Читать книгу When The Stars Fall To Earth - Rebecca BSL Tinsley - Страница 13

The Arab market town near Sheikh Adam’s village, Western Darfur, November 2004

It was eleven o’clock, and Ahmed was packing up the unsold tomatoes he had carried from his village to the market, hoping someone would buy them. His mother would be unhappy when he returned with the vegetables, but she would not be surprised. There were no longer enough customers around their district to take all their produce. Gradually the countryside was emptying as people left to stay with relatives in Chad. Those without family connections were reluctantly coming to the conclusion that if the worst happened, they must head for the big refugee camp in El Geneina.

Ahmed’s path home, the same one he ran each morning at dawn, took him past Khalil’s store, and as usual they exchanged a few words. “What have you got there?” asked the shopkeeper, indicating the covered reed basket at Ahmed’s feet.

When Ahmed bent over and pulled off the cloth protecting the produce, Khalil made appreciative noises. “The wife was just saying she needed some for tonight’s dinner,” he lied unconvincingly. “Here,” he said, stuffing some notes in Ahmed’s hand. “Give me the whole bunch.”

Ahmed, just as unconvincingly, pretended he didn’t need Khalil’s charity, but the matter was soon settled. With feelings of mutual relief, the two friends parted, and Ahmed continued his journey.

Ten minutes out of the town, though, he was surprised when two Sudanese army trucks rumbled past, heading toward his village. It was unusual to see the army on the road because the market town was largely inhabited by Arabs, whom they left alone for the most part. His pulse quickened as he wondered why they were heading for his village, populated entirely by people from the Fur tribe.

Then suddenly the trucks veered off a hundred yards ahead, turning down a track. The only building along their route was a boarding school, frequented by the female offspring of the more affluent Fur families in the region. It was famous for its strictness and the fervor with which its students studied the Koran, but Ahmed knew no one who attended the school.

Nevertheless, he was concerned. He cut across a field and joined the track taken by the trucks. Ten minutes later, he caught up with them. They had parked within the school compound, and when Ahmed reached the buildings, he found the trucks were empty.

Alarmed, Ahmed kept to the shadows, hugging the walls of the main structure, and crept up to an open window, straining his ears. At first he heard girls whispering, accompanied by the thump of boots against cement. Ahmed realized he was listening to girls being herded along a corridor. He stooped, ran to the next window, and listened. It sounded as if the girls and their teachers were being assembled in one place. The teachers were encouraging the girls to keep calm and quiet, but Ahmed detected terror in their voices.

He crouched by the window and slowly edged around the sill, looking inside. The girls, perhaps one hundred and fifty of them, were standing at one end of the hall, all dressed in bright blue uniforms and head scarves. Before them were a dozen or so women, most of whom wore glasses and looked like teachers. It seemed to Ahmed they were trying to form a protective barrier between the girls and the soldiers, who stood at the other end of the hall, their rifles trained on the students. Ahmed looked from one girl’s face to the next, his heart fluttering in his chest. Mostly they stared at the soldiers with wide, unblinking eyes, but several girls were crying quietly, arms around each other.

Oh, no, he thought, seeing the excitement in the soldiers’ eyes. Just leave them alone and get back in your trucks and go away.

Ahmed wasn’t close enough to hear what was said but one of the teachers appeared to be talking to the commanding officer, holding her hands out, imploring him, her head on one side. Without warning the uniformed man stepped forward and swung his truncheon at the woman with such force that she lost her balance and fell to the floor. The teachers on either side rushed to her aid, holding handkerchiefs to her bleeding nose, but the officer and two soldiers closed in on them, beating them off her.

I have to stop this! Ahmed thought as the officer motioned to his soldiers. But what can I do?

The soldiers kneeled on either side of the teacher, pinning her down, while their commander ripped her clothing away. The girls fell back further in panic, hands held over their mouths, their whimpers like a chorus of startled lambs.

The officer was soon on top of the teacher, ramming himself into her as she screamed in pain. Ahmed noticed the expressions of the soldier on each side of the teacher, their faces sweaty and their mouths hanging open in excitement. A murmur of approval came from the other soldiers as they stood watching their commander get to his feet and zip himself up. He turned to acknowledge their grins and then motioned toward the pack of girls at the far end of the hall.

