebels, so they could be seized from the hospital and arrested.

But there were exceptions to these rules. Some of the wounded would come in with a police escort. In these cases we were told that we were permitted to treat them without any forms. These injured men were the
Janjaweed—
a name that means “the devil horsemen.” They were the Arab tribesmen who were being armed by the government to attack our villages. But it would take me several weeks to work out that this was so.

And by then I was already deep in trouble.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Accident and Emergency

I spent my time swabbing bloody wounds, cleaning wounds, suturing wounds, and plastering broken limbs. With each patient I learned more about the war and the fighting. Some of the injured were black Africans, while some were from the Arab tribes. I was treating people from both sides of the war.

There were few black African doctors at the hospital, and I realized that I could help my people by ensuring that they were treated properly. This gave an added sense of urgency to what I was doing. I began working longer and longer hours. I started coming to the ward in the evenings, so I could listen to “my” patients’ stories, and comfort them. I moved out of my uncle’s place and into the hospital dormitory, so I could be near them.

Gradually word spread that there was a young black African doctor at the hospital from whom injured Darfuri villagers could seek help. I learned of the full horror of the war. With the Zaghawa patients in particular I could talk freely, as none of the other medical staff could understand our language. Most were simple villagers—men, women, and children caught in the crossfire. They told me how the war was spreading fast. The dreaded
Janjaweed
were on the march, with the full backing of the military and the government.

One terrible day a distraught mother arrived with her two little boys. One was nine years old and one was just six, and their little bodies were horribly burned. I asked her what had happened. The
Janjaweed
had attacked her village. The boy’s father had been gunned down in front of them, his sons being thrown into the burning hut alive. As I cleaned and dressed their burns, they were screaming for their mother and begging me to stop. I felt hot tears of pain and rage welling up in my eyes. My heart died inside.

Their mother had gone to wait outside. But even from there she could still hear their screams. Eventually she could bear it no longer. She came back in and without a word she sat down at their bedside and grasped each by the hand. Every morning and every evening I cleaned and dressed their burns. But I had no anesthetic with which to kill the pain, as it was in preciously short supply. Each time the boys cried and cried, and their mother was torn apart by it. But there was nothing more that I could do to help.

The trickle of war-wounded quickly became a flood. One horror story merged into the next. A small Zaghawa boy had had the whole of the side of his face torn off by gunfire. Where his eye once was there was now an empty, gaping hole. There were horribly burned and disfigured faces, and children with legs that had been roasted raw in the fiery huts. And there were scores and scores of ragged, bloody gunshot wounds. I’d had no idea what a bullet could do to the human body. It was sickening.

A father from the Fur tribe brought in his young son, still dressed in his school uniform. He was paralyzed, and he kept falling in and out of consciousness. His father just sat there, weeping, as he told me his story. The boy had been walking to school when the
Janjaweed
had attacked. His school friends had been gunned down, and the little boy had tried to run. But a bullet had hit him in the back, knocking him to the ground. A gunman had ridden up to him and fired into his body, the bullet smashing through his side. The little boy had been left for dead.

But somehow, he’d clung to life and his father had found him. Incredibly, he had survived the long journey to the hospital. When I examined him, I realized that the second bullet had severed his urethra. We couldn’t treat him properly in our provincial hospital. The last I saw was the two of them being prepared for transfer to a hospital in Khartoum. I had no idea if the little boy would even survive the journey, let alone what the future might hold for him if he did.

I befriended a kindly old man who had worked at the hospital for many years. His name was Kayan, and he was the head nurse. He was from the Massalit tribe, a black African people from north Darfur. This was the area bearing the brunt of the fighting. Daily he saw his people arriving with terrible wounds. He told me that he wanted to go and fight, but he knew he could do more good staying here and helping the victims. He taught me all the ins and outs of the hospital system, and together we worked to help those patients most in need.

Kayan taught me the true meaning of compassion. He was willing to help anyone, no matter whose side they were on. If Arabs had been injured while attacking a village he would treat them regardless, for they too were in need. They had become victims. Kayan pointed out that the Arab tribes were being armed and driven by the government, which meant that they were not the real enemy. The real enemy was the government, and those murderous madmen who had set the
Janjaweed
loose in the first place.

I was working so hard now that I only had time to eat, sleep, and work. That was all my life consisted of. I’d take a few hours off on a Friday and try to catch the TV news, in the doctor’s quarters. Or I’d seek out Uncle Ahmed for news of home. But all other topics of conversation were gone: All we could talk about was the war. All people could think about was how to safeguard their families and their homes. Life itself had been put on hold: No one was going away to study, or getting married, or trying to have children even.

This went on for three exhausting months, each day bringing more shattered bodies and broken lives. Then one day a young newspaper reporter arrived at the hospital. It was lunchtime, and he hung around the hospital canteen asking questions of the medical staff. He was trying to get the doctors to give him their impressions of the war, from everything they had seen in the hospital. At first I did my best to avoid him. It was impossible to know whom to trust. Anyone could report you to the security services, at any time.

I watched the young reporter work his way around the canteen. The other doctors seemed to be speaking with him quite openly. He was taking their names, and scribbling quotes into his notebook. So when finally he reached my table I agreed to hear him out. He asked me my name and on which ward I worked. He told me that I must have seen a lot of war wounded, as I worked on accident and emergency. Surely, it had given me an insight into the nature of the conflict? I agreed that it might have.

“Everyone is saying that the black Africans attacked the government,” he said. “D’you agree with this? D’you agree that this is the basis of the conflict?”

I considered his question for a second. I knew that I couldn’t say what I really wanted to, for to do so would be suicide. But perhaps I could give him a series of half answers that would point toward the truth, without actually incriminating myself too much.

