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Born into the Zaghawa tribe in the Sudanese desert, Halima Bashir received a good education away from her rural surroundings (thanks to her doting, politically astute father) and at twenty-four became her village’s first formal doctor. Yet not even Bashir’s degree could protect her from the encroaching conflict that would consume her homeland. Janjaweed Arab militias savagely assaulted the Zaghawa, often with the backing of the Sudanese military. Then, in early 2004, the Janjaweed attacked Bashir’s village and surrounding areas, raping forty-two schoolgirls and their teachers. Bashir, who treated the traumatized victims, some as young as eight years old, could no longer remain quiet. But breaking her silence ignited a horrifying turn of events.

Raw and riveting, Tears of the Desert is the first memoir ever written by a woman caught up in the war in Darfur. It is a survivor’s tale of a conflicted country, a resilient people, and an uncompromising spirit.

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Halima Bashir lives with her husband and son in England, where she continues to speak out about the violence in Sudan.

Damien Lewis has spent the last twenty years reporting from war zones in Africa, with a particular focus and expertise in Sudan. His

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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Naming

Come here my love,

I have a song for you.

Come here my love,

I have a dream for you...

I sing-whisper this lullaby to my boy, my tiny child, as I rock him to sleep in my arms. Outside the window of our cell-like apartment the London traf?c roars by. But here we are safe, he and I, this little sleepy miracle that I clutch to myself with a desperate joy in my heart. And as I sing, inside my head I am transported home, home to my beloved Africa.

Come here my love,

I have a kiss for you.

Come here my love...

This is the lullaby that my kind and gentle mother used to sing to me, of an evening by the ?reside.

This is the lullaby that my ?erce Grandma Sumah would sing, on those warm African nights when she allowed herself to relax a little, and for her inner love to shine through. And this is the lullaby that my wonderful, funny, clever father would murmur in my ear, as he rocked me on his lap and ran his ?ngers through my hair.

Come here my love,

I have a smile for you...

As I sing this song I am in Africa again, enveloped in the loving warmth and security of my family.

As I sing this song I am with my tribe again, the Zaghawa, a ?erce, warlike black African people who are the most generous and open when welcoming strangers. I am back in the hot, spicy, dry desert air of my village, a child dressed only in dust and happiness, and all in my life is wondrous and good.

I am in my home, with my family, with my people, in my village, in Darfur.

Darfur. I know to you this must be a word soaked in suffering and blood. A name that conjures up terrible images of a dark horror and an evil without end. Pain and cruelty on a magnitude inconceivable in most of the civilized world. But to me Darfur means something quite different: It was and is that irreplaceable, unfathomable joy that is home.

Come here my love,

I have a home for you...

I sing this song for my little boy who is not yet one year old, and re?ect upon the miracle of his birth–for it gave me the spirit and the will to live. Without you, I tell his shining, sleepy eyes, I would have killed myself from the horror and shame of it all. The darkness would have overcome me, dragged me down into its eager drowning.

We Zaghawa are a ?erce, warlike people, and death–violent and bloody and at one’s own hand–is far preferable to dishonor and shame. It has always been thus for my tribe.

Come here my love,

I have a hug for you...

“You know what rape is?” The face is a mask of hatred–eyes close to mine, his soldier’s breath stinking. “You think because you are a doctor you really know what rape is?”

A second soldier lunges at me, pinning me to the ?oor. “We’ll show you what rape is, you black dog...”

“You think you can talk to the foreigners about rape!” a third screams. “Let me tell you–you know nothing. But in rape we are expert teachers...”

“And when we are ?nished with you we might just let you live,” the ?rst one spits out. “Then you can go and tell the world...”

