The Milk of Birds

by Sylvia Whitman

  After that my mother did not speak.

  Two of the men tried to ride our donkeys, Cloudy and one I called Fly Swatter because his tail was always moving. But the animals were very tired. The harder the men kicked, the slower the donkeys walked. The one on Fly Swatter used his gun as a switch, but Fly Swatter stopped even though blood was trickling from his hide. Then the men got down and pulled the donkeys.

  We walked until the sun had almost set. They led us to an encampment with tents and cookfires and more men in uniform, who made jokes that the men were supposed to be finding firewood. Then they beat and used us as women, one after the other, even Umm Bashir, who had lived to see the children of her grandchildren grow and marry.

  At one point, my mother turned her head, away from the man’s stink. When he buttoned his pants, he borrowed another’s gun and shot her foot.

  “Do not think you can run away,” he said.

  They left us on the ground at the edge of the camp. My mother did not cry, but in the dark I could feel the wetness of her blood and feared she would die. Then a woman came to us with a bucket of water. I begged her for something to dress my mother’s wound, and she gave me a square of cloth, which I tied tight.

  In the morning I rinsed the cloth and dried it on a bush. I tore a corner from what was left of my tobe so I had another to bind my mother’s wound, and I changed the cloths often. In the evenings one of the women came and gave us a bucket of water and the scrapings of the cookpot.

  Umm Bashir did not eat.

  A naked man will often laugh at someone with torn clothes, but I felt sorry for these women. Perhaps they were the men’s wives. They were not cruel. One took little Daoud. Nima let him go, and she died soon after of the flux.

  We stayed there many days, and the men beat us and used us. It was not pleasure, just boredom and evil.

  A termite can do nothing to a stone but lick it, so I became a stone.

  “What did these men do all day?” the Sudanese lawyer asks.

  “I do not know,” I say.

  I did not care. A stone does not count. A stone does not feel. A stone endures.

  I noticed piles around the camp—pots and tools and carpets, all kinds of things. Sometimes the piles grew bigger, sometimes smaller, so I think the men were scavengers, stealing and selling what they stole. They had some animals, too, which they kept between us and the tents. That was a comfort, the silly bleats of goats.

  When I could, I stood beside Cloudy and rubbed my cheek against hers. She was so thin and worn. Perhaps that was why the men did not take her to market. The women rode her and loaded her with their water and wood.

  One morning I did not see Cloudy. I assumed she was working. Later, near the animals, I heard a woman wondering about the donkey.

  “She probably wandered off,” a man said. “Why do you care? You always complained that donkey was too slow. We will find another.”

  In my heart, I knew that Cloudy was dead. When the old or sick separated from the herd, I always looked for them in a quiet, shady spot. If I found them while they were still breathing, I sat beside them until they stopped. It was very peaceful. When death comes at the will of God, animals accept it.

  It was then I thought to do as Cloudy did, to die with dignity. The desperate will take the difficult path, we say, but this seemed very easy to me. I had nothing to take, except my mother. After dark, I told her we were going.

  “Leave me here to die,” she said.

  Two men in a burning house must not stop to argue. “We will die in a better place,” I said. I made her stand and placed her arm across my shoulder.

  “Come with us,” I said to Fatuma and Lamia and Umm Amin. We had not spoken since Nima died. They did not answer, so I started walking, my mother leaning on me.

  When she begged to die, I carried her on my back. I did not know I was carrying Muhammad, too, but my belly became my boss. I made my mother tell me what we could eat from the land, which she remembered from famine times.

  I walked. The men did not chase us. We were sparing them the trouble of our dead bodies.

  In the name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate

  30 November 2008

  Dear K. C.,

  Peace be upon you. How are you? Are you strong? Are you well? Bandits did not stop Saida Julie, so I am here to speak my words and Adeeba to write them down. Know now that we are well and that my son is growing with a smile so bright it could make the seeds open beneath the ground, God protect him. My mother calls him Hamdu, so now whenever anyone says, Thanks be to God, he lights up.

