The Milk of Birds

by Sylvia Whitman

  The woman stirs, and the fly takes off.

  “Leave her be,” a neighbor says. “The baby cried much of the night, and her husband goes early to work on the kilns.”

  Next, we cross to the shelters of the school. Si-Ahmad looks at Adeeba’s face and clucks his tongue. “Thanks to God, you are well,” he says. “You must see the nurse. No teaching today!”

  Adeeba starts to speak, but he sends her on her way. “Go before the line gets too long!”

  She says to me, “He did not ask what happened.”

  “He does not want to know,” I say.

  She is deep in her silence as we walk to the clinic. Perhaps I knew this even before she did, that it is one thing to speak the truth and another to get people to listen.

  The line has already formed at the clinic. One day I will describe the changes for K. C. When we arrived at this camp, there was no clinic. Then came a chair, and a shelter. Now there is even a special place for the very sick, although many times the workers there send people back to the line.

  We stand to advance and sit to wait, a line of people rising and falling. At the table sits a clerk. Usually it is a woman, but this day it is a man. Still the question is the same: “What is your complaint?”

  “Rape,” Adeeba says softly.

  The man frowns as if Adeeba has stepped on his foot. I do not know whether to clap my hands or hide my face. We do not speak of such things. But as we say, A monkey has a neck; why tie it by its waist?

  “The little girl?”

  “Both of us,” Adeeba says.

  “And you?” he asks me.

  I shake my head.

  He writes a few words on a piece of paper and sends us inside, to one of the rooms with walls of straw. There is a table but no chairs.

  The nurse comes in with two khawaja, a man and a woman, and a young Sudanese man a few years older than Khalid. He explains that the three of them have come from the sky, for the roads are too dangerous.

  “We know of dangerous roads,” says Adeeba.

  The khawaja man leaves, and the woman asks if she may stay. She says she is a doctor and is writing a report about the violence against women in Darfur. She apologizes that she needs a translator. She says nice things about the young Sudanese, who looks down as she makes him repeat them, so we know he comes from good people. He turns his back to us and faces the wall.

  “I am the doctor’s ears,” he says. “What you say is between you and her and not a tale for me to tell.”

  The doctor says that she is from Australia and the man is from France and they work with a group called Healers of All Nations.

  I hold Zeinab while Adeeba goes first. The nurse is quick with her exams. The doctor takes notes, but she does not say anything until all is finished. She asks Adeeba what happened.

  Zeinab listens, and I stroke her hair.

  I am glad Adeeba’s father is not here. But perhaps he would have walked with us to this clinic and demanded justice. I have wondered sometimes if the journey we have made from Umm Jamila would have softened my father’s heart. That is the mystery of living, that while we walk and breathe, anything is possible, inshallah.

  “You are very brave,” the doctor tells Adeeba. “It is hard to find women who will report their injuries.”

  Adeeba asks if the khawaja will give us a ride into town to the police.

  With sorrow in her face, the doctor from Australia explains that they do not have a car. A whirlybird will come for them, but they cannot stop in town and then bring Adeeba back.

  “No, no, do not go,” the nurse says. “The judges are mean old men. You are very lucky. The khawaja have brought a special pill, and if you take it, you will not have a baby.” She brings the pill and a glass of water.

  “For the little girl, too,” the doctor says. “Just in case.”

  “May I bring one to the other girl?” Adeeba asks.

  “She must come to the clinic,” the nurse says. “We must see her take the medication. We do not have enough, and if we give them, people sell them.”

  “I am sorry,” the doctor says.

  “What of the wasting disease?” Adeeba says. “Do you have a pill to prevent that?”

  “Were your attackers sick?” she asks.

  “I do not know,” Adeeba says. “But one man said if last time did not cure him, this time will.”

  My heart stumbles. This sickness never reached Umm Jamila, but we heard it eats the flesh beneath the skin.

