Bakhita was bought in El Obeid by a Turkish general. Her work would be to serve the general’s wife as well as his mother. Bakhita was tense and worried as she approached her new owner‘s house. She was afraid, and with good reason. She and another newly purchased young slave were led to a room where the general’s wife and mother waited.
The women glared at the young girls. “You won’t get away with being careless here!” one sternly warned. The girls were wide-eyed and silent. They were thrust immediately into training for their duties of waiting on the two ladies, dressing them, perfuming them, combing their hair, and fanning them.
The general’s wife and mother were unfair and cruel. Their whips were always close by, and they seemed only too happy to use them. Bakhita tried to perform her tasks as perfectly as she could, fearing all the while that everything she did was not good enough. Indeed, while brushing the ladies’ hair, she had only accidentally to tug too hard to receive instant punishment. All the general’s slaves lived and worked in fear of the two women.
The slaves all lived together, sleeping on mats on the bare ground in a single huge dormitory. After working into the night, they had to rise at dawn to begin their duties. Sometimes the general’s wife would get up early just to check on them. Woe to the slave who was late, even by a few moments!
As the days passed, Bakhita saw how hard the slaves worked. They did the heavy manual labor in the fields and staffed the kitchens and the laundry. Their main meal was at midday, when they received meager rations of stew, porridge, bread, and perhaps some fruit. Her life as a maid was hard enough, but how much harder were theirs!
One day, the general’s wife decided that, as was customary, the new slaves should be tattooed. This was considered a sign of honor and prestige for slave owners. The painful process involved tracing detailed patterns on the body and arms of each slave, then going over the patterns with a sharp razor. When the cutting was done, salt was rubbed into the bleeding wounds every day, so scars would form as they slowly healed. Poor Bakhita was one of those forced to undergo this terrible process without the benefit of any painkillers or medical assistance.
Later, she would write, “I can see now that it was by a miracle of God that I did not die.” It took over a month for the oozing wounds to close. Bakhita would bear the scars for the rest of her life.
The long years passed. Those years in the house of the Turkish general were filled with enough cruelty to last Bakhita a lifetime. Once, by chance, she and another young slave were in a room attending to their duties. “Something’s going on,” her friend whispered. “The voices are coming closer. Should we hide?”
“Let’s just stay still,” Bakhita replied, trying to remain calm.
Suddenly, the general and his wife walked into the room. They were locked in a heated argument. “It’s too expensive,” the general declared.
“Everything’s too expensive for you!” his wife shot back.
The general’s voice rose angrily. “But we can’t afford to pay for it!”
“I want it!” she screeched, her shrill voice piercing the little girls’ ears.
When the shouting match was finally over, the general had clearly lost. He pounded a table in frustration. Slowly he looked around the room. His eyes came to rest on the two slaves, who were standing motionless in the corner. They kept their eyes cast down, making themselves as inconspicuous as possible. But that was not enough to appease their owner. His face was flushed with anger as he called for two of his soldiers.
“Beat these two!” he ordered. “I’ll tell you when to stop!”
The general stood with his hands on his hips and watched, as if the girls’ suffering could relieve his own frustration. Bakhita felt the sharp sting of the lash over and over, burning and ripping her skin. She would never forget this beating, for it left a deep wound on her thigh that never completely healed.
“Enough,” the general called at last, and the two children were carried in silence to their mats in the slaves’ quarters.
Throughout her life, Bakhita recalled that terrible day and the beating that could certainly have caused her death. Even though she was not yet aware of it, God’s love was protecting her.