to their family because she had never had a baby.
Nevertheless Hawa was puzzled by the photographs that had arrived, showing the cousin and her husband, standing by their swimming pool in California, looking so happy. Why was their cousin not ashamed? Why was this man willing to be photographed with a barren woman? Did he have another wife who bore him children? It was a mystery to Hawa, but she never mentioned it because to do so would be seen as an open challenge to her mother and their strict, traditional version of Islam.
Under Islamic Sharia law, Hawa’s duty was to submit wholly to the man who possessed her, be it her father or the man her father chose to be her husband. She had to ask permission to go anywhere beyond their compound, accepting any amount of punishment if she caused displeasure. If, God forbid, she produced no children, then she would be considered hardly human at all. Her husband would be able to throw her out of the village like garbage, letting her starve, simply saying, “I divorce you,” three times. As a woman she had no right even to the custody of her children, if she managed to fulfill her purpose on earth by producing some.
Hawa had been brought up to understand that her honor was all she had. Any man was free to visit a prostitute as often as he liked because Sharia allowed men to have “temporary marriages,” but if Hawa so much as glanced at a man, her family could murder her with impunity to save their honor. In all legal aspects, she was worth only half what a man was. Such was the joyless, extreme version of Islam under which Hawa had been raised by her family.
She had seen Sheikh Uthman’s grandson, Rashid, the young man she was supposed to marry, when he accompanied his grandfather to Sheikh Adam’s compound, but Hawa had never spoken to him. The role of women and girls in their family was to serve men food and refreshments, and to otherwise keep out of the way.
“What’s wrong with you, Hawa?” her mother demanded that morning. “Uthman’ll provide well for you, so long as you serve Rashid properly. Just make him happy when you submit to him and make sure you satisfy him.”
Hawa burst into tears, horrified at the prospect.
“You’ll just have to get used to it because you’re going to have your husband crawling on top of you every night until the day he dies,” her mother commented. “Just shut up and don’t complain about the pain. It’s over in a few seconds, I promise you, and then they roll off again. It doesn’t matter who you lie with, believe me. It’ll be painful and unpleasant. Hopefully you’ll be pregnant so often you won’t have to do it too much. But never refuse, whatever he wants, or he’ll get another wife.”
Hawa looked terrified at the prospect. “Will it always hurt?” she asked.
Her mother frowned. “You should be proud you were circumcised, unlike the filthy women who live in the big cities. Not only are you pure and honorable, but your husband will get extra pleasure because you are so small and tight. That’s what men care about. Don’t you understand?”
Hawa blinked her tears away, more distressed by the moment.
“Your place on this earth is to serve your husband,” her mother had concluded. “And to provide lots of sons.”
Hawa buried her head in her hands, begging God to give her strength to withstand what lay ahead and not shame her parents.
* * *
It soon became clear to Sheikh Adam that the timing of Hawa’s wedding was unfortunate. Everyone in the area had family members living in nearby villages that had been attacked by the Sudanese government. The air raids were getting closer each day, and the villagers watched as caravans of people passed by on the main road, their possessions loaded on donkeys, heading west to the refugee camp near El Geneina. They gave the wretched travelers water from their well and fruit from their orchards, listening as they recounted their terrifying tales, all the while praying the war would not spread to their village.
However, Hawa’s father shut his ears to the refugees’ stories, unwilling to confront the unthinkable. He had a business to run and a wedding to plan. But, with the recent escalation in violence in mind, he dispensed with the usual weeks of preparation before Hawa’s ceremony, and sought Uthman’s agreement to hold the wedding in five days’ time. An elaborate celebration was an expression of his position in the community, an important part of the many customs that made the Fur people special, in his view. Whatever else the regime might be doing to his fellow Darfuris, they weren’t going to take this tradition away from them. Not without a fight, he vowed.
But what Sheikh Adam had not counted on was that the war was already bearing down on him, and a postponed wedding would soon be the least of his problems.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sheikh Muhammad’s village, Western Darfur, November 2004
The woman was about eighteen years old and heavily pregnant. She was riding sidesaddle on a donkey led by a young man of about the same age. They looked tired and bewildered, their robes dusty and their eyes narrow from squinting in the sunlight.
As the strangers entered Sheikh Muhammad’s village, everyone stopped what they were doing. Several abandoned their work and went toward the newcomers to offer help. It was unusual to see a woman out so late in her pregnancy: the locals assumed only the most extreme circumstances would force the young couple to leave their home on a journey.
An older village man known as Snowbeard because of the striking whiteness of his facial hair reached the young man first, greeting him warmly. After a brief conversation, Snowbeard led the couple to his compound, calling his daughter to help their unexpected visitors. She led the young woman gently to a hut where she could rest out of the sun, and then she brought her something to eat and drink.
Meanwhile Snowbeard fetched the exhausted young man a pitcher of water and a mug, and sat him down in the shade of a tree, urging him to satisfy his thirst before he told his story.
“A merchant came through our village yesterday morning,” the young man began, his voice shaking. “He told us the Janjaweed were gathering a mile away,” he said, using a local expression meaning “thieves on horseback.”
Since the start of the war, Janjaweed was how everyone referred to the poor local Arab nomads who had once lived peacefully among Darfur’s African ethnic groups. Now the Janjaweed were being armed and paid by the Sudanese regime to force the black African farmers out of Darfur. Often the Sudanese air force bombed the villages first to scare the local farmers away, and the Janjaweed followed in their wake, killing those unwise enough to stay.
“I told the rest of my family,” the young man resumed, “but they thought I was overreacting, especially with my wife in her condition.” His words trailed off and he hung his head, overwhelmed for a moment.
“Do you know what happened after you left?” asked Snowbeard.
The young man glanced up, his eyes wide and startled. “Oh, we could see it, even from miles away. We could feel the earth shake when the bombs fell. And sure enough, after the air force finished, the Janjaweed came, a vast column of them, maybe two hundred men across and three deep.”
Snowbeard nodded, knowing better than to ask the young man if he knew what had become of the family he left behind. He passed him some fresh bread and bean stew, brought to them by his solicitous daughter. “Stay here until the baby’s born and your wife has recovered. We’ve got plenty of room.”
The young man gazed into his eyes and then turned away, overcome by tears. “Thank you so much,”
