Читать книгу When The Stars Fall To Earth - Rebecca BSL Tinsley - Страница 8

El Geneina, West Darfur, Sudan, the next weekend

On Friday, after school finished, Muhammad and Martin began their hike into the countryside, leaving the battered cement and stone buildings of El Geneina behind them. Carrying only their sleeping mats, they passed women and girls bent over in the fields, hoeing the earth with short, inadequate homemade implements. Their labor looked back-breaking and inefficient to Martin, especially in the intense heat. When they weren’t working the soil, they were pumping water to irrigate the perpetually thirsty earth.

The hikers passed a steady stream of barefoot women and girls on the unpaved path, baskets balanced on their heads, posture perfect, slender and erect, never breaking their elegant stride. Their multicolored robes and scarves glowed vividly against their dun-colored surroundings. Even in the middle of nowhere, they passed people on their way from somewhere miles behind them, heading to somewhere miles ahead.

“They don’t look the least bit despairing or resentful,” Martin commented. “I mean, they all smile and greet us.”

“What good would it do them to complain?” asked Muhammad simply. “In Darfur we accept, and we improvise and cope. That’s how we survive.” He paused. “This is what I wanted you to see: the real Africa.”

They spent Friday night with some of Muhammad’s cousins in a village composed of a few dozen compounds, gathered around a water source. The compounds were fenced by shoulder-height woven reed walls, containing mud huts with conical grass roofs. If a man was wealthy, Muhammad explained, he had several huts housing each of his wives and her offspring. The less affluent kept their animals in the compound with them, fenced into a corner at night.

Apart from a little mosque, standard in every village, there were no public buildings—no shops or restaurants or gas stations, or indeed any indication that they were not still living in the year 900, when Islam arrived in Darfur courtesy of caravans of Arab traders. Martin knew there were as many varieties of Islam as there were Christianity or Judaism. The faith practiced in Darfur seemed as peaceful and tolerant as he could imagine. People were interested that he was Jewish, but no one was hostile.

Eating dinner that night with Muhammad’s cousins, Martin was especially impressed by how people made so much time for each other. They managed with so little and found contentment and satisfaction in leisurely conversation.

The next day, he noticed women braiding each other’s hair in the shade during the heat of the midday sun; he saw how the men cared for their older male relatives, tenderly helping them, making time to listen respectfully to their favorite reminiscences, asking their advice.

“We function as family units,” Muhammad had explained at Martin’s prompting. “We come to collective decisions, and we try to act for the benefit of the group. Many people in the countryside will never see money or goods that they haven’t made themselves, but at least they know they’ll be supported when they need help.”

Martin took a deep breath, savoring the aroma of the plowed fields on either side. “You know, I came to Darfur to teach you, but there’s a lot people here are teaching me. You mustn’t believe that the Western way is always the best way. No single society has all the answers. I wish everyone could experience what I am experiencing. It’s enlightening.”

“Enlightening?” asked the boy as they walked toward the mountains on the horizon.

“I mean coming to see that the world would be a better place if we respected each other,” Martin explained.

Muhammad smiled. “I think you’re enjoying your time in Darfur.”

Martin laughed. “You know, it’s like each day counts. I’m like a toddler again, discovering exotic new things.”

Because Muhammad had no knowledge of television, Martin could not explain how he felt that he was in the middle of one of the National Geographic specials he had watched in his youth: the vast savannah; the primitive villages; men riding camels and donkeys; colorful, pungent, noisy spice markets; the sound of African drumming; the smell of the sunbaked earth. But it was so much more than those television shows portrayed.

“I just hope I never lose this sense of wonder.” He glanced at Muhammad. “And it’s your job to make sure I put this experience to some use when I go home. Don’t let me forget it.”

Muhammad grinned. “I won’t. I think you’ll get sick of getting letters from me.”

When Martin denied it, the young man became serious. “We must never lose touch. So even if it’s just a postcard with a few words on it, please write to me. I’d like my children and grandchildren to know your children and grandchildren.”

