The
Holy Warrior
By David L. Lukudu (Sudan)
Revised 1/10/07
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I am a graduate of Makerere University Medical School,
Kampala, Uganda; bachelor of Medicine and bachelor of Surgery (MBChB).
I come from South Sudan, Juba in particular. But I have lived in East
Africa (Uganda, mostly, and Kenya) for the last 11 years, partly because
of studies, but mainly due to the civil war in my part of the country.
I have completed my internship and am looking forward to practising as a
medical officer in war-ravaged South Sudan.
The air was calm and dry. The sun would soon
set in a few hours, may be three or four, but its heat, a menace,
remained like an adamant thorn in the flesh. Above, in the heavens, the
clouds looked frozen, as though some silence had befallen the whole of
southern Sudan in deep mourning. Beneath the lifeless clouds, hordes of
vultures hovered here and there, perhaps unperturbed by the rumbling of
artillery and rattling of gunfire near and yonder. In the distance,
seeming to blend with the sea of green-ness and few scattered burnt huts
was black smoke that curled upwards in almost every direction, nearly
blinding the horizons. The incessant hum of the Sudanese air force
bomber, the Russian-made Antonov, faded as it crossed above yet again.
Almost unnoticed were the monotonous mumbling of a nearby stream and the
fluttering and shrills of anxious birds in the neighbouring bushes. But,
perhaps, it was the persistent stale stench that pervaded the vicinity,
or the intense fear of impending death, that was vivid to the two men in
the trench on the outskirts of Yei town. It was yet another ‘dry season
offensive.’
Osama could see the young man was sweating profusely,
like he was involved in a marathon under the merciless heat of Khartoum, and was
trembling vigorously, like a jallabia – the (Arabs’) long white cloak;
flapping in the desert winds of northern Sudan, during the cold season. They
were squatting and facing each other in one of the two-metre deep trenches that
the native militias had dug at the outskirts of Yei town; they were Sudan
government’s army in the area. Both men were completely immersed in the hole; in
their squatting posture, their heads were below the level of the protective
sacks of sand around the margin of the trench. They clutched to their AK-47
rifles, snuggled between their legs with the barrels pointing to the sky. Just
out of a surprise, shells whistled and echoed above them in opposing directions,
quaking the earth, and they felt every vibration generated by the tremors. But
the decrease in frequency of the government’s army shells indicated to Osama
that their retreat to the safety at Juba town was to be rapid. The government
army had failed to take Yei town again from the rebels – SPLA (Sudan People’s
Liberation Army). This was their second year in a row. The dry season offensive
against the rebels was a frustrating attempt that year.
Osama and his friend, and maybe others in nearby
trenches, were now, almost, left at the mercy of the rebels; unless they fought
hard enough, not caring about their eminent demise in the jungles of southern
Sudan. As religious fanatics with a mission, were they not assured of places in
janna, paradise? Their religious belief in jihad (martyrdom) was their
only means to heaven!
Allah Hu Akbar! Allah Hu Akbar!
La ila ha ilallah!
Mohammed Rasulallah!
Allah Hu Akbar!
Allah Hu Akbar!
Allah wa al watan
Fi sebil Allah na mut.
God is great! God is great!
There is no other God
Apart from Allah! Mohammed is a prophet of Allah!
Etc…etc.
They had always chanted that morale boosting song
during training sessions in desert camps of northern Sudan. That song had become
their marching anthem since the early 1990s during their long convoys at the
time of battles in the south, which was mostly under SPLA’s control. The men
were now in the midst of the holy war they had always valued, always dreamed of
fighting in. They all believed that was an opportunity to become shuhada
– martyrs - and be in paradise with Allah.
The battle had been hot – very hot. Osama had not
seen anything like it for the five years he had been a Mujahid - a
voluntary jihad warrior - fighting the rebels; kuffar (infidels) and
abid (slaves) who were not willing to embrace Islam, the one and only
religion that mattered, that had always mattered, and that should matter in the
Sudan.
