Darfur Women Scarred By Fighting"Tears of the Desert: A Memoir of Survival in Darfur" is the first memoir written by a woman caught in the war in Darfur.
The author, Halima Bashir, was born into the Zaghawa tribe in the Sudanese desert.
She received a good education away from her rural surroundings. Halima excelled in her studies and exams, surpassing even the privileged Arab girls. With her love of learning and support of her father, a cattle herder, Halima went on to study medicine, and at 24 became her village's first formal doctor.
Yet, that, nor anything else, was enough to protect her from the encroaching conflict that would consume her land. Janjaweed Arab militias started savagely assaulting the Zaghawa, often with the backing of the Sudanese military. Then, four years ago, the Janjaweed attacked Bashir's village and surrounding areas, raping 42 schoolgirls and their teachers.
After treating the traumatized victims — some as young as 8 years old — Bashir spoke out, igniting a horrifying turn of events.
The whole article is too long to copy here but it's well worth reading. I think I'll keep an eye out for this book. She can certainly write rather well and the story should be told more widely. Here's a short excerpt:
CHAPTER ONE
The Naming
Come here my love,
I have a song for you.
Come here my love,
I have a dream for you . . .
I sing-whisper this lullaby to my boy, my tiny child, as I rock him to sleep in my arms. Outside the window of our cell-like apartment the London traffic roars by. But here we are safe, he and I, this little sleepy miracle that I clutch to myself with a desperate joy in my heart. And as I sing, inside my head I am transported home, home to my beloved Africa.
Come here my love,
I have a kiss for you.
Come here my love . . .
This is the lullaby that my kind and gentle mother used to sing to me, of an evening by the fireside. This is the lullaby that my fierce Grandma Sumah would sing, on those warm African nights when she allowed herself to relax a little, and for her inner love to shine through. And this is the lullaby that my wonderful, funny, clever father would murmur in my ear, as he rocked me on his lap and ran his fingers through my hair.
Come here my love,
I have a smile for you . . .
As I sing this song I am in Africa again, enveloped in the loving warmth and security of my family. As I sing this song I am with my tribe again, the Zaghawa, a fierce, warlike black African people who are the most generous and open when welcoming strangers. I am back in the hot, spicy, dry desert air of my village, a child dressed only in dust and happiness, and all in my life is wondrous and good.
I am in my home, with my family, with my people, in my village, in Darfur.
Topic: Darfur Women Scarred By Fighting