Tears of the Desert (10 page)

One morning at assembly I stood on the playing field, the headmistress stepping down the line. As she drew level with me I felt a savage blow to the side of my head. An instant later I found myself sprawled on the ground. I struggled to get up, but none of the girls could help me, for then they were sure to get beaten. I stumbled to my knees, and I found myself staring into a face contorted with rage. I tried to focus on the words, but the whole side of my face was stinging horribly, and my ear had gone quite numb.

“Stand in line, you stupid girl!” the headmistress yelled. “Stand in line! If I find you out of line again . . .”

As I held that cruel woman’s gaze, I felt hot tears of rage running down my face. She had three scars running down each of her cheeks, and I knew these to be the traditional marks of the
Ahrao.
I felt certain that had I been one of the Arab girls, she would have simply ordered me to stand back in line, not lashed out so viciously. I hated that woman more than anyone else in the world. I fixed in my mind that I was going to get my own back. No way was I going to be treated like this, just because I was a little black girl.

A week later I was called to the staff room by Miss Ursah, one of the science teachers. It was her job to organize the cleaning roster. Each week pupils would be tasked with picking up leaves and wastepaper from the playing field, sweeping the classrooms, or scrubbing the dreaded toilets. Each pupil was paired up with another from their class. Miss Ursah announced that I had been teamed up with Sairah, the Arab girl who shared the desk with Mona and me. Sairah would clean the back half of our classroom, while I did the front.

The following morning I arrived an extra twenty minutes early, so I could complete my cleaning duties. I found myself a broom and started on my half of the classroom. It was tiresome to have to get up so early. I had an hour’s walk to school and back as it was. But I didn’t mind doing the cleaning, as we all had to do our share. In any case, it was nothing compared to the chores that I was used to back in the village. Time passed quickly as I swept and scrubbed and dusted down the desks and cleaned the blackboard.

But with eight o’clock assembly fast approaching there was still no sign of Sairah. My half was pretty much finished by now, and I was just wondering whether to start on hers when Miss Ursah arrived. I stood with my broom in hand, proud of my half of the classroom. Miss Ursah swept her eyes from end to end, her face darkening as she did so.

“Why is this end so dirty?” she demanded, pointing to Sairah’s part. “And where’s that other girl—Sairah?”

“I don’t know, miss,” I answered. “She must be late, miss.”

“Obviously she’s late. But why haven’t you done that half?”

I looked around myself, in confusion. “But isn’t that Sairah’s side . . .”

“Don’t argue with me, girl,” Miss Ursah interrupted. “Clean that part—and quickly, before it’s time for class.”

“But miss, it’s not . . .”

“I said, don’t argue with me! Or didn’t you hear me? Now, get your broom and start sweeping!”

If only she’d spoken a kind word to me about what a nice job I’d done, then I would have gladly done Sairah’s side. If only she’d asked me to do it, rather than ordering me to. It was the unfairness and bullying that I found so unacceptable. I gulped, as I felt the fear rising within me at what I was about to do. But I knew that I had to do it. I had to make a stand.

“No,” I muttered, my eyes cast down at the floor. “I’m not doing it.”

Miss Ursah stared at me. “What did you say?
What?!
I hope I didn’t hear you properly!”

I plunked my brush down, defiantly. “I’m not doing it.”

“You’re not . . .” she repeated, incredulously. “Listen, girl, you do as I say, you hear me?
You do as I say!
”

“I’m not doing it. It isn’t fair.”

“Isn’t fair!
Isn’t fair!
” Miss Ursah’s face was glowing red with anger. “I’m the one around here who decides what’s fair! So start cleaning—now! Now!
Now!
”

For a moment there was a horrible standoff. And for an instant I felt my resolve waver. But then a thought came flashing into my head. My father had nicknamed me Rathebe, after a black African woman who had stood up to those of other races
—and I was going to do the same.
Whatever happened to me, I was going to make a stand. I felt certain that my father would stand by me, even if I was banished forever from the school.

“No,” I repeated, more stubbornly that ever. “I’m
not
doing it.”

I flinched as Miss Ursah took two quick strides across the room, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck.

“This is your last chance,” she hissed, her face close to mine. “I’m ordering you to clean this room.
Ordering you.
If you don’t I’ll . . .”

