When The Stars Fall To Earth. Rebecca BSL Tinsley
the only boy in my village who’s at high school level,” Muhammad continued earnestly. “My father believes that in the new Sudan we must embrace learning and the modern world. Here in Darfur, we’ve had fewer opportunities for development. We’re far from the capital, as you know, and we don’t have the hospitals and schools and roads that they have in Khartoum.”
“The new Sudan?” Martin asked.
“We gained our independence in 1956, and we’re building a modern country after our years as a colony. We’ve been ruled for centuries by outsiders, like the Egyptians and the English, and now it’s our turn to make our nation an advanced African country.”
Martin nodded, assuming he had just been given the upbeat speech required of all citizens. He had been told that those lucky enough to go to school in Africa were given a thorough grounding on the sins of the “colonialists” and “imperialists” that had preceded the wave of liberation across the continent in the previous decade. The American anticipated platitudes about brotherhood and unity, the new frontier and progress, but the boy lapsed into silence, coming to a halt.
“Here we are,” he said as they reached a pair of tall wooden gates.
Martin followed him into a courtyard in which an old man rested beneath one of several trees. Children played and two women squatted by large bowls, shelling what looked like beans. Several goats chewed at tufts of tough-looking grass in the center of the area.
The man beneath the tree got to his feet quickly, smiling as he walked toward them. There was a rapid conversation in the local Fur language that Martin did not understand, and a hand was extended for a firm shake.
“My uncle,” said Muhammad. “You will stay with us.” He hesitated, registering Martin’s confusion. “This is your home now.”
“The school said it would provide me with somewhere to live for the next eighteen months,” Martin began warily.
“It was a terrible room. This will be better.”
“And what will I have to pay you?”
Muhammad looked as if Martin had tried to poke him in the eyes. “We are honored to have you. It’s our tradition here.”
Registering Martin’s disbelief, Muhammad continued, “I’d like to practice my English.” He gave a shy smile and reverted to Arabic. “It will be like living with a private teacher always available.” He paused and looked embarrassed. “My friends tell me I am always asking questions about the world.”
Arriving at work the following morning, Martin was surprised by the silence in the school yard. “Have we got the right day?” he asked Muhammad. “I hope they’re not staying away to protest the arrival of a foreign teacher.”
Muhammad looked confused by Martin’s comment, but led him into a grim, dark little classroom. It was only when Martin’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom that he saw fifty-five boys sitting quietly on benches, eyes bright with anticipation.
He began their conversational English class asking each boy to introduce himself. As the day unfolded, Martin learned that some boys walked two or three miles to school each morning, their stomachs empty. They walked home again still hungry, knowing an afternoon of farm chores awaited them.
Over the weeks and months that followed, Martin realized that most of the boys did their homework by the light of a lantern, telling him they were grateful to be among the few lucky ones who were allowed to learn. They were never noisy or rude, but they fought over whose turn it was to invite the teacher back to meet their family.
Martin’s life developed into a pattern. After school each day Muhammad would lead him around the town, quizzing him about every aspect of American life as they walked. Martin also had his share of questions. He asked about everything he saw: the market where people laid out their produce on blankets on the ground; the livestock tethered together; the conical piles of spices, and heaps of unfamiliar leafy vegetables. They also discussed the differences between their respective societies, and the lowly status of the local women whom Martin had little contact with because they were always doing domestic or farm work, and they ate separately from the men in the family.
The American was astonished by Muhammad’s maturity and wisdom, and once he felt he knew the boy well enough, he asked him if he would be going to university in the Sudanese capital, Khartoum.
“Probably not,” the boy replied, his usually cheerful demeanor vanishing abruptly.
“Is it a question of money?” Martin asked cautiously. He was aware that Muhammad’s family owned many fields and dozens of head of cattle, a status symbol in Darfur.
Muhammad averted his eyes. “No, but I’m the eldest son of a sheikh, and when my father dies, I take over his role.”
“What does that involve?”
“The sheikh has to settle all types of disputes, he allocates how land is used, he keeps the peace among his fellow villagers, and he acts as a leader for the people of his community,” the boy said as they walked. “They expect the best behavior from their sheikh, and he must be a worthy role model.”
“Yes,” Martin replied, still not understanding why it should keep Muhammad from attending university in Khartoum.
The boy hesitated, his eyes sliding away to one side. “There are two problems,” he continued, lowering his voice. “First, my father may not live much longer.”
Martin nodded. Listening to the daily conversation of Muhammad’s family, he was astonished by how simple illnesses, easily treatable in America, decimated communities here. Many children died before they reached ten years of age, and women died in childbirth at a rate not seen in the West for hundreds of years. Many girls died after the traditional female genital mutilation ceremony at the age of six, and there were few medical facilities or doctors to save them.
Muhammad explained that the uneducated rural people put their faith in God, assuming it was a matter of fate if so many of their babies died in infancy. If your child was born disabled, that was the way of the world, and some people might even suspect it was God’s judgment on some past evil act by the parents. Disease came not from dirty water or unwashed hands, but from divine will. “We have so much to learn from America, you see,” Muhammed explained, embarrassed.
Martin had also experienced the nutritionally limited Darfuri diet. At mealtime the men and boys, taking the majority of the food, shared dishes, using their right hands to scoop up a tasteless bread-like starch from a communal bowl. Apart from beans, there wasn’t much protein, and meat was a luxury.
“It’s also hard for boys from here to get into university,” Muhammad continued as they walked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes we’re looked down on by our rulers in Khartoum. Few of the benefits of development reach here, as you’ve seen for yourself.”
Martin thought back to his brief stay in the capital. The city had struck him as a poor, ugly, dirty, charmless sprawl, with open sewers along the main street. Now, comparing it with the town in Darfur, he could see that it was much wealthier. Given a choice, he preferred it here in El Geneina, with its polite citizens and gentler lifestyle, its fields of maize stretching to the horizon and its innocent isolation. But if he were a Darfuri, he might wonder why his children had to die for the want of simple medicines that were more readily available in the capital.
“A few Arabs, not many of course,” the boy added quickly, “point to the passages in the Koran that justify taking black people as slaves, and they say that God created the black Africans to serve the Arabs. Very few think like this, I hope, but it’s not pleasant when they call you ‘slave’ to your face, or treat you like a backward child.”
Martin tried not to look astonished. To him the Arab people in Khartoum looked every bit as black and African as the Darfuris.
Muhammad saw Martin’s baffled expression. “For centuries the Egyptians ruled our country, and they called this land Sudan, which is a corruption of their word for black. In other words, the Egyptians