Nurse from southern Sudan
Abdallah: War lord leading a Darfur rebel faction
Field Marshall Bashir: President of Sudan
Mrs. Edwards: Zara’s neighbor in Doncaster, England
Ismael: Darfuri refugee in Leeds, England
Halima: Ismael’s wife
Yusuf: Zara’s little brother
T-Bone: Darfuri rebel officer
Jibril: Darfuri rebel officer
Sandrine Truscott: Human rights campaigner, London, England
Bill: Police officer from New York
Ursula: Human rights campaigner, London, England
CHAPTER ONE
Western Darfur, Sudan, December 2004
Zara flattened her back against the sheer rock face, hoping the overhang above would make her invisible.
Not that long ago the most challenging part of her days had been helping her mother with the domestic chores.
Now, at the age of fourteen, she was alone in the world, running for her life, trying to avoid the helicopter gunship hovering above her. The steep, narrow canyon walls around her amplified the thwacking pulse of its blades. It prowled along the dry riverbed, low enough to spot signs of life, but just high enough not to stir up swirling clouds of sand. Even so, Zara’s long skirt flapped in the helicopter updraft. She pulled the skirt, once bright yellow and green, but now filthy from her journey, tight against her slender frame to keep it from revealing her hiding place.
Lowering her gaze to scan her surroundings, her eyes widened in alarm as she spotted one of her flip-flops lying in the sun about ten yards away. It was bright pink and glowed like a beacon against the sandy ground, drawing attention to itself. She wondered if its lurid color was visible to her pursuers. She had been running so fast to escape them that she hadn’t noticed when it had come off. Now it taunted her, daring her to dash forward to fetch it.
Paralyzed by indecision, Zara closed her eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun, her heart pounding in her ears. Her broad, dark brown forehead, so like her mother’s, was smeared with dirt, and her black cornrow braids were dusty and coming undone. Like her father and grandfather, she had hazel eyes, unusual among her people, the Fur, for whom the region of Darfur was named.
She was so thirsty that she felt herself wilting. The dry air caught in her throat like prickling needles. For a week she had done nothing except walk across the hard, parched earth, feeling no bigger than an ant on the vast plain. She grabbed a few hours of shallow sleep whenever she could find a suitable hiding spot. And when she wasn’t walking, there were terrifying intervals when she ran to find cover from the Sudanese armed forces who were hunting any survivors from her village. During the moments when she could think, she couldn’t help wondering why the soldiers wanted to kill everyone in her village. It seemed so unfair to be hunted like an animal but this hunt had no purpose except destruction.
The noise of the helicopter engine surged, and Zara feared her eardrums would explode as it passed overhead, shaking the air around her. The sound flattened out as the helicopter moved on, along the twisting route of the stony riverbed. She muttered a prayer, willing the Sudanese military to disappear and leave her alone.
Still she pressed back into the wall, knowing from experience that the killing machine could wheel around and loom above her once more within seconds. Only when the deafening sound of the rotating blades had disappeared completely did she dare to open her eyes, and then sink to the dusty ground, her knees trembling.
She hugged her long, aching legs, trying to decide which of the conflicting messages in her agitated brain she should listen to.
Rest here for a few minutes and then keep walking because they might come back.
It’s okay to stay put; you’re safe now because they won’t return to this place today.
What was she supposed to do, she wondered, a lump rising in her throat. She blinked away tears of frustration, wishing her grandfather would appear, offering his reliably wise advice. For a moment Zara forgot her fear, furious that at her age she was expected to know how to cope in an alien place, under such monstrous circumstances. Her father had taught her about African history, not about surviving in the wild. Her mother had taught her how to sew and cook, but not how to escape from Sudanese soldiers or aircraft.
When her breathing returned to normal, she realized once more that her stomach was throbbing. Before she could stop herself, Zara imagined finding a handful of spicy peanuts in the pocket of her skirt, overlooked in the previous seven days. Then she thought about sinking her teeth into roasted corn on the cob, washed down with the cool water from the well at home in her village.
How pathetic—fantasizing about eating a meager handful of peanuts! she thought. Then Zara recalled the other people in her village, and she felt ashamed. At least she was still alive, even if she was alone and terrified.
As she rested in the shade, mulling over her options, she recalled the first time she had seen a Sudanese military helicopter, just the month before. She had spotted it on the horizon, mistaking it for a bird of prey. Then it had fired a flaming rocket that tore into the ground with a thunderous growl.
Zara had run to her grandfather, telling him that she had seen what looked like a star falling to earth.
Sheikh Muhammad had gently set her straight, reluctantly confirming that the frightening rumors she had been hearing were true; civilians in villages like theirs were being targeted and killed by ‘Khartoum,’ as people in Darfur referred to the regime holding power in the Sudanese capital. The war had arrived at their doorstep.
“Why are they doing this to us?” Zara had asked, on the verge of tears.
“The rulers in Khartoum want everyone in Sudan to live according to their extreme variety of Islam. They make the rules, they tell us what we can say and where we can go, and they decide who gets to work and who starves. And they say anyone who disagrees with them is a bad Muslim and must be killed.”
Zara had frowned. “But the Koran says Muslims shouldn’t kill Muslims.”
Sheikh Muhammad had nodded sadly, “You’re right, but they only pick the parts of the Koran that suit them. I’m ashamed how they’ve twisted our faith like this.” He hesitated. “And they think the people in Darfur are inferior because they say we’re black Africans while they are Arabs.”
Zara was quiet for a moment as she tried to understand this. “So, the men in Khartoum are going to send more helicopters to kill us?” she had asked, hoping he would tell her she was overreacting, that her question was childish, and that everything would be all right. Her heart sank when he nodded, his face lined with worry.
Now, as Zara huddled near the rock face, fearful that her pursuers might reappear, she thought back to her grandfather’s sorrow at what had happened to their remote western region of Sudan. The sheikh was not normally a gloomy man, so his pessimism had unsettled her. It had been like a warning to Zara; their lives were changing, and events were beyond their control, even in their village.
Zara leaned back against the hard surface of