They shook hands, and continued their walk.

That night they camped in the mountains, and the following morning, Muhammad woke his teacher at dawn. “This is what I wanted you to see,” he explained, leading him to the edge of a cliff overlooking a savannah stretching to the horizon. They watched the sun rise on a scene that appeared untouched since the beginning of time. Muhammad gestured, his arms stretching wide, “This is the Africa I want you to remember.” No people or buildings or power lines or roads or vapor trails in the sky or distant glow of city lights. How many guys from New Jersey have ever seen anything like this? Martin wondered.

That night they lay on their backs examining the stars. Martin was astonished by their steady brightness, thrilled by how many were visible when there was no electric light for hundreds of miles around. Until he came to Darfur he had no idea how many shooting stars streaked across the heavens each night. From where he lay, it looked as if they were falling to earth, coming toward him, close enough to make him blink.

The next day, they returned to El Geneina. Martin began to leave his shutters open at night so he did not miss dawn, the best time of the African day—the unfamiliar bird calls, the sound of people singing as the sun came up, the muffled bleating of the goats, roosters greeting the new day in a neighboring compound, the squeak of donkey cart wheels in the road beyond their gates.

At school Muhammad was always at the top of his class. He showed off shamelessly, wanting the stage to himself, confident he could sparkle, charm, and impress. Martin was tempted to tell the boy to stay quiet for his own good occasionally; to listen, and to judge when to be less obviously clever. But the American feared he might inadvertently extinguish Muhammad’s ambition and energy, so his reservations remained unspoken. It was impossible not to love the boy like a younger brother, despite the grandstanding.

There was another boy in the same class who was Muhammad’s intellectual equal, even though he had little enthusiasm for learning. Uthman was twelve years old and as sharp as a knife. Yet what perplexed the American was Uthman’s lack of independent thought or ambition. Martin found it dispiriting to watch the self-interested calculation behind Uthman’s perpetually sulky eyes, knowing he was bright enough to search for a more enlightened path, but had chosen not to.

Occasionally he talked to Uthman in the shade of the tree beside the school. The contrast between the boys was stark: while Muhammad, fizzing with energy, wanted to walk for miles during their discussions, his face animated, keen to see Martin’s reactions, Uthman slouched against a tree trunk, his broad, flat face apparently vacant, his features blank and unreadable.

The boy was short and plump, unlike most of his classmates. It was clear he was from a wealthy family because only rich Africans carried so much weight, the American had soon learned. Chatting with him, Martin realized that although the boy’s eyes were empty of expression, he had a mind like a calculator, generally, he was several steps ahead of the others in the class.

During their talks, Martin tried to instill some sense of purpose in Uthman, but he met with resistance. He too was destined to be a sheikh when his father died, but he had little interest in expanding his awareness through books.

“My father says the Koran is the only book men need,” he declared with a truculent set to his jaw.

“So why is he sending you to school?”

“To learn mathematics so I’ll be a good businessman, like the traders in El Geneina who are always trying to cheat my father.”

“Really?”

“They think because we’re country people we must be gullible,” Uthman continued, “My father says you can never trust a stranger.”

“Yet the people here are generous to strangers like me,” Martin responded.

“That’s our duty,” was the boy’s sullen reply.

“I’m sorry you don’t enjoy discovering new things during our lessons. What do you like doing?” he asked.

Uthman’s eyes narrowed, as if he suspected he was being asked a trick question.

“What do you do with your friends, for fun?”

“Friends? My father says all a man needs is his family. They’re the only ones you can depend on.”

“And do you have fun with your family? Do you like music, or riding horses, or dancing at celebrations?”

Uthman stared at Martin as if the American was half-witted, making no attempt to answer. I’ve never seen you smile, Martin wanted to say, but did not dare. He could only imagine what a dour killjoy Uthman’s father was. How could the same relatively privileged social position and environment produce a live wire like Muhammad on one hand and the miserable Uthman on the other, he wondered. Then he realized the same thing occurred in America, where two boys from different families often had quite different temperaments and ambitions. In fact, even brothers from the same family often had different ambitions.

