next day, he noticed women braiding each other’s hair in the shade during the heat of the midday sun; he saw how the men cared for their older male relatives, tenderly helping them, making time to listen respectfully to their favorite reminiscences, asking their advice.
“We function as family units,” Muhammad had explained at Martin’s prompting. “We come to collective decisions, and we try to act for the benefit of the group. Many people in the countryside will never see money or goods that they haven’t made themselves, but at least they know they’ll be supported when they need help.”
Martin took a deep breath, savoring the aroma of the plowed fields on either side. “You know, I came to Darfur to teach you, but there’s a lot people here are teaching me. You mustn’t believe that the Western way is always the best way. No single society has all the answers. I wish everyone could experience what I am experiencing. It’s enlightening.”
“Enlightening?” asked the boy as they walked toward the mountains on the horizon.
“I mean coming to see that the world would be a better place if we respected each other,” Martin explained.
Muhammad smiled. “I think you’re enjoying your time in Darfur.”
Martin laughed. “You know, it’s like each day counts. I’m like a toddler again, discovering exotic new things.”
Because Muhammad had no knowledge of television, Martin could not explain how he felt that he was in the middle of one of the National Geographic specials he had watched in his youth: the vast savannah; the primitive villages; men riding camels and donkeys; colorful, pungent, noisy spice markets; the sound of African drumming; the smell of the sunbaked earth. But it was so much more than those television shows portrayed.
“I just hope I never lose this sense of wonder.” He glanced at Muhammad. “And it’s your job to make sure I put this experience to some use when I go home. Don’t let me forget it.”
Muhammad grinned. “I won’t. I think you’ll get sick of getting letters from me.”
When Martin denied it, the young man became serious. “We must never lose touch. So even if it’s just a postcard with a few words on it, please write to me. I’d like my children and grandchildren to know your children and grandchildren.”
They shook hands, and continued their walk.
That night they camped in the mountains, and the following morning, Muhammad woke his teacher at dawn. “This is what I wanted you to see,” he explained, leading him to the edge of a cliff overlooking a savannah stretching to the horizon. They watched the sun rise on a scene that appeared untouched since the beginning of time. Muhammad gestured, his arms stretching wide, “This is the Africa I want you to remember.” No people or buildings or power lines or roads or vapor trails in the sky or distant glow of city lights. How many guys from New Jersey have ever seen anything like this? Martin wondered.
That night they lay on their backs examining the stars. Martin was astonished by their steady brightness, thrilled by how many were visible when there was no electric light for hundreds of miles around. Until he came to Darfur he had no idea how many shooting stars streaked across the heavens each night. From where he lay, it looked as if they were falling to earth, coming toward him, close enough to make him blink.
The next day, they returned to El Geneina. Martin began to leave his shutters open at night so he did not miss dawn, the best time of the African day—the unfamiliar bird calls, the sound of people singing as the sun came up, the muffled bleating of the goats, roosters greeting the new day in a neighboring compound, the squeak of donkey cart wheels in the road beyond their gates.
At school Muhammad was always at the top of his class. He showed off shamelessly, wanting the stage to himself, confident he could sparkle, charm, and impress. Martin was tempted to tell the boy to stay quiet for his own good occasionally; to listen, and to judge when to be less obviously clever. But the American feared he might inadvertently extinguish Muhammad’s ambition and energy, so his reservations remained unspoken. It was impossible not to love the boy like a younger brother, despite the grandstanding.
There was another boy in the same class who was Muhammad’s intellectual equal, even though he had little enthusiasm for learning. Uthman was twelve years old and as sharp as a knife. Yet what perplexed the American was Uthman’s lack of independent thought or ambition. Martin found it dispiriting to watch the self-interested calculation behind Uthman’s perpetually sulky eyes, knowing he was bright enough to search for a more enlightened path, but had chosen not to.
Occasionally he talked to Uthman in the shade of the tree beside the school. The contrast between the boys was stark: while Muhammad, fizzing with energy, wanted to walk for miles during their discussions, his face animated, keen to see Martin’s reactions, Uthman slouched against a tree trunk, his broad, flat face apparently vacant, his features blank and unreadable.
The boy was short and plump, unlike most of his classmates. It was clear he was from a wealthy family because only rich Africans carried so much weight, the American had soon learned. Chatting with him, Martin realized that although the boy’s eyes were empty of expression, he had a mind like a calculator, generally, he was several steps ahead of the others in the class.
During their talks, Martin tried to instill some sense of purpose in Uthman, but he met with resistance. He too was destined to be a sheikh when his father died, but he had little interest in expanding his awareness through books.
“My father says the Koran is the only book men need,” he declared with a truculent set to his jaw.
“So why is he sending you to school?”
“To learn mathematics so I’ll be a good businessman, like the traders in El Geneina who are always trying to cheat my father.”
“Really?”
“They think because we’re country people we must be gullible,” Uthman continued, “My father says you can never trust a stranger.”
“Yet the people here are generous to strangers like me,” Martin responded.
“That’s our duty,” was the boy’s sullen reply.
“I’m sorry you don’t enjoy discovering new things during our lessons. What do you like doing?” he asked.
Uthman’s eyes narrowed, as if he suspected he was being asked a trick question.
“What do you do with your friends, for fun?”
“Friends? My father says all a man needs is his family. They’re the only ones you can depend on.”
“And do you have fun with your family? Do you like music, or riding horses, or dancing at celebrations?”
Uthman stared at Martin as if the American was half-witted, making no attempt to answer. I’ve never seen you smile, Martin wanted to say, but did not dare. He could only imagine what a dour killjoy Uthman’s father was. How could the same relatively privileged social position and environment produce a live wire like Muhammad on one hand and the miserable Uthman on the other, he wondered. Then he realized the same thing occurred in America, where two boys from different families often had quite different temperaments and ambitions. In fact, even brothers from the same family often had different ambitions.
“You’re smart enough to become a doctor, you know, Uthman. Then you could help your
