We had joined the relief organisations on the Greek island, Lesbos, where some 60,000 refugees had landed after sailing across the Mytilini Strait from Turkey. They were the lucky ones. Though the Strait is only about twenty kilometres wide, erratic winds and currents make it treacherous. Hundreds had perished during previous crossings. Many more were still queuing to come.
We sanitised the camps, cleaned the beaches, distributed food, clothes and bedding. Hrant, who had often witnessed the miseries of displacement, teamed up with us.
One day, a gas cylinder in the main camp exploded. In the ensuing fire, some three thousand people stampeded to safety.
Despite strong winds, firefighters and volunteers managed to put out the fire. But as the camp lost its living quarters and amenities, most of the refugees had to be sheltered in tents in open spaces.
We led a group to a park by the sea. Hrant tried to boost the refugees’ morale with a positive perspective on deracination. Migrations, he maintained, whether undertaken by people fleeing from Saviours’ tyrannical rule or uprooted by wars, droughts, famines and Nature’s upheavals, punctuate history. While most governments, cynically cavilling national interests, disregard the migrants’ tribulations and malign them as economic riffraff, the migrants bring changes that energise and enrich both themselves and their hosts.
That didn’t appease Belkis. ‘What about the endless tragedies, the despair that compels people to risk their lives? Are they ransoms paid to history?’
‘Alas, yes. And always paid by innocents … That’s another calamity that strengthens our determination to repair the world. I remember how you were affected after Jehan---’
That flustered Belkis. ‘You know about Jehan?’
‘I told you I’ve watched you both from the year dot. I often wondered how, given your intuitions, neither of you felt my presence.’
That jogged my memory. ‘I think we did. We often spoke about sensing a force supporting us during our orphanage years. Was that you?’
‘Yes.’
Belkis muttered. ‘Were you there when Jehan …?’
Hrant nodded sadly. ‘By your side.’
Belkis had told me about Jehan. In the months leading to the Arab Spring – now laid waste – when the refugee crisis in Europe was incubating, an American destroyer in the Mediterranean chanced upon an inflatable boat that had been adrift for five days. Carrying African asylum seekers far in excess of the number of people it could accommodate, the boat had set out from Libya, allegedly with ‘Brotherly Leader’ Gaddafi choosing to look the other way. Conditions while they drifted had killed most of those on board. The destroyer transferred the survivors to our Coast Guard.
Days later, the rescued were moved from hospitals to detention centres to await relocation when the politicking between our government and international welfare organisations yielded a decision.
One survivor, a Sudanese girl of ten, Jehan, emaciated and traumatised, was sent to Belkis’s orphanage. There, spared the misery of an overcrowded camp, she would be under the care of a matronly Lebanese psychiatric social worker, Salwa, assigned by a UN agency.
Belkis, a year older than Jehan, immediately became Salwa’s helper.
Their solicitude gradually soothed Jehan’s trauma. Over the weeks, Belkis even invented a pidgin with which she and Jehan communicated with girlish enthusiasm. Since Salwa, like Jehan, spoke Arabic, she managed to piece together her story.
The only child of a professional couple, Jehan had been chosen by Khartoum’s pre-eminent matchmaker as the ideal new wife for General Zulfiqar. Sudan’s High Command – reliant on Zulfiqar as the only commander who could control Janjaweed, the country’s nomadic militia – declared the proposed marriage ‘made in heaven’.
However, Jehan’s mother, Ayesha, and father, Mohammad, declined the proposal. In a simple but adamant statement, they declared that although marriages of girls as young as ten were allowed in Sudan, they considered Jehan too emotionally undeveloped to be the consort of a warrior as legendary as Zulfiqar; and that, more pertinently, Jehan was mentally too frail to undergo the female circumcision that he demanded.
The refusal caused a furore. The ulema derided the parents as ‘western secularists’. Ayesha was immediately dismissed from her post on the pretext that her perfidious disavowal of female genital mutilation would cause irreparable damage to her students’ pure minds. Ayesha’s apologia, courageously published by Mohammad, also stated that his wife still carried physical and psychological scars from her own genital mutilation – as did, no doubt, most of the eighty-eight percent of Sudanese women who had suffered the ritual.
Except for the castigations branding Ayesha and Mohammad as pretentious liberals, the matter should have ended there. But that would not have saved Zulfiqar’s face.
Jehan’s uncles and aunts – promised career opportunities by Zulfiqar – harangued Jehan’s parents with admonitions to protect the family honour. They said that to prove their piety, the two parents must agree to the proposal.
