English. “I’m here to take you to your room.”
Pleased to have delivered his speech and been understood, the young man bobbed down and picked up the backpack as if it weighed no more than a pound or two. Slender but strong, he smiled again and asked Martin to walk with him. The American struggled to keep up with Muhammad on the rutted, stony path, in spite of his sturdy American desert boots. As Martin looked around, he saw no vehicles, no stores, no garages, no hotels or restaurants. There weren’t even any sidewalks or streetlights—just high walls and battered metal gates, shutting the world out of private compounds.
“We’re very happy to have you at our school,” Muhammad told him with another dazzling smile.
“Are you a teacher?” Martin asked.
Muhammad grinned, “I’m a student, and I got the top mark in English classes, which is why I have the honor of meeting you from the bus.”
“Thank you. How old are you?”
“Thirteen years old, Sir,” he replied in English, flashing another toothy smile.
Martin tried to hide his astonishment. He had been warned that childhood was relatively short in Africa because the harshness of life meant that young people matured quickly, but he was still taken aback by the young man’s poise.
“Where do you live?”
“I live with my uncle and his family, here in El Geneina,” Muhammad explained, reverting to Arabic. “My parents are in a village twenty-five miles away. They sent me to stay with my uncle in his compound while I get an education. We live with our extended families, many cousins and relatives, all together inside walled compounds like these,” he explained, nodding toward the high plaster walls along the street. He hesitated as they negotiated their way around a donkey and cart pulling sacks of dried beans. “I think it is different in America but here we have many half brothers and sisters because if your father has money he also has several wives. So, I’m very fortunate that my father has allowed me to go to school.”
Martin nodded, not sure he had understood all the information that Muhammad had offered in the unfamiliar Arabic, but he couldn’t help reflecting on the free education that he and his friends in the States had taken for granted.
“I’m the only boy in my village who’s at high school level,” Muhammad continued earnestly. “My father believes that in the new Sudan we must embrace learning and the modern world. Here in Darfur, we’ve had fewer opportunities for development. We’re far from the capital, as you know, and we don’t have the hospitals and schools and roads that they have in Khartoum.”
“The new Sudan?” Martin asked.
“We gained our independence in 1956, and we’re building a modern country after our years as a colony. We’ve been ruled for centuries by outsiders, like the Egyptians and the English, and now it’s our turn to make our nation an advanced African country.”
Martin nodded, assuming he had just been given the upbeat speech required of all citizens. He had been told that those lucky enough to go to school in Africa were given a thorough grounding on the sins of the “colonialists” and “imperialists” that had preceded the wave of liberation across the continent in the previous decade. The American anticipated platitudes about brotherhood and unity, the new frontier and progress, but the boy lapsed into silence, coming to a halt.
“Here we are,” he said as they reached a pair of tall wooden gates.
Martin followed him into a courtyard in which an old man rested beneath one of several trees. Children played and two women squatted by large bowls, shelling what looked like beans. Several goats chewed at tufts of tough-looking grass in the center of the area.
The man beneath the tree got to his feet quickly, smiling as he walked toward them. There was a rapid conversation in the local Fur language that Martin did not understand, and a hand was extended for a firm shake.
“My uncle,” said Muhammad. “You will stay with us.” He hesitated, registering Martin’s confusion. “This is your home now.”
“The school said it would provide me with somewhere to live for the next eighteen months,” Martin began warily.
“It was a terrible room. This will be better.”
“And what will I have to pay you?”
Muhammad looked as if Martin had tried to poke him in the eyes. “We are honored to have you. It’s our tradition here.”
Registering Martin’s disbelief, Muhammad continued, “I’d like to practice my English.” He gave a shy smile and reverted to Arabic. “It will be like living with a private teacher always available.” He paused and looked embarrassed. “My friends tell me I am always asking questions about the world.”
Arriving at work the following morning, Martin was surprised by the silence in the school yard. “Have we got the right day?” he asked Muhammad. “I hope they’re not staying away to protest the arrival of a foreign teacher.”
Muhammad looked confused by Martin’s comment, but led him into a grim, dark little classroom. It was only when Martin’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom that he saw fifty-five boys sitting quietly on benches, eyes bright with anticipation.
He began their conversational English class asking each boy to introduce himself. As the day unfolded, Martin learned that some boys walked two or three miles to school each morning, their stomachs empty. They walked home again still hungry, knowing an afternoon of farm chores awaited them.
Over the weeks and months that followed, Martin realized that most of the boys did their homework by the light of a lantern, telling him they were grateful to be among the few lucky ones who were allowed to learn. They were never noisy or rude, but they fought over whose turn it was to invite the teacher back to meet their family.
Martin’s life developed into a pattern. After school each day Muhammad would lead him around the town, quizzing him about every aspect of American life as they walked. Martin also had his share of questions. He asked about everything he saw: the market where people laid out their produce on blankets on the ground; the livestock tethered together; the conical piles of spices, and heaps of unfamiliar leafy vegetables. They also discussed the differences between their respective societies, and the lowly status of the local women whom Martin had little contact with because they were always doing domestic or farm work, and they ate separately from the men in the family.
The American was astonished by Muhammad’s maturity and wisdom, and once he felt he knew the boy well enough, he asked him if he would be going to university in the Sudanese capital, Khartoum.
“Probably not,” the boy replied, his usually cheerful demeanor vanishing abruptly.
“Is it a question of money?” Martin asked cautiously. He was aware that Muhammad’s family owned many fields and dozens of head of cattle, a status symbol in Darfur.
Muhammad averted his eyes. “No, but I’m the eldest son of a sheikh, and when my father dies, I take over his role.”
“What does that involve?”
“The sheikh has to settle all types of disputes, he allocates how land is used, he keeps the peace among his fellow villagers, and he acts as a leader for the people of his community,” the boy said as they walked. “They expect the best