“You’re smart enough to become a doctor, you know, Uthman. Then you could help your people.”

Uthman turned his glassy, dark eyes on the American. “I’m going to be the sheikh of our village. I’m not supposed to be a doctor,” he said matter-of-factly.

Martin guessed that asking Uthman if he wanted to be the sheikh was a waste of time. His father had determined what his eldest son would do, and that was the end of the matter in such a traditional family. Yet, he sensed anger burning within the boy, manifesting itself as adolescent sourness. Perhaps he was not so resigned to his fate as he let on.

One conversation in particular stuck in Martin’s memory. Much to Muhammad’s irritation, Martin coaxed Uthman into joining them for their regular afternoon trek. Although they were from the same social strata, Muhammad avoided Uthman, and Martin suspected Uthman disliked Muhammad, the classroom paragon. However, the American hoped to get the boys talking, to challenge Uthman’s sense of resignation. Secretly, he hoped Uthman would see that he was every bit as clever and capable as Muhammad.

In an attempt to get the boys debating each other, Martin was deliberately provocative.

“You know, Africa would develop faster if you let the girls go to school. Then you’d have twice the brainpower at your disposal. Your economy’s going to be stuck in the Stone Age if you keep the women farming like this.”

“That’s the way we’ve always done it,” said Uthman.

“And that’s why you’re so far behind the rest of the world.”

“In your eyes we’re behind, but to us you are morally primitive,” the boy snapped.

“How do you explain why people in the West are so much richer?” asked Martin. “Is that fate? Why does your God allow my people, who you see as morally primitive, to be rich and healthy, while his own people endure poverty and disease?”

Uthman ignored the question, trudging along the road, his expression stony. “Anyway,” the boy resumed abruptly, “women are inferior, and you can’t trust them. They’re ruled by passion, not logic. Men are logical.”

“Don’t you think men are ruled by their sexual desires?” Martin challenged. “I know lots of men who’ve made big mistakes because they followed their physical urges rather than their brains.”

“No,” said Uthman. “It’s the women in your society who lead men into temptation. Your women are like prostitutes. But ours aren’t because we cut them so sex is painful for them.”

“Are you saying all Western women are like prostitutes?” Martin asked. “Including my mother?”

Uthman glared straight ahead, once again refusing to be drawn into argument. “We cut them because it’s the only way to keep them from being unfaithful. A girl is her father’s property until she gets married and then she belongs to her husband. We must prevent them from bringing dishonor to our families.”

“So when you get married to a girl you love, are you saying you won’t care that she finds making love with you painful?”

“It’ll be her duty to serve me and stay faithful.”

Martin noticed that Muhammad was listening carefully, but he decided not to bring the young man into their conversation, hoping Uthman would continue talking.

“If you were nice to your wife, perhaps she wouldn’t be unfaithful to you.”

Uthman ground his teeth. “Her duty is to give me lots of sons. And when I have enough money I’ll have several wives, and everyone will see how strong I am because I’ll have lots of sons.”

Martin sighed, “I suppose I can see why the men here want the women to be mutilated, but why does each generation of women do it to the next? So much pointless suffering.”

“Every mother wants her daughter to get a husband,” he retorted angrily. “This is impossible if they’re impure.”

“But so many girls die after the ceremony,” Martin persisted. “They get infections, they bleed to death, and then they have complications during childbirth. Just on the grounds of health alone, it seems completely irrational.”

Martin saw Uthman smarting at his use of the word “irrational.”

“This is how it is here,” the boy explained, his voice rising. “It’s always been this way, and to change it would be going against God’s will.”

“But there’s nothing about mutilating girls in the Koran, is there?”

Uthman’s eyes flashed with fury. “It’s not our way to challenge the ways of our elders,” he exclaimed.

“Then how do you ever make progress, if you always accept what you’re told, and if you never examine new ideas? That’s illogical,” added Martin.