This infuriated Mohammad. He stated that female genital mutilation was not an obligatory Islamic rite, that neither the Qur’an nor the Prophet’s Hadiths had prescribed it, and that, most importantly, since Allah had forged women as intact and complete beings, the ritual was a crime against Creation. Then, urging that the practice should be abolished, he denounced it as a stratagem contrived by forefathers who aimed to enslave women by stifling their libido.
That liberalism cost Mohammad his life. He was killed on his way to Friday prayers by Zulfiqar’s followers.
Instead of restraining Ayesha, Mohammad’s assassination strengthened her resolve. Realising that unless she agreed she, too, would be killed, leaving the uncles and aunts to agree to the wedding, Ayesha determined to whisk Jehan to safety. Mindful that they wouldn’t be allowed to leave Sudan, she approached Ishak, one of Mohammad’s trusted contacts in a clandestine democratic group that smuggled out opponents of the regime.
Within days, three activists secreted Ayesha and Jehan out of Sudan. Their names were Ahmad, Hazem and Walid.
After weeks of arduous trekking through Chad and southern Libya, they reached Susah.
There they posed as tourists interested in Susah’s Roman ruins and chartered a cabin-cruiser. On their way to the boat an armed gang, hired by Zulfiqar, tracked them down. Ahmad urged Hazem to flee with Ayesha and Jehan while he and Walid engaged the gang.
Hazem led Ayesha and Jehan to a distant cove where a crowd of Africans besieged human traffickers who smuggled migrants to Italy.
Hazem placed her and Jehan in an inflatable boat. Before leaving to meet his own uncertain fate, he gave Ayesha details of some exiled Sudanese in Europe who would help them start a new life.
In mid-sea the following morning, the boat ran out of fuel. As it drifted helplessly, weather conditions, sunstroke and lack of food and water took their toll. Many on board, including Ayesha, expired. The few, like Jehan, eventually rescued by the American destroyer, were found to be on their last faltering breaths.
Jehan’s ordeal received world-wide coverage. But while Europe hesitated to offer her asylum, Zulfiqar’s long arm reached the orphanage. The Warden broke the news. In a few days, Jehan’s uncle Qasim would be arriving with his wife, Fatima, to take her home. The formalities appointing Qasim as Jehan’s guardian had been processed by both the Sudanese authorities and our own. By then Jehan had appreciably recuperated; at least her heart-wrenching screams in her sleep had abated.
But the prospect of returning to Sudan with her uncle brought back her traumas. Only Salwa and Belkis could get near her when, seized by paroxysms of fear, she isolated herself in corners. At mealtimes, refusing to eat, she would run around begging everybody to save her from Qasim.
Salwa, frantic to help Jehan, contacted numerous organisations only to be told that their noninterventionist charters prevented them from interfering in a sovereign state’s internal affairs. Her pleas to her employers, that Jehan was still too psychologically damaged to return to Sudan, failed. The UN agency proved sympathetic but declared that it could not mediate in cases that complied with International Law. But her last and desperate approach to a Scandinavian Human Rights Institute did offer hope. Presuming that somewhere in the labyrinthine statutes of 193 countries, they might find a loophole that could challenge Qasim’s guardianship, the Institute agreed to send an official.
Qasim arrived, flamboyantly dressed in traditional jalabiya replete with sashes of merit and anointed with self-importance, and jubilantly declared this his long-awaited reunion with his niece. His wife, Fatima, and a retinue of lawyers and interpreters accompanied him. The Warden received him deferentially and conducted him to the welcome room on the top floor, where he could meet Jehan in private. As they walked up the stairs, the Warden introduced Sigrun Blom, a Norwegian Arabist and international lawyer, engaged by the Human Rights Institute to oversee the proceedings. Qasim, irked by what he called ‘outrageous involvement of superfluous outsiders’ – and further galled to have to deal with a woman – cast hostile glances at Blom.
Jehan’s piercing screams greeted him as he haughtily stomped into the welcome room. Salwa and Belkis, standing by her side, tried to calm Jehan. Qasim reacted as if he were deeply hurt; then lost his composure and bellowed, ‘Be quiet, girl!’ Qasim’s sudden dominance silenced Jehan. But when he walked towards her, she hid behind Salwa and Belkis. Fatima, realising that Qasim’s temper would antagonise the gathering, pulled him back and led him to the table where his lawyers had laid out the relevant papers.
