“I’ll come back
to teach
what I learn.”
I promise Leila
I will bring books
and pencils, pencils, pencils.
And a path to a chance
for her,
Gamal,
the melon-bellied girl,
and every child born
behind rice-bag walls.
Leila’s gaze pulls in my promises,
sweet,
like Fanta.
I give her a kiss,
a gentle peckle-peck
to each side of her small,
wide face.
Sun has dried the brown
on Leila’s cheeks and neck.
But it hasn’t dulled the expectation
growing in her eyes.
GOOD-BYE GIFTS
Left behind.
My Fanta flute,
washed clean,
for Gamal.
For Old Anwar,
my plump tomato memory,
drawn by me
with a T.
For Muma,
my red pencil and tablet,
and a page filled simply
with my favorite shape.
My favorite funny-bug letter,
rolling in a row:
O O O
Open.
Unbroken.
Eternal.
NOW
Dusk.
The sun,
setting low,
a sliced-open yam
dipped in orange Fanta,
smiling sweet.
A birdcall
echoes from far off.
I listen.
It comes again
with a friend,
and swells to greet the evening.
An urgent whisper
spills.
Now, Amira!
I gather dried beans to eat.
I take a small tin of sesame oil
to keep free of mosquitoes.
I walk,
swift,
sure,
silently.
The Fanta sun dips
to become a low-hanging globe
blurring the horizon.
I do as I’m taught from the Koran.
I follow Allah’s light.
Night is coming fast.
Old Anwar is away
in search of firewood.
Muma, Leila, and Gamal
have gone ahead
to Kalma’s central tent for evening prayers.
They expect I will join them.
At this moment,
there are no watchful eyes to stop me.
No questions about where I am,
And—ya!—I do go.
ITCHY DOUBT
It pinches,
presses down hard,
twists me up,
tips me off-balance.
It is heavy,
but makes me light-headed,
like playing dizzy donkey.
It’s as bothersome as needle noses.
Leave me alone!
But it won’t let up.
It bites me while I flee.
Itchy doubt.
DANDO BRIGHT!
As itchy doubt prickles my skin,
a sudden moon shadow,
silver-white,
paints a shape
on the dark ground ahead,
lighting it.
Am I truly seeing
what I am seeing?
Bright
guidance!
Dando’s silhouette!
My feet follow fast.
PRAY, WAIT
I walk—racing.
Past dome dwellings,
past Sudanese flowers,
my determined sandals tamping down
smelly dirt.
My toob
picks up the little breeze
made by my hurried steps.
Ahead I see the intake gate.
Tonight there are two Safari Suits,
both men guarding.
I yield.
One Safari Suit has lit the wick
on his nighttime lantern.
Why this man must wear green-dark glasses
after the sun has set,
I do not understand.
But it’s better this way.
With shaded eyes,
he can see less of me.
The other Safari Suit stretches,
yawns.
My eye is on the chain-link fence behind
and to the side of them,
its gate an open sliver.
I hold back.
Pray.
Wait.
HEDGEHOG ESCAPE
At the intake station,
there is a table.
On its top rests a single bottle of Fanta.
Safari Suit with the green-dark glasses takes a swig,
sets down the drink.
His Safari Suit partner is quick
to pick up where his friend
left off.
He snaps up the bottle,
guzzles.
I can’t hear what the two men say,
but right away I see
they’re squabbling
over Fanta.
These grown-up men
wrestle the bottle’s neck,
each struggling to make the soda their own.
The Fanta falls to the dirt.
Both Safari Suits lunge,
grapple,
shove to get that glass vessel,
now spilling its insides.
I slide behind
the fighting,
foolish men.
Slip through the intake gate.
Hedgehog escape!
QUICKENED
All of me beats
fast,
blood pumping,
heart sputtering,
quickened breaths.
I’m toe-deep in thick dirt.
It’s soft,
inviting me to walk,
walk, walk.
From here,
I don’t know
where Nyala is,
or which way to go.
Sayidda Moon is out,
a half-circle slice,
encrusting night’s black toob.
