February 14th 2012 (Happy Valentine’s Day!)
Part I
Our country is going through rough times now. I just asked myself why I don’t write about it. Is it because I know next to nothing about politics, or is it because I shy away from the inconvenient truth that is Sudan today?
Even if I don’t know much about politics, I know a whole lot about my life, and I was told, at an early age, to write what I know.
I think of my family as “middle class”, however, in reality, if middle class means average, we are, with the blessings of Allah, in the top 10%. People of the “Industrialized World” or whatever you call yourselves now, would be surprised. I am sure that our concepts of middle class differ considerably.
My husband and I are both working professionals (knock wood, with today’s unemployment rates) and we have three small boys that teach us every day what is important in life. We have a roof over our heads, food on the table and the boys are enrolled in the appropriate bilingual schools. We thank God that we can pay for medical care when required.
Most Sudanese can’t say the same.
Most of my countrymen lack basic needs. And when we say basic, we really mean it. Running water, potable water, food, education and health care. These are things that Sudanese have learned to do without. To be clear, many didn’t have it to begin with, but today we see a generation, that instead of developing has moved backward in time. We listen to our parents tell us how they would call the doctor to come over if someone was sick, in the middle of the night. How gas was delivered to your house, and how, as university students, meals were prepared, laundry done, shoes shined and students could choose one of three beds to sleep in (room, yard or roof) according to weather conditions and their fancy.
When my parents were starting their lives, with three small girls, they lived in a house provided by the University of Khartoum, where they both taught. The pseudo-colonial houses were spacious and cool, with separate quarters for the help. They had nannies for the kids and servants for the laundry and ironing. A chicken coop out back and an extended kitchen where my mother learned to cook, also form part of this idyllic world I vaguely remember, although that is probably just my imagination, putting pictures in my head of the stories that I have heard.
As was common in those days, my father was politically active, although I wonder how this soft spoken man, with the highest moral threshold I have encountered in my life, could be involved in politics. Born into a family that was nearly destitute, he and his brother took turns working and studying to provide for their mother and sisters. The value of education was never lost on their journey. I often think that they could have chosen another route; starting a business, or seeking permanent employment, but it is obvious that this never occurred to those young men, who are both professors today. (May Allah bless them with good health and long lives).
I digress. I know. I will continue to do so, so please bear with me.
My dad and my uncle, in their struggle to provide for their family, in the absence of a father, chose religion as their guidance. In a family oriented society, they did not lack for father figures, but they chose the Prophet PBUH and scholars as their role models. This, I believe was what led them to allying themselves with an Islamic Party, early in their youth.
In those days, the best secondary education was to be found in three boarding schools, Hantoob, Wadi Sayidna and Khor Taggat. My father went to Hantoob. The young men of Sudan that studied and lived together in the 50s and 60s, have a bond that we will never understand. The school was a melting pot of social and cultural diversity that molded upstanding young men who learned, on their own, about equality, diversity and tolerance.
The Islamists and the Communists studied together, bunked together, and a few years later, were incarcerated together. I never heard of animosity between them, or anything similar to the fist fights that sometimes turned fatal, that were commonplace when we studied in the same University of Khartoum most of those boarding school lads ended up in.
The point I was trying to state, before meandering off into my father’s memories, is that under President Nimeri’s rule, my dad (who I call “Poppa”) and his cronies were periodically rounded up and thrown in jail. My father refers to this period as “being guests of the government” with a nostalgic look in his eye, and a catch in his throat.
It is hard to believe that friendships were forged and maintained behind various prison bars, as they were frequently shuttled around. He speaks of the inmate that taught them French, and the other who oversaw Quran Circles and tutored them in recitation. In jail.
When I was in my final year at University (or one of them at least), I visited the Police College to collect information for my thesis. I paid an initial visit to state my requirements, and arranged a follow-up visit, to collect said information. When I went back the second time around, my contact Major General Awad Widaatallah Hussein, was very excited. He could hardly contain himself.
He asked me my full name.
When I answered, he said, “Yes! And, your mother, she doesn’t wear the traditional Sudanese Tob, correct?”
“No, she doesn’t. Not on a daily basis anyway. She’s Egyptian.”
“Yes! And she likes the color blue?”
Frankly confused, first, because of the line of questioning, with no obvious relevance, and doesn’t everyone love blue?
“I guess” I replied.
He had been pacing, while interrogating me, and then he gestured that we were to leave his office, I was to follow him. Policeman in Police College. I followed.
He led me to the Dean of the College, who got up from his desk, shook my hand warmly, and with extreme emotion. He kept repeating, “Mashallah, mashallah” which is a term that means “Glory be to God” and used when looking at something remarkable, often a child that has grown, which, apparently, was the case.
Finally, I got to hear the story.
When your father was in prison, I was the police officer assigned to your family. In those days, a policeman was assigned to take care of the families of political prisoners. We would drive you to prison visits, get your groceries and run errands. I was very moved by the plight of your mother, who was taking care of three young girls alone, and going to visit her husband in jail, sometimes taking you with her.
He kept shaking my hand and I realized my petite mother, who always does what needs to be done, and my father who is never less than dignified, had left a lasting impression on a fresh graduate, heading out into the real world. I could see in his whole demeanor, that the memory of that young family had not left him, and he had spent time wondering what had become of them. The fact that I came to him enrolled in the nation’s leading University (at the time) from one of the top departments (at the time) to design a theoretical Police Academy, was a full circle moment for him. I feel good that we were able to give him a happy ending. I just wish one of us could remember what his name was.
Something tells me that political prisoners are not given the same treatment these days.
Back to my young family...
UPDATE:
This is an excerpt from an email my father sent to a friend of his, who he forwarded this post to...
I tell some of what was going on in that six months and ten days as " guest of the government ".
In the company of many university staff , some reputed lawyers, some university students , some of them now professors and very high ranking civil servants, and others we were rounded in part of the state prison that was and probably still is named ironically " Alsaraya" meaning 'The Palace'. Among other things I was "Head Administrater' of the group mainly caring for the two miserable meals of the day and organizing cultural and sports activities . In fact it was my sports responsibilities which introduced me to who would later become my beloved wife, Taggy's mother.
During that wonderful period in prison, I met wonderful people and made lasting friends , read more than forty volumes, making Quran khatma every ten days ..among other things..In prison each one of us was given two blankets. No beds. You spread blankets on floor and when it was cold use one as cover.
You think six months and ten days was long. Not long enough...my brother Tayeb spent two full years as "Guest of Government" just for a letter found with him which I wrote to him while he was in Cambridge for his PhD.. He came back with the letter as part of his personal effects and never realized that would take him where it did.
Those were wonderful years that brought us all very very close.