“That’s not our way,” Uthman retorted, spittle flying from his lips. “We must submit. We are in the hands of God.” He paused, his chest heaving. “It’s fate.”

“And when you’re a sheikh, you’ll allow no debate?”

“You don’t understand the position a sheikh has within our communities. This stuff about asking questions leads to no good at all.”

Martin was silent, sensing Muhammad was anxious to join in. Finally he turned to the tall boy, who was almost twitching with eagerness. “What do you think?” he asked his young friend.

“We are the masters of our own destiny,” Muhammad countered. “God gave us brains so we could decide our own path. We should be guided by God, and by what is written in the Koran, of course. Islam is our source of strength and inspiration, and from the Koran we get our eternal values. But it mustn’t be the cause of enslavement.”

Uthman was suddenly silent. Martin wondered if the boy was a little afraid of where they were daring to tread. Why else was he almost shaking with anger? Even years later, Martin would remember Uthman’s dismal expression that afternoon, although it was the memory of Muhammad’s toothy grin that would never fail to cheer him.

On the day Martin left Darfur, Muhammad escorted him back to the same bus stop where they had first met. The two young men renewed their vow to keep in touch, although there was no false hope that they would meet again. Both wept as they parted, aware that each had opened up unimagined opportunities for the other. And Martin had left Muhammad his most valuable possessions—his books, including the dozens he had been sent by friends and family during his stay in Darfur. He had a feeling they would be treasured for decades to come, displayed like military medals, read many times by many people.

Not long after arriving home from Africa, Martin began a career at the UN development agency in New York, trying to deliver effective aid to people who were already making an effort to help themselves.

True to his word, over the next two and a half decades Martin sent Muhammad postcards of America and photographs of his family and their house in New Jersey. He mailed him a studio portrait of the woman to whom he became engaged, explaining that Nancy was a pediatrician he’d met through the UN. He also posted him a photo of their wedding day, and a snapshot taken of his daughter Rachael when she was two hours old. And he sent him crates of books.

Muhammad responded with letters written on shiny, thin airmail paper, recounting his own news: the death of his father and the assumption of the title of sheikh when he was nineteen. There followed the announcements of his wedding and the birth of his children; his second and third weddings, and the births of more children. He also told of his sadness when his beloved second wife died in childbirth, and when two of his younger brothers died of malaria and dysentery, respectively.

Martin often wrote to Muhammad about his work, asking his friend’s opinion about the best way to operate within the traditional structures, rather than against the grain of African culture. Muhammad would question Martin about world events, trying to understand the American perspective on this subject or another. Both men felt that as distant as they were from each other, somehow they were family.

At the turn of the century, Muhammad wrote to Martin about his granddaughter, Zara. Though she was still very young, Muhammad saw an intelligence in her that was unique. Though he would never admit it to anyone in his immediate family, she was his favorite. “It’s as if this child looks right into my soul,” he confided in a letter to Martin.

Then one day, a letter came from New Jersey that wasn’t from Martin. Muhammad opened it with shaking hands, fearing the worst, praying that he was wrong. Rachael, now a young woman, wrote telling Muhammad that Martin was dead. He had died at his desk at the UN from a coronary. He’d been only fifty-one years of age. Muhammad wept openly for his friend, bewildered to have lost the man he respected most in the world.

But the link between Martin’s family and Muhammad’s family did not wither. Rachael continued where her father left off, sending postcards of famous American buildings and national parks and holiday cards down the years. Rachael sent him her graduation portrait from Harvard Medical School, and her wedding photos arrived at the post office at El Geneina where Muhammad made a monthly trip with his sons, on his way to market.

Muhammad boasted to Martin’s daughter that he was the first in his village to send a female child to school. His granddaughter was a brilliant scholar, exceptionally mature for her age, and she would be the first young woman from their area to go to university in Khartoum.

“Zara will be a doctor, like you and your mother,” he promised Rachael. “We have a new century, and I hope we can build a new Sudan. The future is full of great possibilities,” he assured her.