Tears of the Desert (22 page)

It was me who finally broke the silence. “Why . . . Why am I here?”

Suddenly, the standing men were screaming at me.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

“SILENCE!”

“KEEP YOUR STUPID MOUTH SHUT!”

“NO QUESTIONS!”

Silence once more, dark and terrifying. My ears ringing with their screams. My heart pounding as if it was about to explode. The man across the desk staring. The dull light from the single bulb cast his eye sockets into deep shadow, like the mask of a skull. The face started speaking now, the voice quiet and drained of all spirit and emotion. His features were devoid of any expression, as lifeless as the words that came at me.

“Look at me at me carefully and listen to what I have to say. I don’t want to have to repeat myself. I don’t want to say it twice. I don’t want you to miss a single word.”

I looked at him. I tried to be brave. “Who are you to pick me up like this?”

More screams from the walls.

“SILENCE!”

“WE TOLD YOU—NO QUESTIONS!”

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

“KEEP YOUR STUPID MOUTH SHUT!”

“You are the Zaghawa doctor!” the face opposite me yelled, his finger jabbing at me, his features an instant mask of rage. “You are this Zaghawa doctor! This Zaghawa doctor woman! Don’t deny anything! We know everything.
Everything!
We know it all!”

“So why are you questioning me?” I countered, trying not to let my terror show. “Why bother? What’s the point if you know everything?”

More screams came from the walls. More rage, threats, and abuse. Then the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from behind. I flinched as I waited for the blow to fall. A crack on the desk in front of me, as a heavy folder was dropped in front of my eyes.

“Better learn some respect . . . Dr. Halima Bashir,” the face opposite hissed. He picked up the file and read my name off the front of it. “Dr. Halima Bashir, the Zaghawa doctor. The Zaghawa doctor who spoke to the newspapers. . . . Silly. Very silly, doctor. You are a silly, silly little girl. You have a very long tongue. Very long. It has got you into trouble.”

I gripped the edge of the desk so as to steady myself. So that was it—the interview. Something must have appeared in the papers. But what had I said that could have caused me to end up here? I hadn’t said anything. In a way I felt relieved. I knew that I had treated scores of wounded rebel fighters in the hospital—fighters who’d claimed to be injured villagers. I had been terrified that the security men had found this out, and that I was here on charges of supporting the rebels.

Still, I was petrified. I wanted to run and hide. But I hadn’t seen any knives or guns yet, or any other weapons. So perhaps they weren’t about to torture or kill me. I told myself to be strong, to hide my fear. If it showed, they would feel all-powerful, and I would seem defenseless. I would be at their mercy. I had to try to resist, to put up a front.

“So, I spoke to the newspaper man. Is it forbidden to do so? Did I say anything so wrong?”

“You really don’t know?” the face opposite sneered. “You really think you are
allowed
to speak out?
Permitted to?
You really think you are allowed to make trouble?
To make trouble.
We have the power to do anything to you.
Anything.
Don’t you know that?”

“But what did I say . . .”

“What party are you a member of?” the face cut in. “Tell us. No one speaks out unless they are a party member. So, which party is it? Or perhaps it is a rebel group? Is that what it is? Tell us. If it isn’t a political party, it must be a rebel group, isn’t it?”

“I’m just a medical doctor . . .”

“Don’t lie!” The Face again, snarling now. “You think you can lie to us? We know everything! We know it all! We know you give medicines to your people. We know you help them. We know you are the black Zaghawa doctor they all come to see. So, make it easy on yourself. Tell us the truth. Tell us—who are you involved with?”

“My job as a doctor is to cure . . .”

“Idiot! Idiot girl! You think we are stupid? You think we don’t know? I’ll tell you what we know. We know what you told the newspapers. We know . . .”

The Face ranted on. He wasn’t allowing me to say a word in my defense. I wasn’t here to speak. I was here to feel their power over me, to taste their anger and their hatred, and to know the chill, cringing dread of absolute fear. Each time I tried to speak either the Face would cut me off, or the standing men would scream at me. So I gave up. I stopped speaking. I sat there in silence, as the Face ranted and raved and threatened.

Finally, the Face produced a sheet of paper from the file. “Now, doctor, you have to sign this. This says you will never speak to a newspaper or anyone or anything ever again. You will never speak about anything.
Anything.
And if you disobey, then we will deal with you. You understand? Tell me you understand.”

I nodded. “Tell me!” he snarled. “I want to hear it.”

“I understand.”

He pushed the paper across the desk at me. “Now, sign!”

“SIGN!”

“SIGN!”

“SIGN!”

“SIGN! SIGN! SIGN! SIGN!”

