have to stop this! Ahmed thought as the officer motioned to his soldiers. But what can I do?
The soldiers kneeled on either side of the teacher, pinning her down, while their commander ripped her clothing away. The girls fell back further in panic, hands held over their mouths, their whimpers like a chorus of startled lambs.
The officer was soon on top of the teacher, ramming himself into her as she screamed in pain. Ahmed noticed the expressions of the soldier on each side of the teacher, their faces sweaty and their mouths hanging open in excitement. A murmur of approval came from the other soldiers as they stood watching their commander get to his feet and zip himself up. He turned to acknowledge their grins and then motioned toward the pack of girls at the far end of the hall.
What can I do to stop this? Ahmed asked himself again. He ducked back down beneath the windowsill. A moment later he heard a schoolgirl’s scream piercing the stagnant midday air, heavy with heat and insects.
He didn’t have to look to know what was happening. Then more screams spilled from the room. Horrified and flushed with fury, his first instinct was to rush into the hall, hoping to grab a gun and start shooting the soldiers. But he doubted he could kill more than a couple of men before he was gunned down. Instead, he knew he must find help from the international monitors who had been stationed in Darfur by the African Union, the regional version of the United Nations. Only they had the authority and the power to stop what was happening in the school.
Ahmed crept away, making sure no one could see him if they happened to look out of the windows. When he was beyond the school compound walls, he slipped off his plastic sandals and started running.
He moved as he never had before, like the wind; like a wild cat, despite the heat and his bare feet; like lightning across a sky bristling with electricity. When he reached the main dirt track he turned toward the market town once more, heading for the camp on the outskirts where the African Union monitors stayed when they were rotating through the region. If he were lucky, the monitors would be there at the moment. If he were less lucky, he would find someone with a phone to summon the monitors. Khalil could point him in the right direction, he reasoned. Ahmed didn’t consider the other alternatives, he simply ran.
There was only one African Union jeep in the monitor’s camp, its hood up, and a Nigerian soldier tinkering with the engine. When Ahmed addressed him in Arabic, the Nigerian shrugged, warily taking in the tall, athletic young man before him, sweating and gasping air into his lungs. Ahmed noticed the Nigerian flag on the soldier’s shoulder. If a nation had a soccer team, then Ahmed recognized their flag.
“English?” he asked, and the Nigerian smiled.
“My English not good,” Ahmed continued, still panting and perspiring. “Problem. Danger. Army,” he pointed. “School, girls, big trouble. Please help. Call monitors, please.”
At first mystified, the Nigerian started nodding. “I understand,” he responded, and then the animation drained from his face. “There’s no diesel,” he explained, pointing at the jeep’s gas tank. “And the battery’s dead,” he added.
“No,” Ahmed roared. “Help now, please!”
The Nigerian held out his greasy hands, inviting Ahmed to look around. There were no soldiers with whom he could go and investigate what was happening at the school. “They left me to fix the jeep, but it’s no good without a battery, and the Sudanese authorities have stopped our shipments, so the batteries are still at the port.”
“Phone?” Ahmed shouted. “Phone help?”
“I haven’t got a phone, either,” the Nigerian explained. “Someone’s supposed to pick me up once they’ve got some diesel and a battery. Tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”
“No!” cried Ahmed, tears welling up in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” the lone Nigerian monitor explained, his eyes flashing with anger. “I hate this, you know? They won’t let us have any weapons, and we don’t have the authority to stop them, even if we had guns.”
Ahmed left the frustrated Nigerian and ran to Khalil’s shop. His friend’s jaw hung open, taking in the stark terror on Ahmed’s face. His chest heaving, the young man explained what he had seen happening at the school.
“The hospital has a phone,” Khalil offered, summoning his eldest son to mind the shop in his absence.
Although he struggled to keep up with Ahmed as they crossed the town, once they reached the hospital, Khalil took charge, telling every bureaucrat he encountered that he must see the administrator immediately. Within seconds the startled but obliging Arab who ran the hospital was on the phone to the district governor’s office in El Geneina.
Ahmed paced up and down, unable to stop imagining what was happening in the school. While the administrator waited to be put through to the right person, Khalil discussed the feasibility of alerting the police or another branch of the security services, but just as quickly dismissed it, knowing they would not help the girls. It was out of the question to expect them to intervene against the army. The police were a powerful wing of the regime whose tentacles reached out from Khartoum; they were not there to protect civilians or solve crimes. Arab citizens like Khalil and the hospital administrator were just as wary of the security apparatus as everyone else.
“There must be something we can do to get the African Union guys here,” Ahmed pleaded, his tone frantic. “I mean, they’ve got helicopters, haven’t they?”
The administrator looked embarrassed, admitting “I don’t know.”
Eventually, he was given another number, for the Africa Union barracks on the outskirts of El Geneina, more than thirty miles away. As they waited for someone to answer, Ahmed was almost jumping in place with nerves, remembering the screams of the girls being attacked, furious with himself for being unable to help them. Then he listened as the administrator asked if the African Union could send a helicopter, but Ahmed noticed his voice did not register any relief or optimism as he expressed his thanks, ending the call.
“No helicopter, but they’ll dispatch a jeep immediately.” He chewed at his lower lip for a moment. “Our hospital will be ready, whenever the girls arrive here.” He looked away, his eyes hidden behind his glasses. “We have no ambulance to send. I’m sorry.”
“Is that it, then?” Ahmed asked, the veins in his neck bulging. “One jeep? How many guys? Will they be armed?” he spluttered.
“Ahmed,” said Khalil quietly. “Please, let’s go.”
“It’ll take hours to reach them,” the young man persisted. “And what are they going to do when they get here? Are they armed?”
Khalil took him gently by the elbow, leading him out of the administrator’s office. “He can’t get involved in Sudanese army business.”
“But this is crazy,” Ahmed shouted. “It’s going to be too late.”
“They’ll do their best,” Khalil said, trying to get Ahmed away from curious onlookers. “You’ve done your best. Now we need to get out of here before we draw attention to ourselves.”
“We haven’t done anything to stop them,” Ahmed protested. “Please be quiet,” his friend urged him. “You’re only making things worse.”
“I’m going back to the
