The Nuba Mountains
I was a simple tribesman, from the Nuba Mountains of South Kordofan, Sudan, where I lived with my wife and family. My duty involved tending to the goats, sheep, chicken and cattle, working in the scorching sun in the peak of the Nuba mountains. I am a Sunni Muslim, but some of our tribe are Christian and Atheists. This does not matter to us; we are God’s men after all.
The tribe can be easily identified; usually roles can be recognised through outfit or body art. For example, farmers will wrap colourful cloths above their
knees; mine were always red symbolizing strength and determination. Others will wear a full length Jalabia
or heavily printed shirts.
Women always covered themselves with an elaborate display of beads and jewellery. It is common for women to pierce thier lips and ears, the elders traditionally take thier front two teeth out as a sign of wisdom and age.
We are a colourful, vibrant tribe, that takes pride in exhibiting our culture and traditions. This is something I still try to express, now that I am in the UK; my yellow trousers and red shoes are my homage to Nuba tribe.
My story is a result of the South and North division of Sudan, that has been an ongoing dispute for years. Non-Arab communities like the Nuba Tribe are consistently pushed at the forefront of discrimination, racism and inequality.
I have chosen to publicize my experience, in the hope that my children, and my childrens' children can one day live a peaceful; undisturbed life.
And so this is my story.
It was October 2001, and the first drops of water had begun to pour from the
sky. The days had become increasingly colder, and dusk was just setting over
the Nuba
Mountains. There was a lively atmosphere in the village, and the luminosity of
the fire lit our murky faces with an intensity of oranges, reds and ambers.
I glanced at my wife, and the large bump holding my precious baby. I could not
wait for the day to hold her in my arms.
Suddenly, I hear screaming coming from the distance, men and women scattered
into their huts, and children ran quickly to the sweeping arms of their mothers.
I glanced towards the entrance of the tribe and noticed a gang of government
workers, armed heavily with lethal weapons and guns. They were heading straight
for me! I stood in shock, yet instinctively urging my wife to hide in the
bushes behind me, insisting that she keep quiet.
The leader shoved a K-50 firearm to my tip of my forehead and commanded me to kneel to the floor...obedience was the only option.
I shuddered, my knees hitting the floor; my hands violently entrapped in
handcuffs behind my back and my eyes were immediately masked with blindfolds.
The village was silent.
I was driven to Khartoum and kept locked up in a cell for 15 days, tortured on a daily basis. I was given food and water once a day, just enough to keep me alive. At the time, I did not know whether that was a miracle or a curse.
I was driven to Khartoum and kept locked up in a cell for 15 days, tortured on a daily basis. I was given food and water once a day, just enough to keep me alive. At the time, I did not know whether that was a miracle or a curse.
I was blindfolded once again, and dragged into the back of a car. I did not know where I was going; all I knew is that we had been driving for a long time. After nearly passing out due to the intense heat and lack of oxygen in the confinements of the trunk, I was kicked out whilst the car accelerated.
My body hit the floor like a dead carcass being fed to hyenas.
I laid there, lifelessly, on an unbeaten track where Sudan meets the Egypt border; knowing exactly what they meant by this unspoken act of brutality.
I walked from the Egyptian border, to the closest mosque and prayed Faj.
“Ya Allah, Subhanahu
Wa
Ta'ala,
shower your mercy upon this weak soul of mine and guide me towards the path of righteousness”.
I left Sudan and headed towards Turkey. From Turkey I travelled by boat to Greece and sought refuge there for three months. I had my photographs and fingerprints taken and provided with an ID card that I had to get renewed every month.
I then headed to an island called Crete where I met other Sudanese refugees. This was the first time after eight long months that I had met a fellow Sudanese. It felt truly heartbreaking, speaking in my native tongue with my new Sudanese friends; yet what came with this narrative were harsh flashback of fear, sorrow and longing.
For many years I worked on an olive farm with my friends, harvesting the grapes. This was by far the happiest I had felt in a long time; the loyalty that had previously been misplaced, was slowly forming a protective bubble around me. The significance of being amongst my own people was in comprehensible; finally I felt love again.
Five years has passed, and I had left Greece. Foreigners had been racially abusing us, and we could no longer bear the prejudice any longer. The Police were discriminatory towards us, and our witness statements were nonexistent.
We decided to leave Crete, and headed towards Athens, where we travelled by lorry to Italy.
After a short stay, we left Italy and travelled to the Calais port.
I arrived to the UK by coach; I was not sitting in the back of a coach, or hiding amongst the cargo of the lorry. I was hanging beneath it, inches away from the tarmac and nervously gripping the exhaust pipes.
Even though I am in the UK, my heart still yearns to be back in the scenic mountains of Nuba. I live now with the despair, knowing that I could never go back to Sudan, back to the Nuba Mountains or back to the vibrancy of my tribe.
It is without doubt, as soon as my battered feet hit Sudanese soil, I will be arrested, detained and killed; absolutely certain that I will not get a fair trail nor protection from the authorities.
And for my
daughter, she is probably fourteen now; born from an act of God
yet it is only in Jannah
that we will ever meet my dear.
These are the reasons why I am seeking protection in the UK, and this is why I can never return.
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