“I said I’m not doing it,” I cried. “It’s not fair . . .”

“I order you to obey me!” she thundered. “Now—obey.
OBEY!
Get cleaning!”

She shoved me roughly toward the rear of the classroom. I caught myself awkwardly on a desk. I turned to face her. We all knew by now that Sairah’s mother was a teacher at the school. She had tried to keep it quiet, but the word was out. I couldn’t bear the thought that I was being ordered to do Sairah’s cleaning all because she was a teacher’s spoiled child. The last thing on earth that I could stomach was being treated as anyone’s slave.

I shook my head at her. “No! No way! I’ve cleaned my side. And I’m not doing Sairah’s dirty work . . .”

Miss Ursah let out a yelp of rage and lunged for me, grabbing my hair with the one hand and the broom with the other. As she gripped my hair to stop me from escaping, she beat me on my bare legs. Each stroke of the broom was agony, but I refused to cry out or to show that it hurt. I wasn’t going to give this cruel bully the satisfaction of seeing my pain. Finally, she shoved me again and I hit the edge of a desk with my thigh.

A bolt of pain shot through me, and with it came a surge of fiery rage. There was no way that I was taking any more from her. If she came for me again, I would fight and bite and scratch like a wild thing, and I knew that I would win. I had learned my skill at fighting as a tough little child in the village. And deep inside I was like Omer—as fearless as a lion. By contrast, Miss Ursah’s violent exterior masked the fact that she was a coward.

I darted out of her reach, placing a desk between us. My face was fixed in a mask of bitter defiance as I stared her down. For a few seconds we circled each other. I wasn’t afraid of her anymore, and I knew that she could see it. In fact, what I read in her face was surprise and fear. Surprise because I was a young village girl, and I had chosen to disobey her command. And fear because I was a black African, and like many Arabs in my country she believed that she was my natural born master.

“
One last chance,
” Miss Ursah hissed. “I’m ordering you to get cleaning. One last chance—you hear me? Or I’m reporting you to the headmistress.” “Then report me,” I retorted. “Report me. I’m not afraid of you, or her, or anyone. My only fear is for my god.”

Miss Ursah turned on her heel and was gone. For a second I stared after her, a wave of relief washing over me. And then my fear and anxiety retuned with a vengeance. What on earth had I done, I wondered? And what were they going to do to me now? I didn’t have long to wait to find out.

Once assembly was over I was marched to the headmistress’s office. She sat down behind her desk, her cold dark eyes boring into me. I stood there in front of her, trying not to reveal my fear. In a hard, flat voice she related what Miss Ursah had told her. Was it true? Was it true that I had refused to do the cleaning? Was it true that I had defied and insulted Miss Ursah, a teacher at her school? If so, I was a rude, impolite girl and I would be punished very severely.

I began to relate the story from my side. As I did so I told myself to hold my nerve. They could beat me to within an inch of my life, but better that than let Miss Ursah, or any of them, tyrannize me. I admitted that I had defied Miss Ursah, but only because she was being unfair. I had cleaned my side of the classroom. The other side was the duty of Sairah, and I shouldn’t be punished for her failings. I told her that I was not going to be abused by anyone unfairly. For that, God was the only person that I would answer to.

“Well, I’ve never heard such impudence!” the headmistress scolded. “Never! It may be your god that you answer to outside these walls, but not in my school. Here you answer to me. Now go! Just get out of my sight! I need some time to decide what to do with you . . .”

I went back and rejoined my class, wondering all the time what was coming next. In a way I wished that the headmistress had beaten me there and then, and got it over and done with. Now I had my punishment hanging over me like a death sentence. In spite of my worries, nothing more happened to me that day. As I walked home I reflected on what my father had done by sending me away to get a proper education.

My father had convinced me that coming away to the big school would be a wonderful, fairy-tale adventure. I had believed every word. But had he really known what was in store for me? Maybe I would have been better off staying in the village and going to the local school. At least there I would have been with my family and my people, and no one would treat me badly. I missed my family so much my heart ached. And I missed the friendly hustle and bustle and the easy, simple freedoms of the village.