I try to block out the memory of it all, but sometimes it is not possible, and it comes crowding in on me, dark and suffocating, putrid and evil. I can still see their faces, even now, as if it were only yesterday. Bloodshot eyes, in?amed with hatred and lust. Graying stubble. Unclean breath, the reek of days-old sweat and unwashed uniforms. A ?ashing blade as one tries to cut my trousers off of me. I kick out, ?ercely, aiming for his groin. He cries out in pain, recovers himself, and stabs the knife into my thigh. I feel the agony of that knife thrust, and a dead weight bearing down on my bound hands.

Come here my love,

I have a life for you...

I hug my little boy close to my pounding, fearful heart. It is you who gave me life, the will to live, the spirit to go on. And because of you–and the countless other women and children who never made it through the horror alive–I am going to sit at this desk in our tiny apartment while you peacefully sleep, and I am going to start to write my story.

Come here my love,

I have a story for you...

My name is Halima. It is an important name and you must remember it. It is important because my father gave it to me seven days after I was born, in the village naming ceremony. In a sense my father saw into the future, for he named me after who and what I was to become.

I was my father’s ?rstborn child, and I was his favorite. I know all children say this, but I had an especially close bond with my father. For the ?rst ?ve years of my life I was an only child. I used to long for a brother or sister to play with. But I also knew that when one came along I’d have to share my parents with them, which was the last thing on earth that I wanted to do.

Whenever my father was home I would always be sitting at his side listening to his stories. He’d tell me about the legends of our tribe, the Zaghawa, or about the lineage of our family, which was descended from a long line of tribal chiefs. Or he’d tell me about his work buying and selling cattle, goats, and camels, and about his travels across the deserts and mountains of Darfur.

One day when I was very young we were lying on some rugs by the ?reside in the center of our home. In each corner of our fenced compound there was a thatched, circular mud hut: one for the women, one for the men, one for my parents, and one for visitors. And in the middle was a thatched wooden shelter with open sides. Here we gathered each evening, lounging around the ?re and gazing up at the bright stars, talking, talking and laughing.

My father was playing a game with me. It is just like the “This little piggy went to market” game that Westerners play with their children. He took my left hand in his, and traced a circle in my palm: “The camel’s home,” he announced, gazing into my eyes. Then he traced a similar pattern on my forearm: “The cow’s home.” Then higher up: “The sheep’s home . . .” Of course, we’d played this game many times before, and I knew what was coming. I was giggling and trying to pull my arm away to escape.

“The chicken’s home . . .” he continued, tracing a chicken coop at the top of my arm. And then, as I desperately tried to squidge myself up into a ball, he made a lunge for my armpit. “And who is this home for?!”

We fell about laughing, as he tickled me and I tried to ?ght him off. When we tired of the game we leaned back on the rugs, losing our thoughts in the dark night sky.

“You–you’re my favorite little girl,” my father murmured, as he stroked my hair. “You brought such luck to our family.”

“But why am I so lucky, abba?” I asked him. Abba is “Daddy” in our Zaghawa language. I was at that age when I always wanted to know “why.”

My father went on to tell me the story of my naming ceremony. In our tribe each child’s name must be announced within seven days of birth. My mother and father were so proud of their ?rstborn that they invited everyone to the naming ceremony. My father was a relatively rich man in our village, as he owned many cattle, sheep, and goats, and dozens of prized camels. My father slaughtered several animals and a feast was prepared for all.

My mother was resting after the birth, and would do so for forty days, as was our tradition. So my fearsome Grandma Boheda rounded up some of the village women to help cook. There were trays piled high with kissra, a ?at, sorghum pancake cooked on a metal plate over an open ?re. There were cauldrons over?owing with acidah, a thick maize mash. There were bowls piled high with fresh salad, garnished with sesame oil and lemon juice. And there was lots of smoked cattle and goat meat, with hot, spicy sauces.

On the morning of my naming, people came bearing gifts of food or little presents. The women were dressed in topes, long robes of a ?ne, chiffon material, decorated with all the colors of the rainbow. The unmarried girls wore the brightest, with ?ame red, ?re orange, and sunset pink designs. And the men looked magni?cent in their white robes that swathed the body from head to toe, topped off by a twisted white turban, an immah.

