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I enjoyed an almost idyllic childhood. This was marred only at the age of ten by my circumcision, a cruel and primitive custom among my otherwise enlightened people. In my grandmother’s hut, I was held down by women while one of them cut away all external genitalia with a razor blade.
I was the apple of my father’s eyes.  My father nicknamed me Rathebe, after South African singer Dolly Rathebe who sang about the oppression of black Africans.

I made my first mistake while working as a doctor in a Darfuri village. I looked after gunshot victims and also treated members of the Janjaweed  ‘devil horsemen’. While working round the clock, a visiting reporter asked me a few questions. One day, the Janjaweed attacked the village school and raped a woman teacher and 40 schoolgirls, some as young as seven. Those who resisted were beaten with rifle butts. It was my introduction to the Janjaweed policy of rape as a weapon of terror. Then “My Rathebe” side came to the surface and I made my second mistake of talking to a UN observer about the rapes. . The next week the soldiers came for me. I was taken to a bare brick hut with an ominously stained concrete floor. Three soldiers beat me mercilessly, kicking me all over, even in the head. Later, they took me to another hut, tied my arms tight behind my back, cut me with a razor and repeatedly raped me until I lost consciousness. The whole ordeal was repeated the next day. Then they let me go.

I returned to my family, and spent months recuperating. Although tribal custom considered a violated woman an object of shame, a damaged goods and not marriage material, my father arranged marriage to a dissident who had fled to London. I was married to the man in his absence. Is this not surprising?.

The village was destroyed and many people, including my father, slaughtered. On a wanted list, I fled to London to seek asylum and was reunited with my husband. Whenever a police helicopter hovers above the London streets, sends me diving for cover. I feel as if my head will burst and I am close to screaming out loud. I do admit and dream of revenge. I will never forget the faces of the men who raped me and if I saw one of them again I really don’t know whether I would kill him.

I have become world famous but the Darfurian girl in me has become infamous. 

                                                       +++

Inspired by the Book “Tears of Desert” written by Halima Bashir (Under pseudonym)

October 15, 2014
Form: Poetic Prose
First Place Win
Contest by Cyndi Mcmillan

**I have chosen " Darfurian" Devil horsemen**
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