Silence Is My Mother Tongue

by Sulaiman Addonia

  Applause broke out. Promises are enough when action is meaningless, Saba thought, as the aid workers dismounted from the chairs and were replaced by the singer and her nephew with the double-headed drum.

  The singer sang about her gratefulness for not being forgotten by the world.

  People like us fear invisibility, Saba said to Zahra. Just look how we shout when we could whisper, and laugh when smiles are enough.

  Yeeeess. Zahra’s scream made Saba laugh.

  Our beautiful world is closer than we thought, the singer continued, improvising a song.

  A dancing throng formed a circle around the singer.

  Let’s go, Zahra said.

  Wait, Saba said, weaving her way through the crowd until she found the aid coordinator’s assistant. She asked about the school. The assistant cupped a hand behind his ear. Saba raised her voice. Did you also get permission to build our school? she asked. Is it going to be built at the same time as the new aid centre?

  The assistant wagged his finger at her. Not now, he said. Look around, everyone is happy.

  Zahra grabbed Saba by the hand and pulled her away.

  The two girls sat by Saba’s hut. Saba, be patient, Zahra said. First things first, how can hungry people study? How can you lift a pen if you can’t even lift your arm?

  In the same way we lift our arms to eat, said Saba.

  Why? Why do you say that? I know this will upset you, Saba. But I really think there must always be room for hunger in our stomachs, in our hearts, our minds, our souls. It is that hunger that will lead us to become fighters for our freedom, so we can determine our own future.

  But have you thought about what will happen afterwards? Saba asked.

  What do you mean?

  Well, if we all become fighters who will rebuild our destroyed homes after independence? Who will build our schools, our clinics, bridges, roads? Who will treat the ill and educate children?

  The dancing circle grew wider, almost reaching Saba’s hut. Saba stood up. I’m going, she said.

  Wait for me, said Zahra. I am coming with you.

  The two friends held hands and made their way to the field assigned for the promised school. As Saba sat on the rock, Zahra stood next to her.

  I saw my mother in my sleep again last night, carrying another wound, Zahra said. She joined Saba on the rock, her bony elbow grazing Saba’s rib. Sometimes I am afraid that my mother is dead. And if she is dead, I need to go and replace her.

  Saba said nothing, her chest heaved. Zahra leaned forward. A bird landed on the grass opposite, and chirped. Saba picked up a stone and threw it. The bird flew away with her false hope.

  We can’t let men do the fighting for us, said Zahra. That’s what my mother says in her tape. We can’t wait for our freedom. We have to fight for it. We must be ready to die like men for our dreams. They are our dreams too.

  Zahra stood up and started plucking out the long grass with her bare hands. Come on. Let’s at least start clearing this site. I might be leaving soon, but you must stay in the camp. You are right, we can’t all be fighters.

  Then Zahra extended her arms towards Saba. Rough hands – hands that had scrubbed clothes at the river banks, carried jerrycans from the river, collected firewood in the bush – touched. Zahra helped Saba to her feet.

  They both bent down, their shoulders touching the yellow dry grass, their hands at the roots, pulling them out, clearing the field to make it ready for the school.

  Saba arrived at the businessman’s hut for a new shift later than usual. She had spent the night with Zahra and her grandmother listening to one of the fighter’s tapes full of songs, tales from the front, and reading some of the pamphlets the mother sent from the front to her daughter. It was as if she had drunk from the fighter’s words of determination. I will never marry, Saba vowed to herself when Eyob stood up to wave at the midwife walking in the distance. I will never marry anyone.

  Saba was about to take her chair and bucket full of clothes away from the businessman’s view when she remembered what Zahra’s grandmother had told her the evening before. Be resolute inside yourself and strong but don’t change your behaviour towards that man, the grandmother said to Saba. Don’t give him or anyone else the pleasure of knowing that they changed you.

  Eyob tilted his head to the side and called his son.