The screams from the walls were deafening. I grabbed the pen and scrawled my name with a shaking hand. The instant I lifted the pen from the paper the Face snatched the document away from me.

“Now go!” he spat at me. “Get out! I don’t ever want to see your ugly black face again.”

The drive back was as silent as the drive out had been. Two of them came with me, the driver and one of the standing men. They dropped me at the marketplace without a word. I stood on the pavement and watched the vehicle speeding away. As it disappeared into the traffic, I felt my knees buckling. I leaned against a car. I breathed deeply, trying to steady myself. A wave of nausea swept over me, and an instant later I was vomiting into the gutter.

Eventually, I recovered enough to move. I set off toward the hospital, passing by the ugly concrete hulk of the football stadium. I felt a surge of cold anger sweep over me. I knew now that I was a part of this war, and that it was a part of me. For the men who had seized me this was a war against my people, and anyone who helped them was their enemy. They had picked me up simply to terrify me, to force me to stop helping my people. And they had left me in no doubt of what would happen if I continued.

As I walked, I realized that this was only the beginning. I would not change. I would not stop helping my people. Anyone who came to the hospital in need of my help would get it, no matter which tribe they were from. But I would have to be more careful. There would be no more talking to newspapers. And I would have to be more secretive—for someone at the hospital had reported me for helping the black African war wounded.

Who was it, I wondered? Which of the medical staff had they bribed, blackmailed, or frightened into spying on his or her colleagues? For a moment I wondered if it was Kayan, the kindly old man who was the head nurse. It was with him that I had shared my innermost thoughts, hopes, and fears, and we had both been complicit in treating the black African war wounded. But as quickly as I considered this, I ruled it out. No way would I believe that of him. It could be anyone else at the hospital, but not Kayan.

It was late evening by the time I arrived back at the hospital. I headed straight for the dormitory, as my head was swimming and I didn’t want to have to speak to any of the others. I collapsed onto my bed in the room that I shared with the half dozen other female doctors. Thankfully, the room was deserted. I lay there alone and in silence as I contemplated what had happened to me, and what I should do next.

One of the ways in which the human body reacts to shock is with sleep, and I slept the sleep of the dead. The following morning one or two of the other doctors tried to ask me what had happened. I told them that I didn’t want to talk about it. I was too worried about whom I could trust. But I did ask if they had seen the report in the newspaper. They had. They told me that I had been quoted, along with a number of the other doctors, but that none of us had said anything controversial.

In spite of what had happened to me, Kayan and I continued to treat
all
the war wounded, just as we had done before. I warned him that we couldn’t talk freely in this place, for it was impossible to know whom to trust. Kayan agreed with me. You couldn’t even trust your own brothers and sisters, he said, those who had come from the same mother as you.

Everyone was turning against everyone, and the country was in flames.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mission to Mazkhabad

A few weeks later my father came to visit. I was overjoyed to see him. I had confided in no one about what had happened to me, and I was dying to tell my father. But instead, we sat around with Uncle Ahmed as they discussed the war. There had been several small-scale attacks in our area. These were hit-and-run raids, and the villagers had chased the raiders away. But it was still very worrisome. By the time my father had finished speaking I had decided to tell him nothing of my own problems. He had more than enough to deal with.

Shortly after his visit I was called to the office of Mr. Rashid, the hospital manager. He offered me a seat, before reading from a letter that he had in front of him. It had come from the Health Ministry—I could see the Arabic lettering reflected in his thick, heavy glasses. The letter instructed me to take up a new post in charge of the regional clinic in Mazkhabad.

Mazkhabad is a village in remote northern Darfur. Why was I was being transferred, I asked Mr. Rashid, and why to such a remote location? He shrugged. He didn’t know. But my name had come up and I had to go. In fact, I was directed to leave the following morning, so this would be my last day working at the hospital.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Bashir,” he said, glancing up from the letter. “It’s as much of a surprise to me as it must be to you.”

“But surely, I’m not yet experienced enough to run my own clinic?”

He shrugged. “I agree. No junior doctor should be sent to a remote area without first having the full range of training.” He turned the letter toward me. “But look—the instructions come direct from the Ministry, so there’s little I can do . . .”

“But I don’t want a transfer. I’m happy here. I didn’t ask for one. I’m not ready for it.”

He nodded, sympathetically. “It’s unprecedented. And your work here’s been excellent. I’m sorry to lose you. But there’s nothing that I, or you, can do about it, I’m afraid.”

I was speechless. What more was there to say? He handed me the letter. “Here, take this. I’ve enjoyed working with you, doctor, I really have.”

As I made my way back to the ward I had few doubts as to why I was being sent away. I looked around me at the injured men, women, and children. So many of them were the black African victims of this war, and so many of them were relying on me. What would happen when I wasn’t here tomorrow, and the days that followed? Only Kayan would remain, and how much longer would it be before he was arrested and interrogated and sent on his way?

