The Milk of Birds (34 page)

We began to hear of the Janjaweed, but this was just talk, lighter than the wind. How can they call us black dogs when their skin is no lighter than ours? People joked, If they come to Umm Jamila, we will send them to Shaykha, and she will deal with their
zar
.

Even when Si-Talab's cousin passed through Umm Jamila after his village burned, my father said, That could not happen here.

The cousin said, The Janjaweed call us slaves and rebels and promise the Arabs our livestock as a reward for hunting us.

They do not have to hunt, my father said. I will gladly sell them sheep and goats and camels at a good price!

We were the bush fowl laughing as the chicken was slaughtered, not thinking what those hands would carve up next.

The next time Arabs rode through Umm Jamila, they carried guns. They entered our house and dishonored me and my father's first wife in front of all my family.

Many died in Umm Jamila, K. C., although we could not see that right away, for all was confusion. With Muhammad I left the village to tend the herd. As we returned, we saw a plane dip from the sky and rain devastation.

What color was this plane? a
khawaja
on the committee asked.

White, I said. Like our robes of mourning.

I have learned that in some villages people waved, for the united nations of the world fly white planes.

The committee stopped me many times with questions. They asked me to describe the silver metal that stabbed my mother's mango tree. It had knobs, with words around them.

What did the words say?

I could not read them, I said.

Later Adeeba told me that was another trick of the devil, to pack bombs with scraps of machines for cooking and washing clothes.

The committee listened and did not rush the telling, for there was much to say of all Umm Jamila lost that day and the next. I named the missing and the dead—all I had seen or heard told. Remember that if misfortune strikes only your wealth, K. C., it is merciful.

I did not meet my brother Muhammad, but I believe they poisoned the sweet water of Umm Jamila with his blood. Nor did my sister Meriem dance for us again.

We began walking, for that is the way of life, one foot in
front of another. Sometimes what goes beyond its limit will turn its opposite, so strong men wept and children led parents. What had happened stuck like a fish bone in the throat; we could neither swallow nor expel it.

Saha died. It was a relief from her suffering. We did not have enough water to wash her, so we used sand. As my mother placed those long hands one over another, I saw them as a weaving.

I did not tell this to the committee, K. C. I told them many died and the names, but the names were like notches on a stick to these doctors and lawyers, one no different from another. I do not have much faith in courts, but I have faith in God, who sees all. He who confesses his faults, God will forgive his sins.

The Janjaweed are bad men, but they are not the only bad men. Adeeba is nodding. At first my grandmother said, Let rats shoot arrows at each other.

But when rats carry guns, no one is safe. I think the world we live in now is the world created by men with guns. You and I would not create such a world, K. C.

Each day our village ebbed a little more until these men Adeeba calls scavengers came upon us. The heart sees before the eyes. Hyenas, Musa said.

Even hyenas have a grace, though few can see it. Not so with these men. They took us where they lived and kept us away from their women and children. We slept out among the broken pieces they had stolen, and they fed us scraps and used us at their will. Had we the means to bribe them we might have walked free, for a snake that has a locust in its mouth will never bite. But we had nothing, just shredded
tobes
to cover our nakedness.

When Umm Bashir died, God's mercy upon her, they did not give us a sheet but threw her body in the back of their open truck. They did not return with it. I learned from that, and when Nima died, I washed her with sand and bound her hands and feet with grass as I recited the
fatiha
beneath my breath. No one knows in which land we will die. Once I heard Abdullah say that a believer's soul turns into a bird in paradise, so I imagined Nima as the black-faced finch with the violet crown and rosy wings. The grasses broke when they threw her body in the truck, but I imagined her feathers speckled pink as her soul took flight.

I did not fly but walked from that place of misery. Cloudy showed me the way. One day she wandered away and the next we followed, my mother and I.

I did not talk to the committee of birds and donkey. I was a stone talking. Now I speak through tears. I am learning that the truth is one thing for strangers and another for you, my sister.

I am sorry, K. C., to be the messenger of my country's troubles. The one whose hand is in the water is not like the one whose hand is in the fire, but your great heart draws you close to us, so I fear my words may burn you. Know that we are well and strong. Just remember that life is fragile as a clay pot full of seeds, so you must roll it with care.

Your sister, Nawra

Dear Nawra,

Tomorrow I'm finally going to mail this November bundle of letters, but I had to wait for Thanksgiving. It's our “Thanks, God” holiday, which we find easier to do with napkins in our laps behind a big plate of roast turkey with stuffing and cranberry sauce. I thought you'd get a kick out of the family scene.

Granny flew up from Florida, and Uncle Phil drove down from Ohio, where he works in physical plant at Muskingum University, which means he's not as rich as most of the plumbers who tootle around in their own trucks, but he has really good benefits and almost free tuition for my cousin Phil Jr. We always joke that Uncle Phil should adopt Todd so he can get a free ride too.