If only southern Sudan would be Islamized, the
whole of eastern, central and southern Africa would follow and the Islamic and
Arab worlds would expand! Oh, the sweet Sudan, the largest country in Africa,
part of an Arab world!
The NIF, or National
Islamic Front military government, as known in the early days, of Omar al-Beshir
and the then de facto ruler and Islamic ideologue, Dr. Hassan al-Turabi, was the
latest in the line of Khartoum regimes fighting the southern rebellion. The
first was the military one of Gaafar Nimeri that was involved in solving the
first civil strife in the south but went on to provoke the second one, and was
later overthrown by civilians in a massive uprising! Then there was the
transient one, also military, of Suwar al-Dahab. Then the civilian -
democratically elected, by northern politicians - of Saddig al-Mahdi, which was
toppled by the NIF.
The battle must have taken about four days and they had
not eaten or slept in peace all those hours. But Osama knew quite well from his
experience that when being overrun by the enemy troops, it was best to keep calm
when escape was difficult. For with a miracle from Allah, one could still be
spared if the time had not yet arrived for one to be in paradise with Prophet
Mohammed - peace upon him.
Littering nearby trenches and the surrounding bushes were
dead bodies - unburied bodies - some already rotting, as evidenced by the
visible fresh fly maggots and the strong stench the vultures had always loved,
that had always attracted them from afar for a feast. And the vultures were
already here and there and everywhere. There were also a few human skulls and
bones decorating the areas near and yonder. The corpses, the skulls, the bones,
the trenches made the whole place looked like a graveyard that had been rampaged
or vandalized by some blood-thirsty pirates searching for an imaginary
hidden treasure or, better, the pro-Islamic Somali militia in Mogadishu clearing
an Italian missionary cemetery for a territory.
Osama could tell which side had suffered heavy casualties
with regard to its paratroopers, as he stole a quick look at his surroundings.
He could see the deep-green uniform of the regular Sudanese army; the desert
camouflage uniform of the commando and Mujahideen units – probably
donated by some Arab world country, maybe Iraq or Iran, in the faith of Islam,
of Arab brotherhood; the cream uniform of the Difaa al-Shabbi, the
Popular Defence Forces. He had always had pity for the Popular Defense Forces:
hastily trained in 45 days in a desert setting - to boost the dwindling numbers
of the Sudanese government troops - and to fight in a sub-Saharan region, a
completely different terrain, and against an enemy that was not only committed
but also wielding a lot of experience. The Difaa al-Shabbi were made up
of: volunteers for jihad; homeless kids, rounded up from the streets of Khartoum
(mostly northerners, with few southerners); and pre-university and graduate
students, carrying out compulsory service for the military government. They were
all fighting to protect the interest of the nation, for the cause, for Islam.
Allah Hu akbar! Allah Hu akbar! La ila ha ilallah!
Mohammed Rasulallah!
“Protect us Allah … protect us Allah…” the young man kept
praying next to Osama, his prayer beads in his clenched right fist.
“What’s your name?” Osama asked the Popular Defence Force,
loud enough to be heard; for it had happened so often that the government troops
had found themselves mixed together in the midst of battle. How could they know
members of the different sects of the armed forces when the Sudanese army was so
large?
“Taha,” the young man replied, softly, almost in a
whisper.
“Taha?”
“Yes, Taha Abdul-Rahman al-Jabban.”
Osama smiled momentarily at the meaning of the last name:
the coward. It exactly described the owner, he thought.
“And your age?” he went on.
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen? What’s your story…how did you come to be
here?”
“Jihad, of course, I…m…me…mean…the compulsory military
service for the nation…” Taha went on with a little bit of stammering, his voice
also shaky in unison with his whole body, “I should be…starting… Law at the
University of Khartoum…”
“And your family…where is they?”
“Oh, I understand,” Osama concluded. “It’ll be alright if
you stick with me…I’m Osama bin Aladdin al-Soudani. Five years of
experience.” He assured Taha. And then suddenly he felt pity for the young man.