What can I do to stop this? Ahmed asked himself again. He ducked back down beneath the windowsill. A moment later he heard a schoolgirl’s scream piercing the stagnant midday air, heavy with heat and insects.

He didn’t have to look to know what was happening. Then more screams spilled from the room. Horrified and flushed with fury, his first instinct was to rush into the hall, hoping to grab a gun and start shooting the soldiers. But he doubted he could kill more than a couple of men before he was gunned down. Instead, he knew he must find help from the international monitors who had been stationed in Darfur by the African Union, the regional version of the United Nations. Only they had the authority and the power to stop what was happening in the school.

Ahmed crept away, making sure no one could see him if they happened to look out of the windows. When he was beyond the school compound walls, he slipped off his plastic sandals and started running.

He moved as he never had before, like the wind; like a wild cat, despite the heat and his bare feet; like lightning across a sky bristling with electricity. When he reached the main dirt track he turned toward the market town once more, heading for the camp on the outskirts where the African Union monitors stayed when they were rotating through the region. If he were lucky, the monitors would be there at the moment. If he were less lucky, he would find someone with a phone to summon the monitors. Khalil could point him in the right direction, he reasoned. Ahmed didn’t consider the other alternatives, he simply ran.

There was only one African Union jeep in the monitor’s camp, its hood up, and a Nigerian soldier tinkering with the engine. When Ahmed addressed him in Arabic, the Nigerian shrugged, warily taking in the tall, athletic young man before him, sweating and gasping air into his lungs. Ahmed noticed the Nigerian flag on the soldier’s shoulder. If a nation had a soccer team, then Ahmed recognized their flag.

“English?” he asked, and the Nigerian smiled.

“My English not good,” Ahmed continued, still panting and perspiring. “Problem. Danger. Army,” he pointed. “School, girls, big trouble. Please help. Call monitors, please.”

At first mystified, the Nigerian started nodding. “I understand,” he responded, and then the animation drained from his face. “There’s no diesel,” he explained, pointing at the jeep’s gas tank. “And the battery’s dead,” he added.

“No,” Ahmed roared. “Help now, please!”

The Nigerian held out his greasy hands, inviting Ahmed to look around. There were no soldiers with whom he could go and investigate what was happening at the school. “They left me to fix the jeep, but it’s no good without a battery, and the Sudanese authorities have stopped our shipments, so the batteries are still at the port.”

“Phone?” Ahmed shouted. “Phone help?”

“I haven’t got a phone, either,” the Nigerian explained. “Someone’s supposed to pick me up once they’ve got some diesel and a battery. Tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

“No!” cried Ahmed, tears welling up in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the lone Nigerian monitor explained, his eyes flashing with anger. “I hate this, you know? They won’t let us have any weapons, and we don’t have the authority to stop them, even if we had guns.”

Ahmed left the frustrated Nigerian and ran to Khalil’s shop. His friend’s jaw hung open, taking in the stark terror on Ahmed’s face. His chest heaving, the young man explained what he had seen happening at the school.

“The hospital has a phone,” Khalil offered, summoning his eldest son to mind the shop in his absence.

Although he struggled to keep up with Ahmed as they crossed the town, once they reached the hospital, Khalil took charge, telling every bureaucrat he encountered that he must see the administrator immediately. Within seconds the startled but obliging Arab who ran the hospital was on the phone to the district governor’s office in El Geneina.

Ahmed paced up and down, unable to stop imagining what was happening in the school. While the administrator waited to be put through to the right person, Khalil discussed the feasibility of alerting the police or another branch of the security services, but just as quickly dismissed it, knowing they would not help the girls. It was out of the question to expect them to intervene against the army. The police were a powerful wing of the regime whose tentacles reached out from Khartoum; they were not there to protect civilians or solve crimes. Arab citizens like Khalil and the hospital administrator were just as wary of the security apparatus as everyone else.

“There must be something we can do to get the African Union guys here,” Ahmed pleaded, his tone frantic. “I mean, they’ve got helicopters, haven’t they?”

The administrator looked embarrassed, admitting “I don’t know.”

Eventually, he was given another number, for the Africa Union barracks on the outskirts of El Geneina, more than thirty miles away. As they waited for someone to answer, Ahmed was almost jumping in place with nerves, remembering the screams of the girls being attacked, furious with himself for being unable to help them. Then he listened as the administrator asked if the African Union could send a helicopter, but Ahmed noticed his voice did not register any relief or optimism as he expressed his thanks, ending the call.