  “Some people believe,” Adeeba says. Then she stops. The translator facing the wall understands and finishes her sentence. I do not know what he says, but probably he knows what some people say, that taking virgins will cure the wasting disease.

  My friend covers her face with her hands, which become a cup for her tears.

  “We have eaten bread and salt together,” I say to Adeeba. “You are not alone.”

  “We will take care of you,” the doctor says.

  I do not understand how she will take care of Adeeba if she is leaving in a whirlybird in three days.

  The doctor tells Adeeba to return to the clinic in three months. It will take that long for the sickness to show in the blood. She promises to return with medicine.

  Then the other doctor comes and bows with his hands pressed together. From his pocket he pulls a sweet wrapped in shiny paper and hands it to Zeinab. With a whisper, Zeinab passes it to me.

  “She does not like candy?” the doctor asks through the translator.

  “She is saving it for her little brother,” I say.

  “He is too small for hard candy. He might choke,” the doctor says.

  “This is not her brother,” I say, nodding to Muhammad.

  “I know her brother,” says the nurse. “He is always here looking for paper.”

  “Paper?” asks the doctor.

  Adeeba tells of the dictionary. She gains strength as she talks. From another pocket, the doctor takes a tiny notebook with wire threaded through the top. He tears off the pages with his writing. The rest of the notebook he gives to Adeeba. Then he gives Zeinab another candy.

  “Now you and your brother each have one,” he says.

  • • •

  We try to tell the girl and her mother about the pills to stop a baby, but the mother gives us the greeting a rat gives a cat.

  Later we return, hoping to catch the girl alone. The shelter is empty. Neighbors say they packed and left—for another section or another camp, no one knows.

  The young mother shoos us from her fire.

  “Go, before my husband sees you,” she says. “I have three children.”

  • • •

  “We must tell Zeinab’s uncle,” Adeeba says.

  “If he takes Hassan and Zeinab to another place, we cannot look after them,” I say. “No. He is not like your father. He is like mine.”

  The words of a short person are never heard until the day gets hot. This time Adeeba does not disagree.

  K.C.

  OCTOBER 2008

  “What are you doing, K. C.?”

  “Pinching myself.”

  “That’s an expression,” Emily says. “You’re not supposed to give yourself welts.”

  “Maybe a zar’s got her,” Chloe says.

  I wish Nawra could see this. We’re sitting in Emily’s kitchen, where she and Chloe are poring over an encyclopedia of crackpot remedies. I asked Emily to look into herbs that exorcise bad spirits, so of course she wanted to know why, so I begged Chloe for permission to tell Emily about her brother, Nathan. We’re all in the Darfur Club. Even Nathan.

  Emily closes the encyclopedia and puts it back in the bookcase. “Nothing. But there’s this Chinese bean seed called ba dou. . . .” She pulls a binder off the same shelf.

  Turns out ba dou is toxic. “It can cause”—Emily pauses to read from the page she printed off the Internet—“explosive diarrhea.” She skims. “ ‘Hot and pungent, ba dou tonifies the function of the yang metal organ, the large intestine
. . . . It’s all about letting go.’ ”

  “Like when you swallow a penny,” I say. “It comes out in the poop.”

  “So you’re saying a big shit could cure Nathan,” says Chloe. She still wears shirts with little lace collars, but she’s got a filthy mouth. She likes to shock people.

  “I don’t endorse any of this stuff,” says Emily.

  “Has your mother tried it?”

  “Not ba dou—but castor oil, aloe, mandrake, almost all the purgatives.”

  “Every day?” Chloe asks.

  “Honey every day,” says Emily. “The others when she feels a . . . blockage.”

  “And I thought my family was full of shit,” Chloe says. “No offense.”

  They decide my family is the only normal one. Ha! Anyway, we have fun imagining how Chloe might sneak some ba dou into Nathan’s food. It might work with Lucky Charms, which is the only thing he eats regularly, but the word “explosive” scares Chloe.