Poor boy, he thought. ‘Ice cream boys,’ he went on with thinking. They should be
under their mother’s roofs, leaking ice cold ice cream under the merciless heat
of Khartoum, or eating dates, basta or tisaly; they should not be
here in this harsh location in the south.
Was this civil war really a jihad? He had often asked
himself that question, and he had always ended that it was. But maybe it was
worthless fighting in this war; at times he would contemplate. Probably the
southerners had a good reason for waging a civil war in their part of the
country. But who cared, anyway? Were not the battles being fought in their own
backyard – in their towns and villages? But about separation for the Sudan, that
was out of the question for him. They, the northerners, had a lot of support.
They needed the fertile land and a share of the oil discovered in the south,
even if it meant at the expense of the inhabitance of the area - wiping off of
the populations of the south! He was not sure if a previous Sudanese president
did not at one time mention emptying the whole of the troubled south of anything
that could breathe and starting a coffee plantation in the beautiful, fertile
land, rich with minerals including the ‘black gold,’ oil. If that were to
happen, who would talk? After all a lot was committed against the slaves, the
infidels during the seventeen years of the first civil strife in their part of
the country.
Allah Hu Akbar! Allah Hu Akbar! La ila
ha ilallah! Mohammed Rasulallah!
Egypt would always stand on the
way against separation of the Sudan into south and north, Osama was sure of
that. The Nile Basin Treaty of 1959 between Egypt and the countries of the great
Nile basin had to be honoured. Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Kenya, Tanzania,
Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi and the Democratic Republic of Congo all had interest in
the waters; although at the time of the deal signing most of these countries
were still under colonial rule. The agreement was intended to regulate Nile
water usage among the countries involved. Activities that would reduce the
volume of the waters reaching Egypt should not be undertaken. The ten riparian
states were legally obliged to observe the limitations in the utilization of the
waters of the Nile basin. The treaty was subject to the provisions of the Vienna
Convention on the Law of Treaties, which was protected by international law. The
Convention allowed termination and suspension of existing treaties only under
the treaty provisions, by consent of the parties, or by fundamental change of
circumstances. An additional eleventh country – that is, an independent South
Sudan – would mean extra consumption of the waters for developmental projects.
The Egyptian Arab-brothers would not tolerate an additional rival nation
tempering with their lifeline - hampering the smooth flow of the waters
northwards for the good of their masses. He was confident Egypt would do
anything possible to prevent secession of the south.
Allah Hu Akbar! Allah Hu Akbar!
The international community,
including the UN, respected territorial integrity and would, therefore, also not
encourage splitting of countries; he knew that too.
Allah Hu Akbar! Allah Hu Akbar!
Indeed.
Oh, the sweet Sudan! ‘Naakul min ma
nazra wa nalbis min ma nasna!’ We eat from what we sow and we
dress from what we manufacture! No soul should dare temper with it! No
southerners should dream of breaking off from the Sudan, if they wish to avoid
being liquidated and becoming extinct or forced into exile for generations to
come - forever. Who would talk? Who would protect them? Who would care? Oh, the
sweet Sudan, the largest country in Africa, one of the Arab world nations!
“You can have this for your protection,” Osama said,
handing the young man an amulet. He had a good collection, about a dozen of
them, most around his neck.
“I’ve got one…a…a metallic key… around my right arm…which
they say is for entrance to janna.” The young man responded, still with
an unsteady voice as he took the string, with small leather part attached, and
slipped the protector around his neck.
“Those metallic keys…they don’t work,” he tried to
convince Taha.
“But almost all of us have that -”
“It doesn’t work…”
Cries for help and moaning went on in some of the nearby
trenches and bushes. Osama knew that he could do nothing to give a hand to his
fellow Mujahideen - the voluntary jihad warriors. Some were from some
Arab world countries. He was also familiar with the fact that their inexperience
had contributed a lot to their present predicament – the state of helplessness
at the aftermath of a battle.