“Well, yes and no,” I said. “It’s more complicated than that. Historically, the Arab tribes were nomadic, with no land and no livestock. Now they want to take land and livestock for themselves.”

“So it’s fighting for control of animals and water and land—those are the reasons?”

“In a way, yes. But like I said, it’s complicated. In our area, the Zaghawa, there is a lack of good water and little health provision. And the government does little to help.”

“So, you’re Zaghawa? The Zaghawa are a famous warrior tribe. Are you fighting for your rights, is that it?”

“Well, if you are attacked you have to resist. If you don’t resist you’ll be crushed. It’s that simple.”

“So, you’re in favor of the fighting?”

“Like I said, you have to resist or you’ll be crushed.”

“In that case, do you want the fighting to continue?”

“No. I want there to be peace. I want the fighting to stop. It is causing terrible, terrible suffering.”

“And once there is peace, what then?”

“Well, then the government should provide the right kind of support and development for the Darfuri people.”

He glanced up from his notes. “Regardless of which tribe they are?”

I nodded. “Yes. Regardless of which tribe they are.”

He smiled briefly, and checked his notes. “It’s Dr. Halima Bashir, right? Thanks. Something may appear in the paper, I don’t know. Have to get it past the editor first . . .”

The reporter moved on to the next table. I finished my meal and went straight back to work. I had a long line of patients waiting for me. I didn’t dwell on the interview for too long. I’d seen other doctors speaking with the reporter for far longer than I had. And I’d said little that might incriminate me. My short interview with him was quickly forgotten.

Two weeks later I saw a group of policemen making their way around the ward. I didn’t think anything of it. In the late afternoon they usually did their rounds, in case of any trouble between patients. I carried on with my work. I sensed them come to a halt behind me. I turned. There was an odd, sinister feeling in the air. I noticed there were four men in plainclothes together with the uniformed policemen. I knew immediately who they had to be.

“Dr. Halima Bashir?” the senior uniformed policemen asked. “Dr. Bashir?”

I nodded. It was an odd question. He knew perfectly well who I was, as we’d spoken many times before. He was one of the policemen stationed in the hospital to deal with the forms. He half-turned to the plainclothes officer at his shoulder. “Like I said—it’s her.”

“You are to come with us,” the plainclothes officer announced flatly.

“Why?” I asked, trying not to let my fear show. “What d’you want with me?”

For a long moment he just stared at me. I imagined his dark, dead eyes, behind the mirrored sunglasses that he was wearing. All four of them were wearing mirrored shades. Sunglasses, and dark Western-style suits: it was their ultra-macho, ultra-cool uniform. It was the same look that they’d had on the university campus when they’d come to shut it down. It would have been laughable, were it not so terrifying.

“Don’t ask questions,” he rasped. “Just do as you’ve been ordered.”

“Can I at least change?” I was wearing my scrubs—latex gloves, rubber boots, a white gown, and a hairnet.

“Fine. Change. But quickly.”

I made my way to the staff changing room, my heart pumping fearfully. I stripped out of my scrubs. My hands shook as I tried to peel off the bloodied gloves. My mind was racing. What had I done? What had I done to attract their attention? Wherever they were taking me I knew in my heart that it wasn’t going to be good. What on earth had I done?

I followed the four of them out to their waiting car. It was a shiny new Toyota Land Cruiser, white, with dark tinted windows. I sat in the rear, with one of them on either side of me. Their apparent leader—the one who had done the talking—took the seat next to the driver. As we pulled away from the hospital no one spoke a word. The windows were so dark that no one could see in. Few would have witnessed my departure, and I prayed for a safe return.

The driver pushed the vehicle fast through the traffic. Each of them stared ahead, saying not a word. Minute after minute this went on, and the effect was totally chilling. Where on earth were they taking me? And why? What had I done? What had I done to provoke them? I knew these people were capable of anything. The secret police were notoriously brutal and they were all-powerful. Were they going to hurt me? Or torture me? Or worse? During that long, silent drive I tried to prepare myself for whatever was coming.

We passed by Hashma marketplace and an image flashed into my mind. It was of a black man being beaten for standing up to an Arab who had openly called him a slave. The policemen had smashed him around the head and dragged him away. Perhaps they had come for me for similar reasons? Perhaps it was because I was saving the lives of black people injured in the war? Perhaps it was because I had become
known
for doing so? Perhaps I was being punished simply for helping my own people?

We left the center and headed into the suburbs. I couldn’t bear the silence any longer.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked.

No one answered. I tried asking again.

“Shut up,” one of them snapped. “You are not allowed to ask anything.”

Even as I had asked that question I knew the answer. Deep down inside of me I knew what our destination would be. Everyone in my country knew where people were taken. It would be to a “ghost house”—a place that looked just like any other residence, but was a secret detention center. They used such places to hide and “disappear” their victims.

The dark, silent journey lasted for forty minutes or so. The driver clearly knew where he was going, for no one gave him any instructions. Finally, we stopped outside a totally innocent looking single-story house. It had a painted wooden fence surrounding a large, leafy garden. The vehicle crunched to a halt on the gravel driveway.

“Get out,” the man in front ordered.

I got out and glanced around me fearfully.

“Follow me,” the front man ordered. “And quietly. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t try to shout or scream. No one will hear you. And even if they do, they won’t help.”

I was taken to a dark room, bare but for a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a desk and two chairs, one facing the other. Otherwise, it was empty. I was ordered to sit. The man in charge sat opposite me, while the others took up positions in the corners of the room. Silence again, as the man opposite just stared. All I could hear was the sound of their breathing; a foot crunching on the floor. A cigarette lighter flared; the room darkened again. But the noise of my pounding heart drowned out everything.