Abu Bakr Al-Tayeb Idris 

The Road to the Unknown

My daughter Zhikra asked me as we sat together with her mother, siblings, and my parents, all exhausted by fatigue, hunger, and thirst:

“Dad, where are we going?”
I responded with a neutral smile, after looking at her with hesitation:
“I don’t know exactly where we are going!”

She thought I didn’t understand her question, so she repeated:
“Dad, I mean where are we going from here?”
I answered with firmness and certainty:
“We are heading into the unknown.”
She replied after a short silence:

 “What does that mean?”
Her mother took over, saying:
“When someone doesn’t know exactly his destination, he says he is heading into the unknown.”

 She frowned and said:
“So, you don’t know where you are taking us?”
Her mother replied:
“That is exactly what your father means.”

Note:

Children always want answers to every question they ask; however, they don’t understand that we weren’t well-prepared for the treachery of the military and politicians together.

The Road to the Unknown:

As we walked, thousands of citizens moved along a narrow road between two cornfields. The road seemed to reflect the political scene in Sudan. Four vehicles for the Janjaweed forces suddenly passed in front of us, carrying armed soldiers, while one of them held the trigger of a mortar. The combat vehicles sped through the crowd, forcing people to run and scatter. They stopped in the middle of the road, so the soldiers began to stop civilians at gunpoint, ordering them to open their bags and searching them, taking money and gold.

Some people along the road removed parts of their clothing to reduce the weight. I found two robes and a Pakistani outfit that fit me perfectly, right in a country where its leaders wear clothes too big for their size and aspire to positions beyond their stature.

One of the displaced people came forward to me, saying:
“If they are looking for money and gold, I have neither!”
I replied:
“These Janjaweed sometimes claim to be searching for remnants of the former regime and democracy inside people’s bags!!!”
He said:
“Well, neither of those are in my bag!!!”
I told him:
“Sometimes, they might kill you for not holding either of them.” He fell silent and walked away.

Note:

This excuse lacks any logic, and I can’t help but wonder… do the Janjaweed actually think democracy fits inside a bag?
I don’t know.

As I walked with my family among thousands of displaced people, some of them were being displaced for the third time. My daughter asked me:
“Dad, I’m tired, are we almost there?”
She didn’t know where we were going, neither did I. But I told her:
“Yes, we are almost there!”
Then she asked:
“Dad, when will we go back to our home?”
I replied:
“I honestly don’t know!!!”
She said:
“So, will we be back in a couple of weeks or a month?”
I answered:
“I honestly don’t know!!!!”
She fell silent for a moment, then asked:
“Dad, where are we going?”
I took a pinch of tobacco and placed it in my mouth, then replied:
“I honestly don’t know!”
She looked at me and said:
“Dad, you keep saying ‘I don’t know!’.”
Sometimes, we forget things.

I was touching the heads of my hungry children when the milk seller refused to lend us any, claiming that the price of the feed had risen. So, I whispered with pride:
“Our best days have yet to come.”
My middle daughter, one of five children, asked me:
“When will that day come?”
I replied with a little firmness and a lot of pride:
“It will come…, but you must wait politely.”

When thieves stormed our house, in broad daylight, they expelled us out with nothing but the clothes on our backs. I was pushing my wife and children outside while I struggled against their gazes scanning our home, the rooms, the kitchen, the furniture in the yard, the front door, the closed neighborhood shop, the deserted street, and the cats fighting in the middle of the lower street. They resisted the memory of the place, while I resisted collapsing on the inside.
My son asked me:
“Where to?” He gave me a look that carried many unspoken questions, but I understood them all without an answer to give. Instead, I screamed silently inside:
“I don’t know!”

I used to dream of moving my wife and kids to a bigger house and owning a car to take them to the park during vacations. I had promised them to spend the New Year’s vacation in Egypt, but now all I wish for is not to lose any of my family to a bullet or rocket. I now have a modest dream of finding a vehicle that can take us out of the city safely, no matter where.

The children grew tired of walking, so I carried two of my daughters. One of them urinated on my back. I felt the warm liquid trickling down, but I didn’t scold her. I remained silent, my mind foggy, my thoughts unsettled. I felt nothing, absolutely neutral. Then she said:
“I didn’t mean to pee on you… I’m sorry.”
At that moment, I cried… in silence. Sometimes, we find ourselves in need of silence because it hides our disappointments and brokenness, stealing away our helplessness. I told her:
“It is okay… don’t apologize.”
My other daughter saw it as a chance to speak, so she shifted on my back and said:
“Dad, I forgot my drawing notebook and my coloring box.”
Another added:
“Dad, I forgot my school bag and my Eid dress.”
I told them:
“Sometimes, we forget a lot of things…”

Abu Bakr Al-Tayeb Idris
Residence: Al Junaid/Al-Hijilij village.
Employee at the Ministry of Finance – Al Jazeera state.
I have published several short stories and political articles in Al-Ayyam, Ajras Al-Harbeh, and other newspapers.
Displaced in Kassala.