“No helicopter, but they’ll dispatch a jeep immediately.” He chewed at his lower lip for a moment. “Our hospital will be ready, whenever the girls arrive here.” He looked away, his eyes hidden behind his glasses. “We have no ambulance to send. I’m sorry.”

“Is that it, then?” Ahmed asked, the veins in his neck bulging. “One jeep? How many guys? Will they be armed?” he spluttered.

“Ahmed,” said Khalil quietly. “Please, let’s go.”

“It’ll take hours to reach them,” the young man persisted. “And what are they going to do when they get here? Are they armed?”

Khalil took him gently by the elbow, leading him out of the administrator’s office. “He can’t get involved in Sudanese army business.”

“But this is crazy,” Ahmed shouted. “It’s going to be too late.”

“They’ll do their best,” Khalil said, trying to get Ahmed away from curious onlookers. “You’ve done your best. Now we need to get out of here before we draw attention to ourselves.”

“We haven’t done anything to stop them,” Ahmed protested. “Please be quiet,” his friend urged him. “You’re only making things worse.”

“I’m going back to the school,” the young man declared, his voice shaking.

“No, you’re not,” Khalil said, steering him out of the hospital and on to the street. “You’re coming back to my shop now, until you’ve cooled off. You’re going to get yourself killed, and that won’t help anyone, will it? Who’s going to support your family? Think clearly for a moment. Please. And for God’s sake, lower your voice.”

“I don’t understand,” Ahmed responded, suddenly sounding weak. “This can’t be happening. If the monitors had helicopters, they could stop this.”

Still gripping him by the upper arm, Khalil hurried him through the streets. He said nothing until they were back in his shop, and then he handed Ahmed a bottle of water without a second thought, out of habit. “Look, you’re not going to help anyone by going out there. Do you understand? Promise me.”

Finally, Ahmed met Khalil’s eyes. He shrugged and then his shoulders sagged, as if he had accepted defeat. “Okay, I won’t go out there. But I need to tell the African Union what I saw because the army will try to cover it up.”

“Good thinking. Now listen, the African Union guys are bound to come through here, and I’ll make sure they find you to get your testimony.”

Ahmed rubbed his eyes. “This is a nightmare. I don’t know what to do.”

Khalil shook his head, also at a loss for words.

* * *

Within a week, people all over the region were talking about what had happened at the girls’ school. The Sudanese army had stayed there for almost two days, repeatedly raping the students and teachers. Several of the younger girls had been taken away with the soldiers when they finally left, and their families never saw them again. There was a rumor that they had been spotted at El Geneina airfield, being forced onto an air force Antonov heading for Khartoum. The older girls returned to their families, never again to be allowed to study away from home. Before they left the school, the soldiers took all the teachers out back and shot them.

The Africa Union monitors had eventually sent one jeep with three Rwandan soldiers and a translator. They had arrived a full 24 hours after receiving the report from the hospital administrator because they had insufficient diesel to make the journey. Though the Rwandans risked their lives by trying to question the soldiers, they were too late to stop the violence. The soldiers wouldn’t even let them enter the school.

The Rwandans also came to see Ahmed, carefully writing down his statement and assuring him they would keep their source anonymous. They explained to him that the African Union had given them no authority to do anything but compile a report, which they did. Ahmed was raging with anger that it had taken so long for the monitors to arrive, but he knew the Rwandan officers had put themselves in considerable danger, just being there and asking questions.

A week later, Khalil told Ahmed that the incident at the school had been mentioned on the radio news. Evidently a copy of the Rwandan monitors’ report had found its way into the hands of a U.S. senator. The senator had asked the U.S. State Department and the United Nations how long episodes like the girls’ school would continue before the world acted. Why didn’t the international community support the African Union monitors with the proper resources, rather than expecting them to do the job with their hands tied behind their backs? he had asked.

For several days Ahmed and Khalil listened to each radio bulletin, hoping to learn how the world’s diplomats would respond. However, the Rwandans’ report was quickly forgotten, buried in the avalanche of dispatches about famine, civil war, terrorist attacks, kidnappings, natural disasters, and tyranny from around the globe.