When The Stars Fall To Earth. Rebecca BSL Tinsley
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.”