I follow the Koran’s teachings.
Take the path that shines brightest.
I move in the direction of Sayidda Moon’s
gleaming light.
I’m not far when I hear rustling
and creaking,
and feet coming up behind me!
A lantern’s hot splash of light
floods at my back.
The creaking stops,
but not the heavy steps.
I start to run.
The lamplight follows fast
in back of me,
approaching.
I run and run
and run.
The lamplight spreads wide,
catching up,
spewing a shadow.
Two solid hands pounce
on my shoulders.
“Amira!”
THE TRUTH
“Child! Have you been stripped
of all that is sensible?”
It’s Old Anwar,
holding a lantern near his chin.
He looks angry.
His tone is sharp,
but his eyes, soft.
“What has possessed you, Amira?
It is not safe out here for a girl
traveling alone after dark.
Where, in the name of Allah, are you going?”
I can’t lie to Old Anwar.
I answer simply and honestly.
“I have left Kalma for good.
I’m walking to Nyala.
I want to attend the Gad School.”
Gently, Old Anwar says,
“Do you have any idea how to get to Nyala?”
I shake my head.
“I’m following the Koran’s guidance,
taking the path Sayidda Moon has shown me.”
Old Anwar speaks quietly.
He will not let me escape his gaze.
“Even with light on your path,
how can you walk to a place you do not know?”
My breathing has slowed,
but I now feel as though I will cry.
Old Anwar says,
“You cannot walk alone.”
Hard wanting stomps at my throat.
I’ve come this far.
I don’t want to go back.
I do cry now.
WE
I clamp both hands over my eyes.
Old Anwar sets his lantern
next to my feet.
He steps quickly away,
returns with his wheelbarrow,
hinges moaning.
He unloads the piled firewood,
dumps it right where we’re standing.
“Get in,” he says firmly.
I gather the fabric of my toob,
secure myself
in the dented well.
The wheelbarrow squeaks.
I give Old Anwar
my tin of sesame oil.
He spills a small river into his
palm,
slathers those thirsty hinges,
then my cheeks
and nose,
and backs of hands.
Old Anwar douses himself with the oil.
He offers me his lantern,
lifts the wooden handles.
The wheelbarrow tips.
Old Anwar says,
“Hold on.”
FLIGHT
Morning.
Me,
rising
high,
wings
spread.
Casting a stippled shadow
over Kalma,
I fly off.
Sparrow child.
My beak,
my gaze,
straight,
not once looking down.
The rustling
of Sudanese flowers
fades
as I escape.
Trailing
tail feathers.
What else is possible?
I am.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Land of the Fur
The Darfur conflict unfolded in early 2003 in the western region of Sudan, a country in northeast Africa. The conflict sprung from an ongoing civil war. Fighting escalated when the Sudanese Liberation Army and the Justice and Equality Movement accused the government of Sudan of neglecting Darfur both politically and economically. As a result, the two armed movements declared war against the central government. The government relied on the Janjaweed, an ethnically based militia composed mainly of Arab groups, to fight the rebellion.
The largest tribal group in Darfur is that of the Fur people. Darfur, which means “land of the Fur,” has suffered as warring groups fight over land and animal-grazing rights between nomadic Arabs and Fur farmers. Because of the staggering number of human casualties, the United States government describes what has happened in Darfur as genocide. Since 2003, at least 300,000 people have been killed and more than 2.5 million have been displaced inside Sudan and elsewhere.
These people have been uprooted from their homes, which were bombed or burned in brutal raids by the Janjaweed militia. In the aftermath of military slaughter, they have been forced to flee in search of safety. Many families travel great distances to reach one of several relocation camps throughout Sudan and Chad, a neighboring country. When a family sets out from their village, they often don’t know where they’re going, exactly. When they flee, their course is determined by what routes appear to be the safest, those free of potential attacks. To ensure they will not be seen, they travel mostly at night, hoping to get to the safety of a displacement camp.
While the refugee camps provide a haven, they are often overrun with people living among squalid conditions.
