Published in WomanAlive, June 2006 issue, and used as a feature/campaign for the plight of the Sudanese people (illustrated double page spread). The fee was sent to a charity working in the Sudan.
SUDANESE CRIES
I am crouched down, my eyes hidden, inside what could easily become my tomb. In my mind I still see what I imagined I’d see if I dared to look. My ears didn’t miss a single sound. It was impossible to shut out what was happening, impossible to shut down, try as I might.
I don’t know how long I have been crouched in here; I have lost track of time, but it feels like forever. My daddy said that this would be a place of safety just for me, when he first showed me the hollow tree. I don’t feel very safe. ‘Hide your eyes,’ he said, ‘or they’ll surely find you.’ I know about eyes. I remember the first time they came, when my sister tried to hide. It was her frightened eyes that gave her away, in the light of their flaming torches. After that I didn’t see her any more. I have tried to forget that day. We all have. But then they were back and it was even worse than before. I didn’t think that was possible. The first time they came on horses and camels. This time they came driving in army Land Rovers and trucks, churning up the dust, killing our chickens and mowing down anyone or anything in their path, whilst screeching and laughing and letting their guns off. Back then they came for the men, and the boys who were maybe old enough to fight. My brother was ten. All he wanted to do was play games with the other children. But they took him anyway. They took some of the older girls, my sister amongst them, and my beautiful mama, when she tried to protect my sister. I was three years old. Daddy said I was young enough to forget, but I didn’t.
Daddy and some of the other men had been out hunting and came back to find the village wrecked and just a few of the elders and us little ones remaining. Some of the women were hiding, but eventually came back to the village to see what could be salvaged. My mama and sister were gone. For a long time I hoped that they would return, but I have long since stopped waiting. This time they didn’t spare anyone, not even the little ones.
It is so quiet. Somehow the night has passed. I didn’t sleep. I hardy dared breathe. I don’t trust the quietness, the stillness. I cannot hear sounds from a single animal. They must have taken them. We cannot live without our animals. All the voices have stilled. No babies crying, no sound of life from the huts. Even the crackling of the village burning, has stopped, but the smell is searing my nostrils, acrid smoke burning my lungs. I’m not going out. Not yet.
That first time, when daddy came back and found me, he wept. And then he was quiet for a long time, hugging me tight. He didn’t cry after that, so I tried to be brave. It wasn’t easy without my mama.
Daddy and everybody else in the village that was able, rebuilt our village and slowly people began to drift back; those who had managed to run and who had hidden in the bush. Some of them just stood there, afraid to join us. But some of the mamas came running for their babies. Eventually life seemed almost normal again and children’s voices and laughter echoed through the village. I missed mama and my sister and I was sad when I remembered. But I grew and helped look after the little ones. Now I can’t hear them any more.
When my daddy showed me this hiding place, he said that as long as I stay as skinny as I was then, I’d be able to fit in here. There’s a thin crack for me to squeeze through, but I have definitely grown. I only just managed to squeeze through.
I must have fallen asleep. It’s dark outside when I open my eyes. I quickly cover them. Night and day have passed, but you never know who might be lurking. I am very thirsty and uncomfortable. Still there are no sounds from out there. I haven’t moved since I first crouched down in the hollow tree and my body feels as though it is set solid, like the walls of our huts after the sun has baked the clay. I don’t want to leave my hiding place. I don’t know what I will find out there, only what I won’t. I won’t find my daddy. What will become of me? I’m all alone.
I’m not waiting for daybreak. I don’t want to see and I must be on my way, away from here. I can follow the stars in the sky; I know how to make my way to the next village, and the next, and further, if I need to. My daddy taught me. The moon is cruel, lighting up what I don’t want to see. I run out of the village; I run till I taste blood.
I am very tired and thirsty. I stopped being hungry when the sick feeling rose in my stomach, when the men first came. The next village is as dead as ours, burnt to the ground; no movement anywhere, not even an animal. I checked the well, but the water was putrid, so I had no choice but to walk on. The same happened again and again. Everywhere is dead. Where drought hasn’t conquered all, evil men have eradicated all life. My feet are bleeding and my throat is very dry. There’s no escaping the scorching sun.
I walk for days before seeing anyone. When I do, I can hardly believe my eyes. An unending row of children stretch out before me, dusty, hungry and thirsty, like me. I see myself mirrored in their big eyes. They are nothing but skin and bones and I am like them. Most of them are hardly able to put one foot in front of the other. Young girls carry babies barely alive, some carry babies that are already dead, but they do not realise. There are few mamas. They are heading northwards and I join them. We are refugees in our own country, but we still hope to survive.
I remember when I had my mama and my sister. That was a good time. I remember when they were taken, too. I remember even better the day when the fighting men returned; what they did to my daddy, to all the little ones and everyone else in the village. Except me. I got away, to this. I try to shut out the memories of what those men did to my people; I try not to hear the children’s screams, but I can’t. I will never understand. But together with everyone else, I keep going. We keep going as long as we can. Some make it, many do not. Many pray for the Lord to take them, unable to go on. I pray that I will make it, and that I can tell the world about what is happening in my country. I pray that they will hear our cries, and I say Amen.