Of course his wife came too, Aunt Rita, and Phil Jr. and Sienna, their daughter who's ten and has Down syndrome, so she's Aunt Rita's full-time job. You have never met such a sweetheart, though. Last weekend as we were making pumpkin pies ahead of time, I told Mom it's ironic that both she and her brother ended up with defective daughters. Oh, did Mom get smoked! “Don't you dare compare yourself to Sienna” and “If you're going to have a big pity party, we better buy decorations.”

Speaking of decorations, Wally and I made place mats with
handprint turkeys. I gave Sienna the one with the most feathers and sequins.

I told Mom to invite Dad, but she'd already asked Steven, whose kids were off with his wife in Connecticut. Holidays used to be so easy with everyone in the same place, but now you need an air-traffic control tower just to keep track of who's where. Secretly I asked Dad if he could join us, but Sharon whisked him off to the Caribbean. Uncle Phil's made a lot of cracks about the Love Boat.

His family's in the basement, and Granny's taken over Mom's room, so Mom's sleeping on an air mattress on the floor in my room, which means lights-out early, but it's kind of fun. It's easier to talk in the dark. I even told her about Parker's hand, and she said that I deserve every good thing that life holds in store for me.

I know there's some in store for you and Adeeba because you deserve it even more.

Mom's trying to persuade Granny to move to Richmond since she's getting frailer. When Steven showed up for lunch, he brought brochures about all these senior places because he's just gone through the same thing with his parents. We're all going to go visit one tomorrow. Remember how you first wrote me about how you imagined the ocean was like the sky or the desert, with the waves and the clouds and the dunes always on the move? I'm starting to think that families are the same way, like there's a big backdrop that's pretty solid but the surface changes all the time as people grow up and old and marry and divorce and meet and move on.

Mom sat me next to Steven, and we had a long discussion
about his seven-year-old, Jasper, who's going through this bug dismembering phase that's worrying Steven since he's heard that kids who torture animals often turn out to be sociopaths. I'm going to introduce Jasper to Wally, who's so gentle he goes into a state when any of Thomas's train friends derail. I also mentioned Milton Stanley from the Darfur Club—maybe he and his hissing roach could get Jasper excited about crickets with their legs on. Steven said he wasn't sure he wanted Jasper to start keeping bugs as pets. Turns out Steven and I both would rather eat lima beans for breakfast than brush up against a hairy tarantula.

And we talked—I talked mostly—about all that you and Adeeba have been through. Steven's heard about a group that rescues donkeys, and he's going to find out if it operates in Sudan.

I like Steven even though I don't want to like anybody in that category except Dad.

You sat next to me too, since we set a place for you between me and Todd. That's what's in the envelope, your place card and turkey place mat and some red and yellow leaves from the maple tree in our backyard. Have you heard the story that Ben Franklin wanted the turkey as the US national symbol, but it wasn't buff enough, so the Founding Fathers picked an eagle? I wonder if this country might have turned out differently if we didn't think of ourselves as a predator with sharp talons but as the big guy in the barnyard just trying to avoid the ax like everyone else.

Speaking of Axe, it's a good thing you weren't actually sitting next to Todd because you'd keel over from his body spray, which he applies with a crop duster.

Now he comes to the Darfur Club even without the laundry bribe because he has his eye on Rebecca, an honors person Emily brought, whose ode to pickles won some transit contest and is going to be published on public buses between January and March. Maybe we can get her to write a poem about Darfur. I'm very good at thinking of things for other people to do! Next time I face one of those stupid blanks about future career goals, I'm just going to write
boss
.

Mom put me in charge of the seating arrangement, but the place for you was kind of her idea after I read her your letter and said, “If Nawra were here, she'd be eating turkey, not crumbs!” Mom told me that Jewish people have a Seder tradition of leaving an empty chair for the prophet Elijah in case he happens to be in the neighborhood and wants to drop by. I'm going to make it my tradition for you. On Thanksgiving you'll always have a seat at our table.

Once we pile our plates with food and we're about to go out of our minds because everything smells so delicious, Mom doesn't let us begin until we go around the table and say what we're thankful for, which is a tradition she inherited from Granny. Some people say the obvious, like “this food,” or “the company,” or “my lovely wife.” Grampers always said, “Ditto,” because he hated putting his feelings out on the table, according to Mom. I remember one year Dad said, “Nicotine.” It is sort of revealing.

This year Aunt Rita gave thanks for her parent support group and Phil Jr. for his SAT prep class and Sienna, with a lot of coaxing, for her cat, Cat. Uncle Phil, who's a lot like Grampers, said, “I thank God for all the crap college kids flush down their toilets.”

It's funny how people can be thankful for something that's imperfect, like when Granny said, “I'm grateful for my health.” Todd talked about driving, so Mom said, “I'm grateful for seat belts,” but also “my children, who teach me more than I can ever teach them.” Steven said, “Ditto,” because Mom had told him about Grampers, but then he added, “I am thankful for the unexpected blessings that come from even irregular church attendance.” He was looking right at Mom.

I went last. I just said thanks to you, Nawra, for sharing all your wisdom and reminding me that too much of anything makes it cheap, except for people.

Love, K. C.