  Tedros yawned. Alcohol saturated the air and Saba held her breath, hoping it would pass. Here, Tedros, sit, his father said. And drink your tea. I need to talk to you.

  It’s hard to hear you, Father, if she keeps making noise with that washing of hers.

  Tedros gulped down the last drops of his tea and told Saba to show some respect to his father and wash quietly, like a girl. Maybe we should have hired Hagos instead, he said, snorting.

  Saba continued with her work.

  Listen, Tedros. I know I told you I will find a way back to the city. But I want us to stay here and open the shop we always wanted.

  A shop? Saba raised her head. Her anger dissipated.

  And you still think these refugees have money to spend, Father? Tedros laughed.

  I’m sure many do, said Eyob. These people had jobs back home, just like me.

  There’s another reason why you want to stay in the camp, said Tedros. But it doesn’t matter, whatever makes you happy. I’m leaving the day they allow us to leave.

  The businessman left for the aid centre, saying he was going to ask for a permit to open a shop.

  The aid coordinator agreed to write to the authorities in the city, but weeks passed and nothing happened. When Saba asked the Khwaja, during an English lesson, why the businessman and all those other entrepreneurs evicted from the city didn’t open businesses, like Azyeb and Nasnet had done, the Khwaja remarked that fear of the unknown was what was holding many back. Remember, Saba, they were uprooted from the city by the authorities early one morning as they were readying themselves to go to work, to open their shops, to drive their taxis, to sell groceries in the market. The new life they had invested in ended the moment armed soldiers knocked on their doors at dawn. They are afraid. But I am sure it will pass. First we root our sensibility in the camp, and with each seed sown a bit of that fear is stripped off.

  THE SHOP

  Saba was queuing for the weekly ration one afternoon when the businessman arrived in the square with a group of men carrying thatch and wood.

  A crowd assembled.

  Here, he said to the men, pointing at a spot where he wanted his shop to be built, opposite Saba’s hut and to the left of the aid centre.

  Once the aid coordinator and his assistant appeared in front of him, Eyob shook the Englishman’s hand and turned to his assistant and translator. Please tell your boss that when I am excited I prefer to speak my own language. I am now ready to open my shop and start the path to self-reliance for us all.

  The aid coordinator looked at Eyob with his usual calm. When he spoke, though, Saba detected irritation in his voice: But, Mr Eyob, he said through his translator, you need a permit first. These are the rules.

  We have waited long enough, said Eyob. Waiting for school, clothes, better food since the first day here. And there is no need to wait for things we can do ourselves.

  I understand, the aid coordinator said. But you must be aware of the sheer volume of similar requests authorities in the city have to deal with. There are hundreds of refugee camps around the country.

  That’s why it is best we take matters into our own hands, said Eyob. That way, we will alleviate the burden on you and the donors in the long term. And let me tell you something I learnt about capitalism in your economy.

  The translator shook his head. Don’t, he said to Eyob in Tigrinya. This man is a socialist. I can’t translate this.

  I will do it, said Eyob. Addressing the Englishman directly in English that Saba understood in parts, the businessman said, You see, this is going to be a simple shop, but we must start somewhere. Dignity and self-worth are doubly important in shoring up
our spirits and so forth. Thereafter, we hope our people will be in a position to open their own businesses. As your Adam Smith said: The real tragedy of the poor is the poverty of their aspirations.

  When the Khwaja translated Eyob’s words to those around him, a rapturous applause erupted. He can have his three huts as long as he gives us words like this, said Samhiya, to everyone’s laughter.

  Before long, Eyob had built a thatched kiosk. Saba’s eyes darted around its interior. Light flickered through the windows. Since there were no shelves, boxes were lined up against the wall on three sides, with representative samples placed on top of each: green coffee beans, sugar, frankincense, cigarettes, heart-shaped lollipops, berbere and shoro. Next to the incense deposited in straw baskets were rectangular tin containers filled with halva.

