The Translator: A Tribesman's Memoir of Darfur by Daoud Hari Page B

the names of some of these villages, but it is to avoid causing further trouble for those still hiding in these areas.
    In the wadi there were no bird sounds—so unlike the place I remembered. The silence was deeply spooky. We arrived at the site of the old village, and there we saw some passing rebels resting under trees and others who had always lived in the area whom I recognized.
    I showed Philip where the sheikh’s home had been, now a black spot in the sand with the remains of some mud-walled rooms. Other patches of black sand were visible up and down the wadi. Some of the larger trees were burned, but newer trees were green and might someday again shade village life in this place.
    Philip interviewed some of the rebel troops. A few people who had been living in the secret areas of the mountain valleys, and who were in the village that day to learn what was going on from the rebels, gave me some news: my sister Aysha and my father were nearby and had been told of my arrival.
    My father, now very old, was still walking great distances and taking care of animals. I had kept in touch with him. My mother had set up a place in some hidden dry stream and was finding ways to plant some millet, as women do. I wasn’t sure if my father was well enough to get to her very often as he moved the animals to grass and kept himself invisible to the Janjaweed and the government troops and their airplanes. But he would have left some animals with her for milk and perhaps some chickens for eggs.
    I saw him before he saw me. He was wearing a white jallabiya and a small white cap, all dangerously visible but very traditional. He was more stooped over than when lastwe met, and a little smaller—the big sturdy body that I had known was almost gone. He was talking to some other older men, gesturing with one skinny arm.
    He turned to me as I came near. His eyes were milky and I could tell that he could barely see, but he knew my steps or somehow felt that it was me. We embraced gently. He felt thin and fragile but held me in a very strong way. It was hard to let him go.
    “My father,” I said.
    “Daoud, we have been hearing all about you. It is so good to see that you are alive. You had some trouble yesterday with some rebels.”
    Darfur is like that. News travels fastest where it seems to have no way to travel at all.
    “Take some tea with us,” my father said, leading me to a tent. We sat down with the other men, who were uncles and cousins I hadn’t seen in these years.
    The tent flap later pushed open and my sister Aysha entered in flowing bright green with two children holding her hands. She laughed when she saw me and then just smiled and closed her eyes to float in this moment.
    “Daoud, the city man, has come to visit!” she said. “You honor us simple villagers.” Everyone laughed. Aysha is the funniest of my sisters.
    The tent was soon filled with cousins who wanted to greet me. It was a great joy to be surrounded by family, talking and laughing as if our world were whole again—holding tightly my father’s hand, knowing my mother was alive and not far away, imagining Ahmed was out watering the camels. Yet this small tent now held the entire remnant ofa once great valley of villages. This beloved world was nearly lost, but here was some of it yet. We ate well; Aysha brought smoking trays of richly seasoned goat meat for everyone. Philip sat with us as part of our family now. He had made this happen, so how could he not be my brother?
    Why is it that the person from far away is always the wise expert? For no other reason than this, I was consulted regarding the problem of the day: a young girl refused to marry an older man arranged for her, and she had tried to poison herself. I told them that this girl should not be forced to marry the man, and she might try to kill herself again if this was forced. The men nodded in agreement. The old ways were perhaps bending a little, and this Juliet might be free to marry her true