  Adeeba says I must explain that his nickname sounds like our word for thanks, which is really praise to God. She is writing the Arabic in English letters: al-hamdu li-Allah. Now that I can read some words, I keep track of what she puts on the paper.

  She says I should talk about my son, not how I boss my scribe.

  I point to the sky and say to Hamdu, See that cloud? It is a prayer from America!

  Such a smile he makes. We have a cloud above and a sun below.

  How is your hardworking mother? Perhaps it is easier to see from afar how your mother has sacrificed for your benefit.

  How is your friend Emily? I am glad that despite your quarrel the bottle is neither broken nor its honey spilled. Now I must ask after this Parker. He is well and kind to you? It will not be long before his people come to yours to settle your future. Marriage is half of religion.

  And your father—he is well? Every day we thank him for Big Sister.

  These days I have been thinking much of my own father, God’s mercy upon him. What men do and what men say is often not what they mean. We say, Men’s laughter is crying.

  I did not think I would live to hear my mother speak well of men again, but first she praised Si-Ahmad because he gave me a job and then she added Khalid, who became a regular at our hearth.

  My mother tells Hassan, See, that man tolerates the bitter and the sweet.

  It has been a month of both. Many have looked down the roads for trucks of rations and been disappointed, but the whirlybirds have been dropping from the sky.

  This time they brought lawyers and doctors, come to record the stories of our villages. Many did not want to speak. I was such a one. Adeeba reminded me that our enemies hide their wrongdoing beneath our shame. But truth is like a shadow. It cannot be buried.

  I do not like you to taste this bitterness, K. C. But Adeeba says that even if the committee does nothing, you will listen to our words. Truth gains strength, she says, in the telling and the listening.

  Adeeba volunteered to speak to the committee of her journey to the camp and the harm of these recent months. The sound of her voice gave me courage, just as a singer may start alone but call forth many voices. So I, too, sat before this committee and gave my oath before God to speak the truth.

  I cannot remember exactly what I said, K. C. A haboob was blowing through my mind. I could not see my own thinking.

  Adeeba says I told some of what I have written you about Umm Jamila in the time before. The committee asked about Arabs. They had been in our area for some time, asking about our wells. A father and his sons rode into our village once and bought two camels from my father, patting my brother on the shoulder for his fine husbandry.

  We began to hear of the Janjaweed, but this was just talk, lighter than the wind. How can they call us black dogs when their skin is no lighter than ours? People joked, If they come to Umm Jamila, we will send them to Shaykha, and she will deal with their zar.

  Even when Si-Talab’s cousin passed through Umm Jamila after his village burned, my father said, That could not happen here.

  The cousin said, The Janjaweed call us slaves and rebels and promise the Arabs our livestock as a reward for hunting us.

  They do not have to hunt, my father said. I will gladly sell them sheep and goats and camels at a good price!

  We were the bush fowl laughing as the chicken was slaughtered, not thinking what those hands would carve u
p next.

  The next time Arabs rode through Umm Jamila, they carried guns. They entered our house and dishonored me and my father’s first wife in front of all my family.

  Many died in Umm Jamila, K. C., although we could not see that right away, for all was confusion. With Muhammad I left the village to tend the herd. As we returned, we saw a plane dip from the sky and rain devastation.

  What color was this plane? a khawaja on the committee asked.

  White, I said. Like our robes of mourning.

  I have learned that in some villages people waved, for the united nations of the world fly white planes.

  The committee stopped me many times with questions. They asked me to describe the silver metal that stabbed my mother’s mango tree. It had knobs, with words around them.

  What did the words say?

  I could not read them, I said.

  Later Adeeba told me that was another trick of the devil, to pack bombs with scraps of machines for cooking and washing clothes.

  The committee listened and did not rush the telling, for there was much to say of all Umm Jamila lost that day and the next. I named the missing and the dead—all I had seen or heard told. Remember that if misfortune strikes only your wealth, K. C., it is merciful.