Kalma Camp, located in South Darfur, was considered one of the largest refugee centers as the conflict grew. At its peak, it accommodated nearly 90,000 residents. Those living in Kalma have very little hope of ever returning to their homes.
Finding Hope
When I first learned of the struggles unfolding in Darfur and Sudan, my heart broke. As the crisis worsened, I felt compelled to present the ugly effects of war to young readers in a way that could help them understand their impact. That is how The Red Pencil began.
Although I have traveled through several parts of Africa, conducted extensive research for this novel, and consulted with several experts, I am not an expert on the crisis in Darfur. As a novelist, I felt it vital to write a book that speaks to the human condition in times of war and to present this information in a way that is accessible to young readers. This story has been heavily vetted and fact-checked. Any errors or omissions are unintended. My hope is that I’ve written a book that is true in its soul and that speaks to the indomitable spirit of a people.
The Red Pencil is a work of fiction inspired by several accounts that I read about children growing up inside an unthinkable reality.
Young people witnessed horrific acts of war. With their families and surviving neighbors, they fled to refugee camps in search of safety.
The Red Pencil ’s illustrated poems follow one child’s journey through grief and possibility. Part novel, part sketchbook, this story celebrates the power of creativity, and the way that art can help us heal. It is intended to be a book about hope, the resilience of the human spirit in the wake of devastating circumstances, and how artistic expression can transcend the wounds of war. I wrote this novel with a weeping heart. The use of prose poems to tell Amira’s story is deliberate. I found that verse could be a means of insulating young readers from the tragic realities of genocide and could offer a way to make the horrors of war easier to comprehend.
Poetry also encourages young readers to express their own emotions and troubles, and to find comfort in the most upsetting circumstances.
According to LitWorld, a global literacy advocacy organization, 523 million girls and women worldwide cannot read or write. This is especially true in developing nations. In Darfur, the illiteracy rate among girls is alarmingly high. Darfurian schools cost money that each family must pay if they want their children to attend. Many families do not have the funds for education. Girls are often forced to stay out of school to help with household tasks and farming chores. Also, in rural areas, education for girls can be seen as a threat to traditional values. Girls are often expected to marry young and work on their family land, herding animals and tending the home.
Fortunately, teachers and international aid groups are working to increase educational opportunities for girls, especially those in cities, small villages, and safety camps.
In 2004, when most of this story is set, Kalma was just beginning to entertain the idea of creating a school. There were fledgling attempts, but because the war was new and tensions were high, people were still trying to determine what would happen after the initial crisis. At that time, within Kalma’s confines, school was not a priority. Also, families still clung to traditional values, which discouraged educational access for girl children.
On the dusty outskirts of Nyala, South Darfur’s largest town, there is a school called Qud al Haboob, also referred to as Gad al Haboob. This school is known for its rare distinction—the sizable population of girls who attend. In 2012, among the school’s 186 students, 98 were girls. For the sake of this novel, I’ve modified the school’s name to Gad Primary School to avoid confusion with the story’s references to the haboob sandstorms that sweep across the Sudan region.
It is not fully known how the Qud al Haboob got its name. Some believe it was named for its location in the region, where the haboob storms are prevalent.
The vignettes that
make up this novel were inspired by personal accounts, interviews, transcribed narratives, and news stories.
As part of my research for The Red Pencil, I spent countless hours interviewing individuals who have lived through the Darfur conflict, and also workers who have traveled into refugee camps providing aid to families and children.
These courageous people were eager to share their stories with me, in the hope that The Red Pencil could be a means by which young readers can understand the shocking complexity of Darfur’s struggle and the tragedies and triumphs of those who have survived.
In addition to recounting details about the war, these men and women shared colorful stories of village life, tribal customs, local agriculture, and farming practices. Several bits of detail about conditions in Darfur and Sudan in 2004 came from these conversations. Dando and Muma are Amira’s own terms of endearment for her parents. The tribal beliefs about calling the moon, and the moon’s showing power, are based on my interviews with Darfurian refugees. So are the references to animal habits, life in a refugee camp, clothing, and weather patterns.