“You were lying inside the hut,” my father told me. “A tiny baby at your mother’s side. A stream of people came in to see you. But Grandma Sumah was there, and you know what she’s like.... She had your face covered. ‘Please can we see the baby’s face?’ people kept asking. But Grandma just scowled at them and muttered something about protecting you from the Evil Eye.”

The Evil Eye is a curse that all Zaghawa–and many other Muslims– believe in with fervor. With my mother resting, Grandma Sumah was looking after me, and she was very superstitious. She didn’t want anyone looking at me too closely, just in case they had bad intentions and gave me the Evil Eye.

“She’s so beautiful–what name have you chosen?” people kept asking. But Grandma just gave an even darker scowl, and refused to breathe a word.

My father had issued strict instructions. He wasn’t prepared to announce my name until a very special person was present–the traditional medicine woman of our village. When she arrived, my father led her to the center of our house. “I’m calling my ?rstborn child Halima, after you,” he announced. Then he took the medicine woman into the hut so she could bless me.

“But why did you name me after her, abba...

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From Publishers Weekly

Writing with BBC correspondent Lewis (Slave), Bashir, a physician and refugee living in London, offers a vivid personal portrait of life in the Darfur region of Sudan before the catastrophe. Doted on by her father, who bucked tradition to give his daughter an education, and feisty grandmother, who bequeathed a fierce independence, Bashir grew up in the vibrant culture of a close-knit Darfur village. (Its darker side emerges in her horrific account of undergoing a clitoridectomy at age eight.) She anticipated a bright future after medical school, but tensions between Sudan's Arab-dominated Islamist dictatorship and black African communities like her Zaghawa tribe finally exploded into conflict. The violence the author recounts is harrowing: the outspoken Bashir endured brutal gang-rapes by government soldiers, and her village was wiped out by marauding Arab horsemen and helicopter gunships. This is a vehement cri de coeur—I wanted to fight and kill every Arab, to slaughter them, to drive them out of the country, the author thought upon treating girls who had been raped and mutilated—but in showing what she suffered, and lost, Bashir makes it resonate. (Sept.)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

From Booklist

Bashir’s story of her life in Darfur is difficult to read largely because so much of it is ordinary. She recounts growing up in a loving family, attending school, and, with the strong support of her father, becoming a doctor. After she enters professional life, civil war comes to her doorstep, and her life is torn apart. She witnesses horrible suffering and is herself brutally treated by the Janjaweed, the armed militias fighting with the tacit approval of the Sudanese government. As a “black African,” Bashir recalls years of discrimination from ruling Arab Africans, but the spreading war accelerates the violence to epic and devastating levels. After fleeing to Britain, she finds herself in a new battle to prove that the nightmare in her country is real. Bashir is now a powerful voice for the victims of Darfur, speaking out on numerous painful subjects, from her own genital mutilation to rape and the loss of her family. Harsh in its honesty, Bashir’s chronicle is shocking and disturbing. An unforgettable tragedy. --Colleen Mondor --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

书籍介绍

Born into the Zaghawa tribe in the Sudanese desert, Halima Bashir received a good education away from her rural surroundings (thanks to her doting, politically astute father) and at twenty-four became her village’s first formal doctor. Yet not even Bashir’s degree could protect her from the encroaching conflict that would consume her homeland. Janjaweed Arab militias savagely assaulted the Zaghawa, often with the backing of the Sudanese military. Then, in early 2004, the Janjaweed attacked Bashir’s village and surrounding areas, raping forty-two schoolgirls and their teachers. Bashir, who treated the traumatized victims, some as young as eight years old, could no longer remain quiet. But breaking her silence ignited a horrifying turn of events.

Raw and riveting, Tears of the Desert is the first memoir ever written by a woman caught up in the war in Darfur. It is a survivor’s tale of a conflicted country, a resilient people, and an uncompromising spirit.