That evening I went to say my goodbyes to Dr. Salih, the Zaghawa doctor that I’d first worked under, in obstetrics and gynecology. When I told him that I was leaving he was dumbfounded. Why was I being sent to such a remote area when I hadn’t completed half my training? I told him that I didn’t know, but those were my orders. Next I spoke to Kayan. He was so surprised and so sad to hear that I was leaving. I told him to keep up the good work, but not to trust anyone. Otherwise, they might do the same to him.

Lastly, I said farewell to Dr. Rashid, the man in charge of the accident and emergency ward. I’d enjoyed working under him, and as I looked into his smiling face I believed in my heart that he was a good man. He was speechless at my news, and then he became angry. No way could I be transferred so early, and to such a place. I should refuse to go. He would go himself and raise it with Mr. Rashid. I told him that if I stayed, it would only make problems for the rest of the staff. I told him that I would survive. I’d be okay.

I went to the dorm and packed my things into my green metal trunk. I made my way to my uncle’s house and told him about the transfer. He and his wife were uneasy about it. Surely it was better to remain close to my family, they objected. Why had I decided to go? It wasn’t my choice, I told them. I had been ordered to by the Ministry. I promised that once I reached Mazkhabad village I would get word through that I was all right. But I did ask them to send word to my father about what was happening. There was one thing that reassured me a little about the move: Mazkhabad is a Zaghawa area, so at least I would be among my people.

I stayed the night at their house and early the next morning I left to catch my transport. The journey to Mazkhabad was by truck. This time I would be riding in the back, as I’d had no time to book myself a seat up front. The rear of the truck was full to overflowing. There were women with little children trying to sleep in their laps. There were men gripping the sides and keeping an eye on their sacks of sorghum flour and maize. And there were scores of nervous sheep and goats crammed in alongside the passengers.

Beyond the city outskirts the road became rough and difficult, the truck bouncing through potholes, throwing people off of their feet. The wheels coughed up a thick cloud of dust, and soon it was everywhere: in our hair, our eyes, and even up our nostrils. But in spite of the discomfort, people were smiling and friendly.

I got talking with some of the women. They asked me where I was going and what I planned to do there. I told them my destination, and they introduced me to some of the women from Mazkhabad. I shared with them my mother and father’s family names, and some of our ancestor history. I asked whether they knew of any relatives that I might have in their village. But no one could think of any.

An old man standing nearby bent to talk to me.

“I overheard you, sister,” he remarked, with a toothy grin. “Welcome. Welcome. Welcome to our village. My name is Bushara. Tell me again your family names—I think I may know someone.”

I repeated our family lineage.

He smiled. “Yes. Yes, I think there is someone. In fact, I’m sure. Once we get there I’ll take you to his house.”

I thanked him. I was so grateful. Just the thought that I might have family there was a real comfort to me.

The truck pulled over for a midmorning breakfast stop, and Bushara invited me to eat with him. There were roadside stalls selling roasted corn on the cob, boiled sweet potatoes, trays of salted and spiced peanuts, and boiled eggs sliced onto a slab of flat bread. As we ate, Bushara asked me what was bringing me to Mazkhabad. I hesitated for a second, but my instinct told me that I could trust him. I told him that I was a doctor being sent to work in the village clinic. As soon as I said this his face lit up.

“A doctor! A real doctor!” he enthused. “Allah—we are blessed. You must first come to my house, to meet my wife and children.”

“I’m honored, Bushara,” I told him. “But first let me see my own people—this family that you know of. Then I’ll come to visit you.”

He smiled. “Ah, this is better, this is just right. This is the correct way to do things. But a real doctor for the village! I can still hardly believe it . . .”

As we resumed our journey I remembered a story Grandma had told us when we were kids. One day a stranger arrived in a Zaghawa village and asked to be taken to a certain man’s house. By the time he got to the right house it was very late. Even so, he was invited in and given food and drink and somewhere to sleep. In the morning the host went to wake the visitor for breakfast. But it turned out that he had died in the night.

The whole village was called together to discuss what to do. No one knew the visitor’s name or even where he was from. But the village elders decided that he still should have a proper village funeral. So that day they buried the man in the graveyard and mourned his passing, just as if he had been a family member. After that the host decided to try to find out the stranger’s identity. He traveled far and wide and eventually discovered that the visitor was his long-lost half brother, someone whom he had been trying to find for years.

The moral of the story was that no Zaghawa should ever refuse a stranger hospitality. We should ask how was their journey, if they were tired, and whether they needed food and drink. For we never knew—they might even be our close family. Likewise, I knew that I could rely on my relatives in Mazkhabad, no matter how distantly we were related.