  The excitement that followed the opening of the shop faded after a few weeks. Saba, who saved every penny she earned, didn’t buy anything, but instead took a journey down the memory lanes evoked by the shop’s products, back to her homeland, just as many others did.

  One evening, Saba sat outside her hut, resting her head on Hagos’s shoulder as he massaged their mother’s hands. People were seated all over the square in groups. Sounds of laughter echoed around her. Saba turned to look at the shop at the moment when an eagle landed on its roof and began to tear at the thatch with its beak. Eyob hurried out of his shop and threw a stone at the large black bird. Soon after, he came to Saba’s to pick up Hagos, holding two packages. He handed the halva to Hagos and gave the pack of coffee to Saba and her mother, saying it was for both of them. When Saba told the businessman that she didn’t drink coffee, her mother poked her in the ribs with her elbow. Thank you and may God bless you, their mother said to Eyob.

  Weeks passed and still few people bought anything at the shop. Eyob tried to adapt his business model by selling single items: one cigarette at a time, a handful of coffee beans, a few spoonfuls of shoro and berbere. The change in strategy, though, still didn’t lead to a boost in revenue.

  One morning, father and son discussed the shop as Saba washed their laundry. I shouldn’t be called a businessman any more, Eyob said. Opening this shop was a mistake.

  I told you so, said Tedros. He smirked as he shook his head.

  People are holding on to their money so they can use it for their transport back home once the war ends, said Eyob. And when I asked the aid coordinator if they could provide people with loans to open businesses and work for themselves, he told me they were just an aid relief organization and had no loans to authorize.

  But why don’t you give loans yourself?

  The father and son turned their heads to look at Saba.

  What?

  No, let her speak, Tedros.

  My grandmother used to lend money to people. She said new businesses stimulate old ones.

  I did that too, said Eyob, but they could put their own homes, farms, cars and even bicycles as collateral against borrowing. How can anyone here guarantee my money, if even the huts they live in belong to the government of this country? This is not viable.

  Eyob left for his shop with his breakfast untouched.

  This camp is full of delusional people, Tedros said, swaggering to the kitchen hut.

  As Saba arched her back, sweat rolling down from her forehead, she spotted the shop’s keys on the chair.

  When Saba arrived at the shop with his keys, Eyob was standing with arms folded, staring at the long queue outside the aid centre that meandered across the square and reached the shop. Eyob shook his head. What a waste, he said as he turned his back to the queue brimming with potential customers and took the keys from Saba.

  Saba looked at the aid centre, the place from which she and her family got their free food. The place that kept them alive. But there is more to life, she thought, turning to the shop, and the man who gave her work and the chance to dream of a future.

  Here, what do you think of this? Nasnet asked Saba, twirling around to show off her yellow dress. My client today is one of the aid workers. Maybe he will help me get out of this camp.

  Please don’t leave, said Saba.

  You only say that because you are scared of losing your job, said Nasnet. Perhaps you can take my place.

  Now that will only make the midwife happy, said Saba. And make her prophecy come true.

  Nasnet laughed and sat on the bed next to Saba.

  Can I ask you a question?

  Yes, said Nasnet, putting on her earrings.

  Has my brother ever come to see you?

  Nasnet turned and raised her brows. Saba, I am like my doctor back home. I never reveal any information about my clients, she said. Now come and help me choose shoes to go with this dress.

  MEAT

  The ground around Saba’s hut shook. Thinking new refugees had arrived, she hurried to watch from her door as children scampered off in different directions, running from the herd of cows and sheep stamping their way into the square. Her mother came out too and stood next to Saba. Through the thick cloud of dust Saba noticed a man, a woman and a young girl rushing around the edges of the herd on their donkeys.

  The square was taken over by animals. A bull stared back at Saba, green saliva drooling from his grass-filled mouth. How long had it been since she had seen a cow, a sheep, heard the braying of a donkey?

