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Introduction
“The nomads used to say that education will steal their children. Once a child gets a taste school and the town, they would say, that child won’t want to come back and be with his family or move with the animals. But gradually things are changing.”
Mohamed Hassan Abu-Shaura, Director General for Education, in the state of North Kordofan, Sudan explained. “The great drought of 1984 and 1985 was a lesson to a lot of people. Many animals and people died and most of the nomads were forced into camps where they had to line up to get food handouts. Nomads are proud and self-sufficient people and this was very demoralizing for them. Many of the nomads saw that those who fared best in the drought were the ones with an education. They could see that they were being marginalized.”
Today, an increasing number of nomadic tribes traveling the states of Darfur and Kordofan in northern Sudan move not only with their herds of sheep, cattle and camels — but also with a teacher. Read the stories of Asia, Rihana, Mohamed, and El Radia, an extraordinary young woman who left life in the town to become a teacher in a school for the children of nomads. The project is supported by UNICEF working with state and federal education authorities and the nomadic tribes.
Children call out “moya! moya!” (water! water!) Everywhere the talk is of moya. “Without moya there can be no education,” said one of the elders.
The journey from El Obeid to Um Badr takes ten or twelve hours by car and maybe 20 days by camel. The trail, no more than a couple of tire tracks etched in the sand, runs so shallow at times that it could be obliterated by a breath of wind. Vast plains extend on either side, covered by spindly clumps of um semama, the tough, yellow grass that feeds the camels and goats. The land is scattered with green reed-like bushes called el mareih and thorny trees called syaal that the nomads use to make their houses.
We traveled north from El Obeid, passing the Jabel Abu-Sonnoun (Mountains of Teeth) that jut out of the plains like an odd set of molars, passing the hills of Abu-Assal (honey) and the higher mountain ranges beyond Kojom. We crossed cracked, grey-earthed wadis (seasonal river beds) including the vast wadi of Abu Zaima (the wadi of Milk) that runs from Darfur all the way to the Nile. And we crossed the seemingly endless undulating dunes beyond Um Khirwa. Legend says that the dunes were formed in ancient times when pregnancy belonged to Man, but Man kicked so hard during labour that he pushed against the very earth and created the dunes. Afterwards childbirth was given to woman “who is more tolerant.”
Every hour or so a settlement appears that has grown up around a watering point for the animals and now also serves the occasional truck that plys the route to Libya. The settlements carry evocative names – Um Keraidim, Tinna, Um Khirwa, Um Khusus, Sawani El Shekhaib and the provincial capital, ironically named by former British colonists as “Sodri” (So-Dry) but now given a more lyrical lilt as Sodiri.
If the rains come, the landscape is transformed. The wadis flood with water, the hafirs (man-made ponds) overflow, the desert blooms and the land springs crops of sorghum, watermelons, castor oil and hibiscus – the blossoms of which are plucked, dried and served up as tea. During the rains, the trail is lost altogether and travelers can be held up for a month or more before they can cross the raging wadis.
But this is May, the harshest month, and the heat is relentless. The vast dome of the sky seems to promise rain but delivers none. The plains are littered with the skeletal remains of dead trees. All natural water sources are dry. The water points are nothing more than a cluster of wells surrounded by animals. Donkeys haul the water to the surface. Men pour it into mud-pools for the camels and goats to drink. Children and women fill plastic cans and goatskin sacks to carry the precious water home on donkey-back.
For three years rainfall has been scarce. The last short rains failed completely and rumours abound that the long rains of June and July will also be scarce. Children along the trail call out to passing vehicles, moya! moya! (water! water!) Everywhere, in every village when we try to discuss education, the talk always turns to moya.
One elder tells us “Without moya there can be no education.” |
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Views expressed are those of the author and are not necessarily the views of UNICEF |
Sara Cameron Life Stories |