There were movements in the bushes, behind Osama and to
his left; he heard them and felt them. Occasionally, there were brief echoes of
gunfire and more cries and screams; and the words, “…you a Mujahid or a
government soldier…” would punctuate the interval between the gunfires from time
to time. There was also: “You can tell a Mujahid from his beards…” The
voices kept increasing in intensity. “Allah,” he prayed, “save us.” It could be
that the enemy infantry were now summarizing, finishing the remnants of their
combatants who were still breathing, but dying, helplessly, he thought. Taha
kept his head, still wavering.
There were sounds of boots kicking someone. Kick, kick,
kick. More cries. More kicking. More of the previous words: Mujahid,
government soldier, beards. More gunfire. More cries. More screams. Sporadic
gunfire in the distance. Occasional shells whistling above in opposite
directions.
Then the voices were only about five or so metres away. He
felt strength ebbing from his limbs. And for a moment he thought he was at the
same level as the young recruit next to him: silent, weighed down by the
unexpected, apprehensive experience - scared to death in the trench. But he
gathered enough courage to peek above and outside their hole. And he saw in
Faysal’s direction about four or five of the rebels, in military camouflage
fatigue uncoordinated with plain clothes, and AK-47 rifles, surrounding him.
Faysal Zubeir Wad-Kassala was a long time friend of Osama from eastern
Sudan. They had fought in the south, for the protection of Islam, for five
years. They had captured and lost and recaptured towns and villages from
insurgent grip. They had survived the most extreme of conditions together. They
had even had rats and frogs and snakes for meals when they had run out of
supplies for weeks. They had traveled long distances on foot during battles in
the vast territory of southern Sudan. Now he had thought Faysal was long dead in
his trench, because there had been no activity from his location for about two
days. He kept his head high enough to catch a clear glimpse of what was going
on. The enemy soldiers had pulled his friend out of his hole and he was lying on
the grass on his back; he seemed to be alone, and it was not clear whether he
was injured or not; he was not showing any signs of resistance.
“Are you a Mujahid or a government soldier?” a tall,
skinny and dark SPLA soldier was asking Faysal, his tyre sandal seemed to be on
Faysal’s head, pressing it hard on the ground. Another rebel of similar build
like his comrade was removing notes of the Sudanese dinar from Faysal’s pockets.
“These Islamic notes of al-Bashir are as good as toilet
paper in our territory, the ‘New Sudan’,” the second revolutionary remarked,
bitterly, throwing the papers on Faysal’s face, “we prefer the old pounds.”
“Are you a Mujahid or a government soldier?” the
tyre-sandaled rebel repeated the question, unmindful of his companion and the
dinars.
“What’s the difference you infidels…hell is open for all
of you…” Faysal was adamant, “Mujahid or not we shall die matyrs…”
“We’re fighting because of being denied our rights in our
ancestral lands - being marginalized and underdeveloped and Arabized, in
the name of Islam, and you talk of jihad,” another of the SPLA soldiers was
stressing a point, and he gave Faysal a kick on the right flank with his heavy
boots - which, maybe, formerly belonged to another Mujahid, who was now
long dead.
“He’s a Mujahid,” a fourth short soldier assured
his fellow combatants, as they all pointed their guns at Faysal, “you can see
from the bushy beards and the way he speaks…dirty-mouthed bloody Arab! Do not
spare him, but spare his shirt for me.”
Osama dropped into his trench. A feeling of dizziness
engulfed his head. He could not bear seeing Faysal, his long time friend, his
long-term brother in Islam, being killed in front of his eyes.
Ta-tat! Taduk! Ta-tat! Tat! Tat! He heard gunfire. Then he knew. He
closed his eyes; was Faisal no more? And then he started feeling guilty: he
should have done something for his friend, for his brother, for Islam. But then
he had no strength left in him, and the pain from a shrapnel injury to his right
hand had started to throb again; he was one of the victims of an accidental
Antonov bombing that was meant for Yei town the previous day.
He had not noticed Taha for a moment, as the young man
went on quivering. Osama’s eyes remained shut; he could not bear the stress of
it all. Then in a flash his mind went back to the first time he met Faysal in
Juba town.
