When The Stars Fall To Earth. Rebecca BSL Tinsley
of us with more African than Arab blood in our veins.”
The boy’s eyes flashed with pain. It wasn’t hard for Martin, who was a Jew, to imagine the countless indignities the Darfuris suffered. He recalled his father’s fury when, driving through Maine on a family vacation, they had been unable to stop at motels because they displayed signs reading, “Restricted Clientele.”
“I don’t wish to give you the impression that all Arabs regard Africans as racially inferior,” Muhammad continued. “We’re all Sudanese and there’s been a lot of intermarriage, but what matters is how you think of yourself and your identity, not the precise composition of your blood.”
Martin nodded. “And you share the land here, the Arabs and the Africans?”
“We’ve lived together here for centuries, yes, but as a rule, the Africans tend to be the farmers, and the Arab tribes are nomads, moving their animals to where there is the best grazing. It gives rise to disagreements, but over the centuries we’ve solved them through negotiation and compromise.”
It sounds like the disputes between the farmers and the ranchers in the Old West, thought Martin. “And in Khartoum?” he prompted, intrigued.
“Let’s just say that the less-educated Arabs have been known to show hostility toward people from Darfur,” the boy continued, as if weighing each word. “And toward people from the south of Sudan. Of course in the south they are Christians or animists, whereas here we’re all Muslims.”
“Christians, in southern Sudan?” Martin asked, surprised.
“The colonialists left us with borders that put several different ethnic and religious groups in the same country together. Let’s hope this will be a source of strength for us in the future.”
“Let’s hope so,” Martin echoed doubtfully.
Suddenly Muhammad stopped and met his eyes, his mood still uncharacteristically somber. “I have something to show you this weekend, if you will come with me.”
“Of course,” Martin replied, who was loving every minute of his life-altering experience as it unfolded.
CHAPTER THREE
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