My uncle had sent news to my father of my successes at school, but not a word would have reached him of my troubles. The only person I had talked to about it was Mona. She had advised me not to make trouble for myself, and to do what the teachers said. But for some reason I just couldn’t find it in myself to do so. If I was to stay at this school I would have to fight for what I felt was right. I just wanted to be treated fairly, and as an equal.

A week went by, and it was as if an uneasy truce existed between Miss Ursah, the headmistress, and me. But I knew that it couldn’t last. Whenever I saw them together they scowled at me, their faces dark with an evil intent. I did my best to avoid them and I waited in fear for whatever was coming. Of one thing I was certain—they were not going to let this pass.

I hadn’t breathed a word of what had happened to Sairah, my absent cleaning mate. In spite of this, she started acting strangely toward me. Whenever I went to take my place by the wall I had to squeeze past her. Each time that I did so she would sigh and harrumph, as if it were a real pain to let me pass. It was almost as if she was deliberately provoking me.

I tried to concentrate on the end-of-term tests, which were less than two weeks away. The days flew by with study, and I did my best to stay out of trouble. When the results were posted on the school notice board I was dumbfounded: I was at the top of the class in everything save Arabic. Mona and the other black African girls were overjoyed. But as for Sairah and the other Arab girls, I didn’t get a sense that they were too pleased.

The following day my father arrived to take me home. I threw my bags into the back of his beloved Land Rover, and with barely a wave goodbye we were on our way. As we headed into the bush my father passed me a bag of biscuits. I munched away happily, and he brought me up to date on all the news. Then he told me how proud he was of my achievements. Of course, as soon as he mentioned school I was reminded of all my troubles.

“How were the exams?” he asked me, eagerly.

“I am at the top of the class,” I answered.

“Wow! Rathebe!” My father let out a cry of delight, and banged his hands on the steering wheel. “Just like I said—that white eyelash brought real genius, as well as good fortune!”

I nodded, and stared out of the window. I had just spent three months in a foreign place where the adults had bullied me horribly. I wanted to unburden myself of my troubles, and my father was the only person in the world with whom I wanted to do so.

“Top of the class in everything?” he asked.

I sniffed, trying to hold back my tears. “Everything but Arabic.”

My father glanced across at me, and slowed the vehicle. I kept staring out the window trying to hide my emotions from him.

“Rathebe, is everything all right?” he asked me, gently. “Are
you
all right?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. My bottom lip had started to quiver, just as Mohammed’s did when he was about to cry.

“It doesn’t matter about Arabic,” my father said, as he eased the car to a stop. “You’ll soon improve . . .”

“It’s not that,” I blurted out, bursting into tears. “It’s all your fault . . .”

My father killed the engine and reached over to give me a hug. I resisted, stiffly, for a second or so, and then I melted into his embrace. He told me over and over how much he loved me, and how much everyone had missed me at home—until I had all but cried myself out.

“You lied to me,
abba,
” I told him then, my words tumbling over each other as they rushed to come out. “You said that school was wonderful but it isn’t and the teachers hate me and beat me and the Arab girls are horrid and you nicknamed me Rathebe so I think I’ve got to stand up to them but really I just want to come home and live with you and Mummy and Grandma and go to a school where people are nice . . .”

My father took my hand in his, gently but firmly. “Look, Rathebe, did I ever say that it was going to be easy?”

“No, but you still tricked me,
abba.
You said that school was a nice place, but they just don’t like us there. Or they don’t like me, anyway . . .”

I told my father all about the horrid headmistress, about my fight with Miss Ursah, and about my troubles with Sairah. Once I’d finished doing so I felt a little better. I wiped my nose and tried to smile.

My father smiled back at me, encouragingly. “Rathebe, there’s one thing you have to understand. The Arabs won’t make anything easy for us in this country . . .”

I nodded. I knew that my father was right now, for I’d experienced it myself at school.

“I’m glad you stood up to them,” he continued. “I’m proud of you, Rathebe, more proud of you for doing that than for anything. But if you want to get a proper education and challenge the Arabs in this country, it’s the only way. The village school just isn’t good enough. They won’t like it. They’ll try to stop you. But that’s all the more reason to go on. You’ve already proven that you’re better than them—so don’t give up. It’ll get easier, you’ll see.”