He had always dreamed of visiting Juba, the capital of
southern Sudan, because so many northern traders or businessmen back home in the
north had talked a lot of good about the southern region of the country,
especially about the climate, the fertility of the soil, the unexploited market,
the freedom to do so many things that were not possible to do in the north.
But of course not the people. Not the infidels. Not the slaves. Was there
anything good about junubeen, southerners? Unless they converted to
Islam. He thought so. He longed to feel the heavy rainfalls and see the seas of
green-ness his fellow northerners dreamed of. He craved to test suku suku
or sieko 5, the local spirit, which was hard to get in Khartoum, because
of the strict Islamic Sharia laws; and even if one could get this in the slums,
where most displaced southerners live on the outskirts of the great city
Khartoum, it was an offence and one would be flogged. He could not wait to test
the women who he was told were so easy to get as long as one had the money,
unlike Khartoum with Sharia again. The juicy women his fellow Arab northerners
had said they left some behind with fatherless children, to boost up their
pure genes in a society heavily infested with infidels. There was indeed
freedom in the south; freedom that he called freedom; freedom that he loved and
cherished. He had always thought of southern Sudan as a collection of villages,
with few scattered huts and naked people roaming about, grazing their cattle and
goats and chicken, people with no proper religion – infidels who had stubbornly
refused to accept Islam, the one and only religion that mattered, that had
always mattered, that should matter in the Sudan, the sweet Sudan… Nonetheless,
it was a bit of a surprise to him when he discovered that Juba was a small city,
all right, but had some good infrastructure, some tarred roads and some
civilized people (if not all).
The Mujahideen had occupied the whole of the
University of Juba compound somewhere in the centre of Juba town. The
university, like many residents of the town itself who had migrated to northern
Sudan, had to be transferred to Khartoum, because of insecurity and instability
posed by the civil war in the south. The large compound with huge and numerous
buildings was now an army barracks; no, a Mujahideen barracks –
Mujahideen, the holy warriors who would become martyrs, fighting against
infidels in southern Sudan, in the sweet Sudan…
The Mujahideen always wore long beards and
camouflage fatigue with matching caps to distinguish them from the other
paratroopers. The commando unit also put on camouflage uniform but had maroon-coloured
berets and no beards. The regular Sudanese army troops wore army-green uniform
and similarly coloured caps; and the Difaa al-Shabbi, cream-coloured
uniform and same colour of caps. But some times with several days in the
battlefields any uniform from a dead comrade could be worn, as long as it was
removed early enough!
The heavy military presence in the big southern towns of
Juba, Malakal and Wau – through the deployment of the various sects of the
Sudanese army, and the presence of the ever useful pro-government local militia
groups, as well as serving as safe havens for government troops fleeing their
falling garrisons elsewhere in the south - had made it hard for the SPLA to
capture these significant towns.
It was one late afternoon that Osama was with Faysal and
Anwar taking a stroll around Juba, their Kalashnikovs slung loosely across their
shoulders. It was at the end of the year, the last few days of December;
whatever the infidels call their festive season.
There were four excited teens busy with photography at a
roundabout - colourfully flowered - next to the campus gates. They were donned
in new Christmas wear, to mark the end of year festive season, and were full of
smiles and laughter and joy; for Christ had died for them, for the forgiveness
of their sins, and Christ was born for them, for the forgiveness of their sins.
Amen.
“There’s a lot of freedom here in the south, yet
southerners are not satisfied,” Faysal, who was already about a year familiar
with the southern town, pointed out to his colleagues, “I’ll show you.” His
expressionless face did not betray any emotions.
“Hey you there!” called Faysal, all of a sudden, removing
his gun from his shoulders and cocking it, as he moved in the direction of the
young men. “Who said you take pictures here, huh? Anyone runs, I shoot.” His
deep voice portrayed a lot of weight. There was a frown on his face this time to
show that he meant business.
Osama and Anwar were shocked with the gesture. “But Faysal
…” Osama managed to put in, protesting the move, but was silent when Anwar
tapped him on the shoulder, smiling.
“Let’s watch,” Anwar said.