  Saba walked closer to the animals. A goat rubbed its horn against her leg, a cockerel with a leash around its leg tried to pick at her foot. A wave of animal odour washed over the square and she breathed it all in.

  Next to the woman, who had taken a kitten out of a basket and held it in the palms of her hands to show to the children around her, Saba observed a girl in a shin-length red dress, with plaited hair and a half-crescent nose ring. Saba tried to imagine what this girl’s life must be like, moving from one place to another, with this huge herd of animals. Her home the sum of fragments of different places. The young traveller went around her animals, as though they were her best friends, stroking and quieting them.

  As her attention returned to the animals in front of her, Saba realized the potential for business if the nomads stayed. Seized by that impulsive thought, she ran to Eyob’s hut in the east of the camp. Saba was breathless on her arrival.

  Mr Eyob.

  Please. What can I do for you?

  Saba hesitated to say what she was thinking, but when she heard the bray of the donkey, the lowing of the cows, she wanted these animals to stay in the camp, not only to make business, but also to make life more colourful and more real. Besides, she craved the shoro with beef that Hagos had cooked for her back home.

  Saba talked quickly: Did you hear? Nomads and their herd just arrived at our camp. There is a man here with animals and I wanted to let you know. Just think of the opportunity, of selling milk, eggs, butter for ga’at and meat.

  Saba paused and beamed as she continued: We could finally have shoro with beef.

  Eyob sprang to his feet and sped ahead of her. Saba had never seen him walk this fast. She ran to keep up. When they arrived back in the square, Eyob told her to wait for him outside her hut. She stood next to her mother, watching him as he tiptoed around the animals and stepped over the dung with flies buzzing on top of it. The businessman embraced the stranger as if he were a long-lost relation.

  Moments later, Saba saw Eyob, her mother and the nomad man, who had a long stick and a dishevelled vest over his jellabiya, walking towards her. Eyob asked Saba’s mother if he could use her hut for a quick meeting. His own hut was too far for a man who had been travelling for days on foot.

  Our honour, Saba’s mother said, asking Saba to go inside and clean the hut.

  No need, the businessman said. But tea would be most appreciated.

  The nomad stretched his hand towards Saba’s mother and said, Let me introduce myself. My name is Hajj Ali.

  The way he spoke Arabic reminded Saba of Tahir, their lorry driver.

  The entire camp has turned out to welcome you, Saba’s mother said to
Hajj Ali. We don’t get visitors here.

  We were led here by our animals, said Hajj Ali. And yes, sometimes they take us to the forgotten people.

  Inside the hut, as the businessman and Hajj Ali sat on stools, Saba lit the open furnace to boil tea.

  I would like to discuss with you an important matter, the businessman said. I know from my brief stay in the city that the people of this country never leave a request unheard.

  Hajj Ali smiled. True, he said. I’m happy to oblige.

  As Saba closed the door, she noticed heads jostling for a view through the window. She didn’t pull down the straw curtain. She knew of the necessity of leaving a window open upon a girl’s dealings with men.

  I am sorry you had to open your home to a stranger without notice, the nomad said to Saba.

  We are the strangers in your country, Saba said, reverting to the Arabic she learnt from her trader grandmother.

  Masha Allah, said Hajj Ali, nodding. To some, wisdom arrives without roaming from one place to another.

  The nomad sat on a stool next to the businessman. He placed his sword against his leg and his stick on the floor. Is she your daughter? he asked Eyob.

  Saba looked at Eyob. Her eyes lingered on his face, as if hoping he would say, No, but Saba is like my daughter. But the businessman didn’t respond. Moments passed before his answer came: No, she works for me.

  You are a lucky man, the nomad said.

  Saba tried not to think about Eyob, about what the midwife had said, because thinking about him threatened to centre her life around a man. She wanted to be more than that. She turned her attention back to the conversation at hand.

  If I may start, Eyob said.

  Please go ahead, said the nomad.

  The water boiled. Saba added the tea leaves.