“It didn’t used to be like this, all these labels dividing people,” Snowbeard nodded. “The Janjaweed are used by the regime to do their dirty work for them, but once they’ve cleared us off our land, those dogs in Khartoum will abandon them.”
Snowbeard could see the young man was not comforted by his prophesy. “Look, you must eat and get some rest,” he continued with a kindly squeeze of his shoulder. “I’m going to tell Muhammad, our sheikh.”
In the many years since Muhammad had been Martin’s pupil in El Geneina, only a few more pounds had accumulated on his tall, spare frame. His forehead was now lined with a criss-crossing of wrinkles, like the dried up tributaries of an ancient river. He kept his beard short, and it was flecked with grey, but he stood as straight as he had when Martin had known him.
When Snowbeard arrived, Muhammad was sitting in the shade of his favorite tree, having a business meeting with his old schoolboy acquaintance, Sheikh Uthman, from a village two hour’s ride away. They were discussing the sale of some of Uthman’s livestock to Muhammad, to meet the expenses of the upcoming wedding of Hawa to Uthman’s grandson, Rashid.
Sheikh Uthman had never been Muhammad’s friend—it was said the businessman had no interest in friendship and relied solely on his family—but as someone of considerable wealth and influence, Muhammad came across him from time to time.
When Snowbeard arrived, Muhammad’s granddaughter, Zara, was lurking in the background, hoping no one would notice her. The villagers, most of whom were less modern in their outlook than Muhammad, would have found it unthinkable that any female, young or old, would participate in a business meeting.
A dozen local men and boys, all dressed in long, loose white cotton robes and turbans, sat on the ground in a circle around their sheikh and his visitor. Most attended Zara’s grandfather’s court regularly. Others were there because Sheikh Uthman’s arrival was an event of some interest, and they had nothing better to occupy their time right now. Their women took care of the agricultural and domestic work, fetching the water and firewood, leaving them free to participate in Muhammad’s famously lively discussions.
Snowbeard, out of breath and flustered, acknowledged Uthman respectfully, but he was too preoccupied to sit down. All eyes on him, he told the group about the arrival of the young couple escaping the Janjaweed attack.
“It’s typical of Arabs,” one frail old man offered, prodding the earth with the tip of his walking stick. “They’re too lazy to work in the fields and grow crops, so they steal our land, once we’ve done all the hard work, and then they slaughter us,” he growled, bubbles of spit forming on his lower lip.
“If you say all Arabs are thieves and murderers, then you’re as bad as the people who are stealing from us,” suggested Sheikh Muhammad. “I know many Arabs who are appalled by what’s being done in their name. And remember, the regime in Khartoum is quick to lock up any Arabs who object to their master plan for Sudan.”
“Fate has been very unkind to our tribes,” said their visitor, Sheikh Uthman, as if he was conceding a self-evident truth.
“Fate has nothing to do with it,” snapped Sheikh Muhammad. Zara looked at her grandfather, surprised by his tone. He shrugged apologetically.
“Forgive me, Sheikh Uthman, but just look at the corrupt thugs who run Sudan!”
Uthman spread his fingers as if he were trying to smooth out fabric. “Instead of blaming our brother Muslims, you should perhaps look at the actions of the foreigners, raping this continent for centuries.”
“Really?” Snowbeard snorted. “And why does the ruler of Uganda have a bigger private jet than the leader of Japan? Did the foreigners make him buy it?”
Sheikh Uthman raised a hand in warning, his eyes settling on Muhammad. “You should perhaps be more cautious with your words, Sheikh Muhammad. Talk of overthrowing our friends in Khartoum will get us all in great trouble.”
“I said nothing of overthrowing anyone, but we do deserve a share in this country’s wealth. And I resent having their version of our faith rammed down my throat,” he added. “No one gave them the right to rule in the name of God.”
“Ah, you are too clever for me, I’m afraid. You and your books! But what good will books do us? Take my grandson here;” Uthman continued, pointing at fifteen-year-old Rashid, who sat quietly, slightly behind his grandfather.
“He’s happy minding the goats and cows, aren’t you?” Uthman asked, directing his words at the other men, rather than Rashid. “You don’t want to go and sit in a dark classroom, do you?”
Zara noticed a cloud pass across Rashid’s broad face and wondered how happy he was after all. Had Sheikh Uthman ever asked the boy what he wanted to do? she wondered. From the slope of his shoulders and the quiet pain in his eyes, she could imagine how he felt about being categorized so glibly by his grandfather.
“And he doesn’t want to marry some woman who’s got ideas from books,” Uthman went on. “If she won’t obey him, he’ll have to beat her all the time.”
Sheikh Muhammad shook his head. “But why does an intelligent man want to marry an ignorant woman? It’ll be boring for him if his wife is a simpleton.”
Uthman groaned, “God help any man who’s so lonely he has to talk to his wife!”
The others laughed, and Uthman continued, “Hawa understands her place, and she’ll serve him well, won’t she?” he prompted his grandson.
Rashid shrugged, not even bothering to look up.
Zara watched as Sheikh Uthman studied his silent teenaged grandson for a moment, clearly dissatisfied by Rashid’s lack of enthusiasm. “Anyway,” he continued with a thin smile, “this is all very interesting, Sheikh Muhammad. I always learn so much when we have these talks, but I’m just a simple man, as you know, and with your kind permission, I’d like to discuss goats.”
“I’m sorry for getting carried away,” Sheikh Muhammad said, his tone contrite. “We face such serious times.”
Sheik Uthman acknowledged this with a nod, saying, “We’ll be fine here. We have a good relationship with the local authorities. They’ll protect us from the Janjaweed raids.”
“But the police, the intelligence services, the army: they’re all working for the regime in Khartoum,” Muhammad said. “They can’t arm our tormentors with one hand and protect us with the other hand, my friend.”
“I bow to your superior knowledge, of course.” Uthman’s smile sent a shiver down Zara’s spine. The man’s eyes revealed nothing, whereas her grandfather’s were the window to his soul, alive with emotion.
They arranged that Rashid would deliver the livestock the following day, and Uthman got slowly to his feet, slapping the dust off his robe. “I’m overjoyed,” he commented, shaking Muhammad’s hand and backing away with shuffling steps.
Zara studied the man’s face, but the smile on his lips did not match the cold look in his eyes. She glanced back at her grandfather, wondering if he had noticed this, but the sheikh was already listening to a long-winded question from a local man regarding his cow, who had a persistent running sore on her knee.
The following day, Rashid appeared with the goats, as