  “If he likes knives so much, maybe he should go to chef school,” Emily says.

  She is a genius. If Nathan were carving melons into swans, maybe he’d leave his thighs alone.

  Nawra

  OCTOBER 2008

  “Wake up,” I say.

  “I am tired,” Adeeba says.

  “You have a job,” I say.

  “Let me be,” she says.

  I say many things, but I am talking to a stone.

  I look at my mother, and she looks back at me, and many memories pass between us. “Go tell Si-Ahmad that Adeeba needs a few more days to rest,” my mother says.

  When pressure proves difficult to handle, we say, lie down and sleep. But I do not think this is wisdom for my friend.

  I take Zeinab and my son and walk to the schoolmaster. Boys of all ages are shouting and tussling and kicking up dust. Girls hum in small groups, like bees around flowers. They are fewer and younger than the boys, for there is water to carry and wood to gather, and some, like Zeinab’s uncle, do not agree with Si-Ahmad and the khawaja that girls belong in school.

  I am shy to cross through the older boys and teachers, but Hassan has joined us and leads the way. He likes to be at the front of any news.

  People are coming and going around Si-Ahmad, who has many papers on his desk and slates piled against the wall. He does not hear me.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Hassan says, not once but twice before Si-Ahmad looks up.

  “Adeeba cannot come to teach today,” I say. “She needs to rest. She may need several days, but she will be back, sir.”

  I turn to go with the children.

  “Wait,” he says. “Can you take her classes?”

  “I am an ignorant girl,” I say.

  He asks my name. “Adeeba says you have given her good advice about her teaching,” he says.

  I hide my smile with my hand. The praise of value is not what people say to your face but what they say behind your back.

  “I tended my family’s herd,” I say to Si-Ahmad. “I cannot read or write.”

  “Now you can,” Hassan says.

  “A few words,” I say.

  “We are making a dictionary,” Hassan says. He tells Si-Ahmad of the project.

  “You will be a writer, young man, inshallah,” Si-Ahmad says. “I have seen you many times here with Adeeba,” he says to me. “You have heard her lessons. Perhaps you could teach her morning health classes. For a few days. I will find someone else for the afternoon.”

  “I have an empty head, sir. I do not know the names of the bugs that make you sick,” I say.

  “Neither do your students,” he says.

  “My baby,” I say.

  “He comes with you, of course,” says Si-Ahmad. “We like to have all the children in school. It keeps them out of mischief.”

  He laughs very loud at his own joke, but I cannot smile. I know my people. That is why I prefer to work with animals. Some women are like Halima, quick to remind you that they had more before, although we all have nothing now. Others make fun of what they do not understand.

  I believe what the khawaja tell us about our health because fewer are dying than when we first arrived at the camp. But I am scared that students will not accept me as the messenger of these truths. A naked man often laughs at one with torn clothes.

  “I can hold Muhammad,” Zeinab whispers.

  “You see, you even have an assistant,” Si-Ahmad booms.

  Then he becomes serious. “Every day more people arrive at the camp,” he says. “They can think only of what they have lost. I do not have to tell you this. They do not know what to do. They do not know where to go. ‘What will become of us?’ they say. Their children run wild.

  “So we build a school. It gives people someplace to go,” he says. “It gives them something to do. Does it matter that they remember the names of the bugs that make them sick?”

  He does not wait for an answer.

  “What matters is we remind them to be clean,” he says. “What matters is they sit and learn together. They work together. Then they begin to remember: We can help ourselves.”

  “A hand on a hand throws far away,” I say.

  Si-Ahmad smiles. “You will be a good teacher. You know the place? Your class is waiting.”

  “You will pay her, sir?” Hassan asks.

  “Shame,” I say.

  “We all must earn our bread,” Si-Ahmad says. “I will pay Adeeba’s salary through the week until she is on her feet again. I will pay you for these days too.”

