Sudan
Sara Cameron... Inside stories
The journey through North Kordofan was among the most wonderful I ever took. It is the only place where I literally shouted out loud over the unexpected beauty of the land. We rattled along in an old land rover. The air conditioning was wasted and the heat was intense. I didn’t mind. I was wearing the traditional dress of the Sudanese women because my suitcase had not arrived and I’d had to get a couple of outfits made in a Khartoum market before we hit the road. The clothes at least made the heat more bearable but I was also glad because having the windows open and the heat rushing in we were in touch with the place, not sealed off from it.
People were immediately welcoming and trusting and ready to describe their lives - Radia the teacher and the children like Asia and Rihana, and the community near Um Badr where they were mourning the loss of seven year old Abdullah, and insisted I took his nomad school report card so that he would not be forgotten.
And then there was Mohamed Idris, the Director of Nomad Education for the State of North Kordofan. He was a tall, elegant man in his fifties, with a tidy white goatee, dressed in pure white robes of most men. Whenever we stopped for hibiscus tea (see the Sudan home page for more on the journey) Mohammed Idris told stories about his life, his culture, and the way of life of the nomads. He had grown up himself as a nomad.
He described the virtual caste system that existed among the tribes, with the camel herders at the top of the chain, the goat and sheep herders at the bottom. As we traveled we encountered that hierarchy many times over, in access to water points and in the songs the children sang. In one of these songs the boys told the girls not to admire the sheep-herder even if he has money, but to love the camel herder who is “free in his movements like the community dog, moving to and fro.”
With a sense of joy and mischief Mohammed Idris lectured lightly on the roles of men and women - explaining that both he and the Director for Primary Education who accompanied us were monogamous. “We have only one wife each,” he laughed. “To have more is too much trouble.”
He tried to explain the so-called “honour” code that could lead a family to disown or even kill a daughter who disgraced their name by becoming pregnant outside marriage. The good name of the family was a tangible commodity, he said. A good name was something that could be stolen and therefore targeted by enemies. No one outside the tribe or clan could be trusted when honour was at stake. Another tribe or clan might steal honour like they might raid livestock. For a daughter to “give away” or “lose” the family name or honour was a betrayal of the family, a kind of treason. Losing honour downgraded a family and their standing and ability to thrive in the community.
“It is hard for them to see it any other way.It is the way people live,” he said, “as natural as eating. It will take time to change.”
He described the shame and loss of honour a nomad felt if he lost his animals, even due to a drought. “A nomad without animals is nothing. He cannot open his mouth in front of a nomad who has animals. He cannot even laugh in front of them.”
Our last stop was with a wealthy community of camel nomads. One of the young men had studied in England. After chatting about his university and life in the UK I embarrassingly found myself asking “So how many camels do you have?” This is more or less like asking someone how much money they have. He smiled and said “many.” He told me about the migration routes which sometimes took them into waterless desert. At such times they had only camel’s milk to drink, no water at all. He invited me to come back with my children and travel with them into the desert,
After visiting their new nomad school and talking to the teacher and pupils, Jasmina (an education officer with UNICEF Khartoum) and I were invited to take coffee with the men. We entered a large walled room covered by a massive canopy that was usually the exclusive province of men, a place where they came to smoke and relax. The bare ground was covered with carpets. Beds covered with embroidered cloths and cushions sat against the walls. It was a massive space - 20 people could sprawl on the beds and another thirty on the floor and still leave room to spare. Jasmina and I were shown to a small table at the far end of this tented room. The men came in and relaxed themselves. Mohammed Idris sat close by and continued his delightful banter, and we all had coffee. After some time one of the men approached, spoke quietly to Jasmina and she explained to me that we had to leave because it was time to eat.
It was only then that I realized Jasmina and I had always eaten separately from the men. She helped me to remember, how even in the hibiscus tea bars Mohamed Idris and the Director and the driver had always sat at another table. By this time I was feeling very comfortable with our team, and maybe it was the smug wealth of the camel herders, and the disdain for those who lived with only sheep and goats, and the place of women... whatever the reason, I told Jasmina that I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to eat right there, with the men.
But we can’t, she protested. The food was already being brought in on massive metal trays - there were piles of rice and beans and different kinds of meat on the trays that I knew were meant to be eaten by hand and shared by several people. “We will have to eat a whole tray of food ourselves,” she said “because the men cannot share a tray with a woman.”
“Well bring it on!” I told her. “Let’s eat the whole tray. I’m not moving.”
If Jasmina had insisted I would have left right then. Instead she sat back and with some delight told Mohammed Idris that I had refused to leave. He bellowed loudly and very quickly the news spread among the men. There was some muttering and sighing and hand throwing but Mohammed Idris twinkled. “Sara! It is one thing to be a woman and be a writer. It is quite another to actually eat with a woman!” He stood up and with a grand flourish of his spotless white robes he walked extravagantly round the table and sat down with Jasmina and I. The young man I had spoken with earlier and another who had also been to university in the UK also came and joined us.
The Director for Primary Education for North Kodofan stayed on the floor with the men. He looked at me apologetically. “I’m sorry Sara,” he shouted across the room. “I can’t I can’t!”. I understood. He was a political man. To eat with a woman might have undermined his standing in the community.
While we ate Mohamed Idris described the poets, both male and female, who told the legends and stories of the nomadic tribes. He explained that this was indeed a way through which women were able to express themselves, and that a different kind of behaviour might be accepted from such irregular women.. “You are like one of those female poets” he told me.
The next day we took off for El Obeid. Now nervous about my behaviour Mohamed Idris and the Director went to great lengths to explain that the Director for Education who we would meet in El Obeid belonged to a strict sect that refused any physical contact with women outside their family.
“Don’t, whatever you do, don’t try to shake his hand,” said the Director.
“I won’t,” I smiled.
“No this is serious,” said Mohammed Idris. “You can’t!”
“I won’t,” I smiled again. “Well, okay I really won’t,” I added because they looked so worried.
In the event, when we met the Director for Education he shook hands with all the men but when it came to me he tucked his hands into his armpits.
Then it was time to say goodbye. If it had been culturally acceptable I would have thrown my arms around Mohamed Idris to thank him for the journey and his wonderful good humour, gracefulness and generosity - and I feel he would have done the same. Instead we shook hands.
“Oh my friend, I hope I meet you again someday,” he said.
As we drove off I waved and he waved back using both hands.