It was late at night by the time we reached the village. I could see tiny dirt streets with flickering oil lanterns scattered among the shadows. It was just like a scene from my own village, and I felt strangely at home here, and homesick, all at the same time. Bushara helped me down from the truck, grabbed my trunk, and set off into the darkness. As he walked he talked, showing me what was what, and all the while welcoming me to my new home.

“Welcome. Welcome,” he enthused. “I’ll send my wife and children tomorrow, just to say hello. Then you’ll have some friends. And maybe if they have something—just a small headache or something—then you can help them. We haven’t had a real doctor here for so long. We’re so lucky to have you come.”

I murmured my thanks. I didn’t feel like a real doctor yet. I hadn’t even completed my training.

“The house of your relatives is just here,” Bushara indicated. “The man has three wives, so I’m hoping he’s here tonight. If not, we’ll have to check the others. But don’t worry—they’re nearby, so it’s no trouble.”

We stopped at the fence. “
Assalam alaikum—
peace be unto you!” Bushara called into the darkened house. “Are you there? Are you in? I have a special visitor for you!”

There was a moment’s silence, followed by the wood-on-wood creak of an unlatching door.

“Welcome! Welcome!” a sleepy voice cried out. “Welcome my visitors.”

The gate was dragged open and a head popped around the side. The man had a smiley face, topped off by a head of pepper-gray hair. He beckoned us inside, closed the gate, and took us to his living area.

“Welcome,” he repeated. “Welcome. Please—sit. Tea? You’ve traveled far? You must have some tea. Wait, my wife is asleep. I will wake her.”

Before we could object he bustled off into the darkness. He returned, bent to the hearth, and blew hard on the embers, adding in a few wisps of dry straw. Within no time a merry flame was dancing among the shadows.

“So, my name is Abakher,” he remarked. “Welcome again. I am always so pleased to have visitors.”

“This young lady is a medical doctor,” Bushara began. “I found her traveling on the truck. She is also a Bashir, from the Coube clan, from Hadurah village. I think you know her people. I thought I should bring her straight to your house.”

“Aha! She is my relative—my daughter,” Abakher declared happily. “Welcome, my daughter. I’m so happy to have another daughter, and this one a doctor daughter!”

I couldn’t help myself but laugh. “Thank you, Abakher, thank you. And I’m so happy to have another father!”

Abakher’s age certainly made him a “fatherly” figure for me—he had to be in his midsixties, at least. He introduced his wife, Safia, who was the youngest of the three. She tried to insist on making me a meal, but I told her that I’d eaten along the way. She brought me some warm milk, and showed me a place in her hut where I could sleep—while Abakher went to spend the night in the men’s hut.

In the morning, Safia cooked a delicious breakfast of
acidah
mash. While we ate, I told Abakher some more about our family. It turned out we were most closely related on the Coube side. Abakher knew he had relatives down south in Darfur, but he rarely if ever had news of them. He told me something of his life. He was a farmer, and he had a donkey that he rode to the fields each day. He ran through the children he had with each of his wives.

I asked Abakher if he would take me to the village clinic so that I could introduce myself. Once I had finished my breakfast and my tea, he would gladly do so, he said. He knew the man who ran the clinic, so he could introduce me personally.

Abakher’s house was near the center of the village, and a short stroll took us to the clinic. It was a squat brick building with a galvanized iron roof built into the shade of some acacia trees. There was a porch with a grass thatch roof out front, which was where the patients would line up for treatment. The porch led into the one treatment room. There were half a dozen iron beds on either side, each with a vinyl-covered mattress worn smooth and shiny with use. There was precious little equipment, but at least the place looked clean, and it smelled of bleach and disinfectant.

To one side was a cramped office, where Abakher introduced me to Sayed, the man who was in charge.

“So, this is my daughter,” he announced, with a wide smile. “She is a doctor, and she has come to work at the clinic.”

“I had no idea . . .” Sayed began, as he rose from his desk to welcome me. “Welcome. Welcome. I didn’t know you were coming. But we are so pleased to see you.”

I shook his hand and mumbled something about being honored to be there.

“Come. Come and meet the others,” he announced. “We’ve had no doctor here for so long. You know all the bad cases have to go to Hashma, and it’s a terrible journey. Sometimes, the worst die on the way. But now we have you here . . .”

As I followed Sayed into the treatment room I felt the heavy burden of responsibility settling upon me. It was daunting. How would I cope? I’d read my books and studied and studied, but I had little hands-on experience, which counted for so much in a place like this. I tried to put a brave face on things as I was introduced to Sayed’s team of four.