Osama followed in his father’s footsteps as a fighter,
although initially he was a trader in El Fasher in Darfur; where he hailed from.
He had often heard from his father before he died during the Anyanya war - the
first civil strife in the south - that a soldier should never touch innocent
civilians, because misfortune would always befall the undisciplined soldier.
That explained why he was so uneasy. He had never parted with that statement and
had always tried his best to abide by it in honour of his late father, who died
when he himself was barely in his teens.
“Hand over the camera,” Faisal went on.
The youngstars were all shaken up and were trembling as
one of them handed over the equipment to Faysal. Two were already in tears. The
fourth kept on saying, “Sorry… sorry; we shall not repeat the act; we didn’t
know…”
“Now, each one of you bows your head down as Muslims in
prayer and says “Allah Hu Akbar! three times.”
“Allah Hu Akbar! Allah Hu Akbar!
Allah Hu Akbar!” echoed the young men in unison.
The boys hesitated, scared of bullets following as they
run, penetrating through their backs, or shuttering their brains, finishing the
precious lives they got, the lives they live only once on this earth. They began
to cry louder and louder and apologizing, crying and swearing not to take
pictures in Juba again, crying and kneeling down for forgiveness, crying and
crying and crying.
“Run or stay and die!” The voice remained stern and
intimidating.
A few onlookers watched cautiously from a distance,
concealing themselves from being spotted by the Mujahideen, lest it
should be their turn. The onlookers could not help wondering what these ever
stubborn Juba boys had done to soldiers again: one day the boys might disappear
in the ‘ghost house,’ the white house, in Juba or be killed for crossing
onto the paths of soldiers. Soldiers, who like the Sudan Security agents, could
do anything to anyone anytime anywhere in the south, and nobody could talk,
would talk, or would dare talk.
“Kuffar,” Infidels. Faysal concluded. He turned to
his comrades, releasing the frown on his face and replacing it with a smile;
still holding the Kodak camera, as he reversed the safety of his gun and
replaced it on his shoulder.
Osama remembered the incident very vividly. That was the
first time he met Faysal. The very first time he was in southern Sudan, in Juba.
That was the first impression he had of his comrade. In spite of that incident,
they had been very close and very good friends; true brothers in Islam indeed.
Now Faysal was dead. “Allah Hu Akbar! Allah Hu Akbar!
Faysal is a matyr. Allah Hu Akbar! Allah Hu Akbar!” Osama whispered, as
he woke up from his brief recollection.
And then, he was stunned to see the young man Taha jolting
out of the trench. “No, Taha,” he could only say, feebly, for his voice had
started to fail him.
“Noooooooooo!” cried Osama; he could no longer conceal his
secret position.
One SPLA soldier fell, screaming in agony. A barrage of
bullets rattled in Taha’s direction, from the left and the right and the back
and the front, as Taha danced again and again in rhythm with the music, before
giving in to the ground, crying and groaning and moaning. Osama saw it, felt it
and was dazed and overwhelmed by it all.
“Allah, give me the strength like that young man,” he
prayed in silence. He had seen yet another martyr. Allah Hu Akbar! Allah Hu
Akbar! But he was afraid, really afraid. He did not know why he was
terrified. Was it not his choice to come and die as a Mujahid; to die for
Islam, and be assured of a place in heaven? Was this not the right time to
follow in the footsteps of what he had already witnessed right in front of his
eyes? He knew that to die for Islam was the greatest thing for a Muslim; no one
would argue with him on that. Even the young man he thought was a coward, as his
name suggested, was brave enough to become a martyr. He hesitated. He thought of
his three sons, who were hardly teenagers, with their mother in Omdurman - one
of the three cities that make up the great city Khartoum. Then he made up his
mind on what he was going to do. He knew they heard his voice. He also knew that
it was now the turn for his trench. The infidels, the slaves are coming. He
prayed to Allah that they should not throw a grenade in his hole; the young man
had messed up things for him, was too shocked to lie low in silence and
maturity.