  I did not meet my brother Muhammad, but I believe they poisoned the sweet water of Umm Jamila with his blood. Nor did my sister Meriem dance for us again.

  We began walking, for that is the way of life, one foot in front of another. Sometimes what goes beyond its limit will turn its opposite, so strong men wept and children led parents. What had happened stuck like a fish bone in the throat; we could neither swallow nor expel it.

  Saha died. It was a relief from her suffering. We did not have enough water to wash her, so we used sand. As my mother placed those long hands one over another, I saw them as a weaving.

  I did not tell this to the committee, K. C. I told them many died and the names, but the names were like notches on a stick to these doctors and lawyers, one no different from another. I do not have much faith in courts, but I have faith in God, who sees all. He who confesses his faults, God will forgive his sins.

  The Janjaweed are bad men, but they are not the only bad men. Adeeba is nodding. At first my grandmother said, Let rats shoot arrows at each other.

  But when rats carry guns, no one is safe. I think the world we live in now is the world created by men with guns. You and I would not create such a world, K. C.

  Each day our village ebbed a little more until these men Adeeba calls scavengers came upon us. The heart sees before the eyes. Hyenas, Musa said.

  Even hyenas have a grace, though few can see it. Not so with these men. They took us where they lived and kept us away from their women and children. We slept out among the broken pieces they had stolen, and they fed us scraps and used us at their will. Had we the means to bribe them we might have walked free, for a snake that has a locust in its mouth will never bite. But we had nothing, just shredded tobes to cover our nakedness.

  When Umm Bashir died, God’s mercy upon her, they did not give us a sheet but threw her body in the back of their open truck. They did not return with it. I learned from that, and when Nima died, I washed her with sand and bound her hands and feet with grass as I recited the fatiha beneath my breath. No one knows in which land we will die. Once I heard Abdullah say that a believer’s soul turns into a bird in paradise, so I imagined Nima as the black-faced finch with the violet crown and rosy wings. The grasses broke when they threw her body in the truck, but I imagined her feathers speckled pink as her soul took flight.

  I did not fly but walked from that place of misery. Cloudy showed me the way. One day she wandered away and the next we followed, my mother and I.

  I did not talk to the committee of birds and donkey. I was a stone talking. Now I speak through tears. I am learning that the truth is one thing for strangers and another for you, my sister.

  I am sorry, K. C., to be the messenger of my country’s troubles. The one whose hand is in the water is not like the one whose hand is in the fire, but your great heart draws you close to us, so I fear my words may burn you. Know that we are well and strong. Just remember that life is fragile as a clay pot full of seeds, so you must roll it with care.

  Your sister, Nawra

  Dear Nawra,

  Tomorrow I’m finally going to mail this November bundle of letters, but I had to wait for Thanksgiving. It’s our “Thanks, God” holiday, which we find easier to do with napkins in our laps behind a big plate of roast turkey with stuffing and cranberry sauce. I thought you’d get a kick out of the family scene.

  Granny flew up from Florida, and Uncle Phil drove down from Ohio, where he works in physical plant at Muskingum University, which means he’s not as rich as most of the plumbers who tootle around in their own trucks, but he has really good benefits and almost free tuition for my cousin Phil Jr. We always joke that Uncle Phil should adopt Todd so he can get a free ride too.

  Of course his wife came too, Aunt Rita, and Phil Jr. and Sienna, their daughter who’s ten and has Down syndrome, so she’s Aunt Rita’s full-time job. You have never met such a sweetheart, though. Last weekend as we were making pumpkin pies ahead of time, I told Mom it’s ironic that both she and her brother ended up with defective daughters. Oh, did Mom get smoked! “Don’t you dare compare yourself to Sienna” and “If you’re going to have a big pity party, we better buy decorations.”

  Speaking of decorations, Wally and I made place mats with handprint turkeys. I gave Sienna the one with the most feathers and sequins.

  I told Mom to invite Dad, but she’d already asked Steven, whose kids were off with his wife in Connecticut. Holidays used to be so easy with everyone in the same place, but now you need an air-traffic control tower just to keep track of who’s where. Secretly I asked Dad if he could join us, but Sharon whisked him off to the Caribbean. Uncle Phil’s made a lot of cracks about the Love Boat.

