Martin guessed that asking Uthman if he wanted to be the sheikh was a waste of time. His father had determined what his eldest son would do, and that was the end of the matter in such a traditional family. Yet, he sensed anger burning within the boy, manifesting itself as adolescent sourness. Perhaps he was not so resigned to his fate as he let on.
One conversation in particular stuck in Martin’s memory. Much to Muhammad’s irritation, Martin coaxed Uthman into joining them for their regular afternoon trek. Although they were from the same social strata, Muhammad avoided Uthman, and Martin suspected Uthman disliked Muhammad, the classroom paragon. However, the American hoped to get the boys talking, to challenge Uthman’s sense of resignation. Secretly, he hoped Uthman would see that he was every bit as clever and capable as Muhammad.
In an attempt to get the boys debating each other, Martin was deliberately provocative.
“You know, Africa would develop faster if you let the girls go to school. Then you’d have twice the brainpower at your disposal. Your economy’s going to be stuck in the Stone Age if you keep the women farming like this.”
“That’s the way we’ve always done it,” said Uthman.
“And that’s why you’re so far behind the rest of the world.”
“In your eyes we’re behind, but to us you are morally primitive,” the boy snapped.
“How do you explain why people in the West are so much richer?” asked Martin. “Is that fate? Why does your God allow my people, who you see as morally primitive, to be rich and healthy, while his own people endure poverty and disease?”
Uthman ignored the question, trudging along the road, his expression stony. “Anyway,” the boy resumed abruptly, “women are inferior, and you can’t trust them. They’re ruled by passion, not logic. Men are logical.”
“Don’t you think men are ruled by their sexual desires?” Martin challenged. “I know lots of men who’ve made big mistakes because they followed their physical urges rather than their brains.”
“No,” said Uthman. “It’s the women in your society who lead men into temptation. Your women are like prostitutes. But ours aren’t because we cut them so sex is painful for them.”
“Are you saying all Western women are like prostitutes?” Martin asked. “Including my mother?”
Uthman glared straight ahead, once again refusing to be drawn into argument. “We cut them because it’s the only way to keep them from being unfaithful. A girl is her father’s property until she gets married and then she belongs to her husband. We must prevent them from bringing dishonor to our families.”
“So when you get married to a girl you love, are you saying you won’t care that she finds making love with you painful?”
“It’ll be her duty to serve me and stay faithful.”
Martin noticed that Muhammad was listening carefully, but he decided not to bring the young man into their conversation, hoping Uthman would continue talking.
“If you were nice to your wife, perhaps she wouldn’t be unfaithful to you.”
Uthman ground his teeth. “Her duty is to give me lots of sons. And when I have enough money I’ll have several wives, and everyone will see how strong I am because I’ll have lots of sons.”
Martin sighed, “I suppose I can see why the men here want the women to be mutilated, but why does each generation of women do it to the next? So much pointless suffering.”
“Every mother wants her daughter to get a husband,” he retorted angrily. “This is impossible if they’re impure.”
“But so many girls die after the ceremony,” Martin persisted. “They get infections, they bleed to death, and then they have complications during childbirth. Just on the grounds of health alone, it seems completely irrational.”
Martin saw Uthman smarting at his use of the word “irrational.”
“This is how it is here,” the boy explained, his voice rising. “It’s always been this way, and to change it would be going against God’s will.”
“But there’s nothing about mutilating girls in the Koran, is there?”
Uthman’s eyes flashed with fury. “It’s not our way to challenge the ways of our elders,” he exclaimed.
“Then how do you ever make progress, if you always accept what you’re told, and if you never examine new ideas? That’s illogical,” added Martin.
“That’s not our way,” Uthman retorted, spittle flying from his lips. “We must submit. We are in the hands of God.” He paused, his chest heaving. “It’s fate.”
“And when you’re a sheikh, you’ll allow no debate?”
“You don’t understand the position a sheikh has within our communities. This stuff about asking questions leads to no good at all.”
Martin was silent, sensing Muhammad was anxious to join in. Finally he turned to the tall boy, who was almost twitching with eagerness. “What do you think?” he asked his young friend.
“We are the masters of our own destiny,” Muhammad countered. “God gave us brains so we could decide our own path. We should be guided by God, and by what is written in the Koran, of course. Islam is our source of strength and inspiration, and from the Koran we get our eternal values. But it mustn’t be the cause of enslavement.”
Uthman was suddenly silent. Martin wondered if the boy was a little afraid of where they were daring to tread. Why else was he almost shaking with anger? Even years later, Martin would remember Uthman’s dismal expression that afternoon, although it was the memory of Muhammad’s toothy grin that would never fail to cheer him.
On the day Martin left Darfur, Muhammad escorted him back to the same bus stop where they had first met. The two young men renewed their vow to keep in touch, although there was no false hope that they would meet again. Both wept as they parted, aware that each had opened up unimagined opportunities for the other. And Martin had left Muhammad his most valuable possessions—his books, including the dozens he had been sent by friends and family during his stay in Darfur. He had a feeling they would be treasured for decades to come, displayed like military medals, read many times by many people.
Not long after arriving home from Africa, Martin began a career at the UN development agency in New York, trying to deliver effective aid to people who were already making an effort to help themselves.
True to his word, over the next two and a half decades Martin sent Muhammad postcards of America and photographs of his family and their house in New Jersey. He mailed him a studio portrait of the woman to whom he became engaged, explaining that Nancy was a pediatrician he’d met through the UN. He also posted him a photo of their wedding day, and a snapshot taken of his daughter Rachael when she was two hours old. And he sent him crates of books.
Muhammad responded with letters written on shiny, thin airmail paper, recounting his own news: the death of his father and the assumption of the title of sheikh when he was nineteen. There followed the announcements of his wedding and the birth of his children; his second and third weddings, and the births of more children.