“Are you a Mujahid or a government soldier?” A deep
and very clear voice broke the peace in his trench. He was hearing the words
for, may be, the tenth or so time now. They had increased in intensity ever
since he heard them first. But now they were over him, all over him. And he knew
he was not hallucinating - he had never done so in his life - as he threw down
into the trench a tiny piece of broken bottle with some tuft of hair.
“Are you a Mujahid or a government soldier?” The
question came again, ominously. He could only perceive the crystal clear voice
and see rusted barrels of two guns pointing on his head from the left and the
right as he turned his eyes towards the heavens. No rebel faces.
“No, I’m a soldier – a government soldier!” cried Osama,
quick and loud, as he got up, letting go of his gun and raising his tremulous
upper limbs in surrender.
He knew the difference now and felt better. The government
soldier referred to something like the regular Sudanese army, and such a soldier
when captured by the enemy was taken as prisoner of war, because his job – like
a soldier in any nation – was duty to his country, no matter what kind of
government. The Mujahid, on the contrary, was a holy war volunteer, when
the rebels did not see the war in the south as jihad. Fear bred disillusionment
in him.
Perhaps it was not a jihad after all, he concluded in his
thoughts; that meant many northerners lost their lives in the civil war for no
good reason after all. May be so many misleading and evil deeds were being
performed in the name of Islam, tarnishing its image. Possibly it was not a war
to do with Islam, because there were southerners who were also Muslims. There
were rebels who were Muslims too: in southern Sudan, in the marginalized areas
of the Nuba Mountains and southern Blue Nile and Abyei. Maybe it was rather a
war the southerners waged because of being marginalized and underdeveloped and
Arabised, in the name of Islam, since with Islam there was Arab culture
and language and everything!
Like most non-Arab peoples in northern Sudan in general,
most especially in his Darfur region, the areas of the Nuba Mountains and the
Red Sea regions, he saw himself as, and believed he was, an Arab; something that
was like a widespread disease transmitted by the Arabs following Arabization
and Islamization of the mentioned areas over several generations or
centuries. He had at times wondered whether he was truly an Arab or not,
although he knew the reality; he used to challenge anyone to a fight should they
dare label him non-Arab. Was being a Muslim, speaking Arabic, and wearing a
jallabia adequate to qualify one as Arab? If yes, he had always been one.
But now he felt resentment in his heart. All of a sudden he felt hatred towards
those he saw, at the back of his mind, as the true Arabs that comprise
slightly above one-third of the Sudanese population, and the fact that he was
made to believe that he was one of them. The earlier statement from one of the
SPLA soldiers, about fighting because of being marginalized and underdeveloped
and Arabised (in the name of Islam) was beginning to sink and make sense
in his mind, as he reflected on how underdeveloped and neglected his home area
of Darfur was; despite the fact that they were in the majority in every
contingent in the Sudanese government army.
Bitter thoughts flashed in his
head in succession. Maybe Sudan, a country bigger than Western Europe, was sick
with chronic and intractable problems because it was too large and, therefore,
uncontrollable, he concluded. Probably separation between the predominantly
Muslim-Arabised north and mainly Christian and purely African south was
very healthy, would end the civil war and the loss of innocent lives, and would
be the ultimate cure for the long-term sufferings of the tired masses; he
postulated a resolution. But what would become of his home region, would not the
marginalization be transferred to, or carried out solely in, Darfur, because
they would then be left as part of the north, under Arab domination? But perhaps
Al -Soudan, or the Sudan, meaning land of the blacks – ironically grouped
as one of the Arab world countries – should have the spirit of tolerance and
celebrate its diversity in terms of peoples, cultures, religions, points of
view, and even gender; if it wanted to remain united and stable and progressive.
He pondered further. Maybe Al Soudan should not be an Islamic Arab
Republic of Black Arabs, as it seemed to be heading towards, where Arab and
Islam are the only parameters that mattered, had always mattered, should always
matter!
One of the rebel soldiers could not hide a broad smile as
he peeped searchingly in the trench to confirm Osama’s shaver - a piece of
broken glass. “He has shaven badly, hurriedly,” he said.