  “You are very generous,” I say.

  “You have not seen your pay!” he says. Again he laughs at his own joke.

  Si-Ahmad looks at Zeinab. “And I will pay your assistant.”

  “Money for Zeinab!” says Hassan.

  “You I will keep my eye on,” Si-Ahmad says. He asks if Hassan is in school.

  “I will come see your uncle this evening,” Si-Ahmad says. “We have classes in the afternoon for boys who work. We must make sure teachers are keeping that mind busy.”

  • • •

  The women whisper and stare. I look at Muhammad, holding Zeinab’s thumbs and smiling as she dips her face toward him. He will heal her, inshallah, as he is healing me.

  Sometimes I cannot believe that such a light, God protect him, came forth from my body. In my head, I hear Saida Julie say, You can do anything. A strange feeling comes over me, that despite all the bad, some good has come. Who in Umm Jamila ever thought that Nawra bint Ibrahim would stand in a school as a teacher?

  But it is not enough to stand in the front. You must know what to do there.

  “Where is our teacher?” calls a student.

  It is clear that I am not a teacher. What am I?

  Spoiled meat.

  But I remember something else. My father had been complaining because the elders always came to him when someone poor was in need of meat. “On Judgment Day you will be glad of the help you give,” my brother Abdullah said. “As the Messenger said, God’s blessings upon him, ‘Each one of you is a shepherd, and each one of you shall be asked for his sheep.’ ”

  My uncle said, “If it is sheep that God is counting, I am putting Nawra in charge of mine!”

  These students are my sheep. I know how it is with animals; they do not like to be bossed around. They like to feel that they are in charge. The trick is to make them want to do what you want them to do.

  I tell my students that Adeeba is ill and they should teach me what they have learned. So the first class passes with much conversation and the students correcting one another’s mistakes. I try the same on the children who come next. How happy they are! Who does not like to teach the teacher?

  • • •

  “Saida Julie is here,” I say.

  Adeeba does not move.

  “Who will write the letter to K. C.?” I ask.

  “You,” says Adeeba.

  “Words I can write. A letter is another work.”

  “Saida Noor will find you another scribe.”<
br />
  “What will I say?”

  “When God created Sudan, he laughed in delight.”

  “I do not like your tone,” I say. “You mix your words with mukheit berries.”

  “Truth is as bitter as mukheit,” my friend says. “Soak it, water it down, or it will kill you.”

  “We eat mukheit after three days. You have been lying here for twelve.”

  “I forgot. The shepherdess can count,” Adeeba says.

  In the name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate

  30 October 2008

  Dear K. C.,

  Peace be upon you. How are you? Are you strong? Are you well? Your letter as you say is like a pillow. When we lay our heads against it, we rest, and then we dream.

  I cannot say I understand all you write, but we will read it many more times, Adeeba and I together, inshallah, and then in bits with my mother and the children. We read all your letters again and again, and each time they reveal something new.

  I did not know your great country had a civil war, but Adeeba had heard of it. She said brother killed brother because one wanted to own slaves and the other did not.

  How can one person own another? Hassan asked.

  You can control a body, I told Hassan, but not a spirit. If you live by force, eventually your stick will break.

  But that stick will break many spirits first, Adeeba said. Egyptians long made slaves of our people, she said, until the British passed a law against it. Then the British replaced slavery with their own rule. Now that the British are gone, our leaders have done no better by us.

  I admire the Americans who said slavery was wrong. Yet it takes more than a disagreement of ideas to start a war between brothers. There is envy perhaps, and hardships, and of course guns.

  Even in this camp, there are many guns. My father, God’s mercy upon him, used to say, Fire and women never have a small stage. But I say, Guns and men never have a small stage.

  The khawaja hold meetings and tell the young men to turn in their weapons. The young men say, How will we defend ourselves? We are few, and we must protect so many women and children and old men.