  His family’s in the basement, and Granny’s taken over Mom’s room, so Mom’s sleeping on an air mattress on the floor in my room, which means lights-out early, but it’s kind of fun. It’s easier to talk in the dark. I even told her about Parker’s hand, and she said that I deserve every good thing that life holds in store for me.

  I know there’s some in store for you and Adeeba because you deserve it even more.

  Mom’s trying to persuade Granny to move to Richmond since she’s getting frailer. When Steven showed up for lunch, he brought brochures about all these senior places because he’s just gone through the same thing with his parents. We’re all going to go visit one tomorrow. Remember how you first wrote me about how you imagined the ocean was like the sky or the desert, with the waves and the clouds and the dunes always on the move? I’m starting to think that families are the same way, like there’s a big backdrop that’s pretty solid but the surface changes all the time as people grow up and old and marry and divorce and meet and move on.

  Mom sat me next to Steven, and we had a long discussion about his seven-year-old, Jasper, who’s going through this bug dismembering phase that’s worrying Steven since he’s heard that kids who torture animals often turn out to be sociopaths. I’m going to introduce Jasper to Wally, who’s so gentle he goes into a state when any of Thomas’s train friends derail. I also mentioned Milton Stanley from the Darfur Club—maybe he and his hissing roach could get Jasper excited about crickets with their legs on. Steven said he wasn’t sure he wanted Jasper to start keeping bugs as pets. Turns out Steven and I both would rather eat lima beans for breakfast than brush up against a hairy tarantula.

  And we talked—I talked mostly—about all that you and Adeeba have been through. Steven’s heard about a group that rescues donkeys, and he’s going to find out if it operates in Sudan.

  I like Steven even though I don’t want to like anybody in that category except Dad.

  You sat next to me too, since we set a place for you between me and Todd. That’s what’s in the envelope, your pl
ace card and turkey place mat and some red and yellow leaves from the maple tree in our backyard. Have you heard the story that Ben Franklin wanted the turkey as the US national symbol, but it wasn’t buff enough, so the Founding Fathers picked an eagle? I wonder if this country might have turned out differently if we didn’t think of ourselves as a predator with sharp talons but as the big guy in the barnyard just trying to avoid the ax like everyone else.

  Speaking of Axe, it’s a good thing you weren’t actually sitting next to Todd because you’d keel over from his body spray, which he applies with a crop duster.

  Now he comes to the Darfur Club even without the laundry bribe because he has his eye on Rebecca, an honors person Emily brought, whose ode to pickles won some transit contest and is going to be published on public buses between January and March. Maybe we can get her to write a poem about Darfur. I’m very good at thinking of things for other people to do! Next time I face one of those stupid blanks about future career goals, I’m just going to write boss.

  Mom put me in charge of the seating arrangement, but the place for you was kind of her idea after I read her your letter and said, “If Nawra were here, she’d be eating turkey, not crumbs!” Mom told me that Jewish people have a Seder tradition of leaving an empty chair for the prophet Elijah in case he happens to be in the neighborhood and wants to drop by. I’m going to make it my tradition for you. On Thanksgiving you’ll always have a seat at our table.

  Once we pile our plates with food and we’re about to go out of our minds because everything smells so delicious, Mom doesn’t let us begin until we go around the table and say what we’re thankful for, which is a tradition she inherited from Granny. Some people say the obvious, like “this food,” or “the company,” or “my lovely wife.” Grampers always said, “Ditto,” because he hated putting his feelings out on the table, according to Mom. I remember one year Dad said, “Nicotine.” It is sort of revealing.

  This year Aunt Rita gave thanks for her parent support group and Phil Jr. for his SAT prep class and Sienna, with a lot of coaxing, for her cat, Cat. Uncle Phil, who’s a lot like Grampers, said, “I thank God for all the crap college kids flush down their toilets.”