Tears of the Desert (29 page)

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 repairs.

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.

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 own. 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.