The lawyers show Blom documents that gave Qasim and Fatima incontestable rights to Jehan’s guardianship. Qasim, reverting to affability, opened his arms to Jehan. ‘My precious niece, taking you back into the fold makes this the happiest day of my life.’ In response Jehan screamed even more stridently. At that point, Blom interjected. ‘There’s one vital document missing.’
Qasim glared at her. ‘What document?’
‘An affidavit guaranteeing that Jehan will inherit her parents’ estate in totality.’
Qasim blustered. ‘Her inheritance is immaterial. She’ll remain a member of a noble household. That’s confirmed by all the documents. I should remind you: I’m a diplomat. I uphold the law. The affidavit is unnecessary.’
This failed to intimidate Blom. ‘On the contrary. It’s essential. Without it I cannot ratify your guardianship.’
Qasim reacted furiously. ‘I don’t need your ratification! The papers are in order. Jehan comes with me. You can’t stop me!’
That produced a hysterical rant from Jehan. Sobbing, she rattled incoherently that Qasim had come on General Zulfiqar’s orders; that Qasim would have her circumcised before her marriage to Zulfiqar; and that Zulfiqar was a demon who murdered her father, forced her and her mother to flee, hired men to kill them in Libya and caused her mother’s cruel death.
Then, emotionally drained, she collapsed into Salwa’s arms. A shocked silence ensued.
When Jehan had started her tirade, Qasim had tried to silence her by outshouting her. But as Jehan kept raging like one possessed, he noted the heightened empathy in the room. That prompted him to flop onto a chair and shake as if maliciously wronged. Then, barely audibly, he muttered. ‘These horrific lies … Our lovely Jehan is sick … Deluded … She needs help … Treatment …’
Blom concurred. ‘She certainly does.’
Qasim, as if summoning some vestiges of strength, rose to his full height. ‘She will have treatment – immediately!’ He turned to Jehan. ‘Come, child … Come now … You’ll have the best doctors in Khartoum …’
Terrified, Jehan clung to Salwa and Belkis.
Blom intervened. ‘Jehan can’t leave – not until you provide the affidavit. In the meantime, she’ll be cared for here.’
Qasim snarled. ‘I can take her by force! I have diplomatic immunity!’
Blom remained impassive. ‘Should you attempt to use force I’ll call the police. It will cause quite a scandal, but …’
Qasim turned menacing. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with!’
Blom replied disdainfully. ‘I certainly do.’
Once again, Fatima intervened. She urged her outraged husband to confer with the lawyers. After minutes of whispered deliberation, the lawyers, manning their techsets, left the room.
Qasim confronted Blom. ‘My solicitors in Khartoum will notarise and send the affidavit within the hour to the Sudanese Chargé d’Affaires here. By this afternoon I’ll have full authority to leave with Jehan.’ Ignoring Blom’s unimpressed face – Belkis thought she must have had another ploy in her head – he grinned triumphantly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll embrace my beloved niece.’
He strode towards Jehan. The moment he moved, Jehan, shaking her head hysterically, ran on to the balcony. And threw herself from it.
Salwa and Belkis rushed down to the courtyard. The others followed.
Jehan lay lifeless.
Belkis, weeping inconsolably, hugged Jehan’s body.
Then, frenzied by the blood in her hands, she attacked Qasim, hitting him and smearing him with Jehan’s blood. ‘You killed her! You killed her! You killed her!’
Qasim raised a hand to slap Belkis.
Blom gripped his hand. ‘Don’t you dare!’
Qasim dropped his hand as if it had been soiled. Then he walked away muttering. ‘Accursed women! Shaytan’s whores!’
Blom stayed with Belkis for days and grieved with her.
Only later did Belkis discover that Blom was Hrant in one of his personas.
The orphans, dressed in institutional garb, come out into the courtyard.
Some sit on the grass for their lessons.
A few, who are watched by supervisors – ‘Cerberuses’ Belkis called them – clear the rubbish on the pavements as part of their community work.
The rest weed the gardens.
An old woman, serene and smiling, supervises them. I wonder if she’s Jasmin, the janitress who instructed Belkis on the remedial powers of lichens.
Horticulture – that was the orphanage’s forte, Belkis used to avow proudly. The locals maintained that the girls owed their green fingers to the tears of former inmates which had soaked into the earth. Belkis cherished that notion. It had the truth of folks’ wisdom, she said. Plus the transference of the girls’ love for their unknown parents, she added.
I move on.