Posts in Letters from Sudan

Yesterday, Tamer’s family left Khartoum and headed north. They managed to get away from the fighting in the capital, Alhamdulillah. For a while, they were hoping that the situation would calm down. Thousands of other Sudanese and foreign nationals have already evacuated from Sudan this week.

Who knows when they will be able to come back again. How long will their house be empty? Will it even last? Many people are hardly affected by the news of wars that cause suffering to millions of people. I myself sometimes try to keep a distance from these never-before-seen victims who lose their loved ones, all their possessions… In this case, I cannot.

These beds on which we slept and sat to drink tea, these walls that gave us shelter, this courtyard where we had our wedding celebration… They left all of it behind and headed to a safer area in the northern state, to a village, where they lived before moving to the capital. Another empty house awaited them there, which they will now put in order. As long as they are safe. As long as they are alive and well. Alhamdulillah.

I started writing this letter yesterday, but then postponed the completion until today. Thus, it will not be published on an exclusively good-natured note, but rather with a bitter aftertaste. How much can change in a single night, how quickly the world can be turned upside down for some. Again. And again.

In the morning, news broke from Sudan that the country is once more in the grip of clashes between two internal military forces that want to take over power, or perhaps spark another civil war because instability probably suits certain external entities. It doesn’t matter why. The people who deposed a dictator and made it clear that they wanted a civilian government remain cheated, now again in fear of what tomorrow will bring. Sadly, the violence is happening again in the last gasps of the fasting month, when people should be preparing to celebrate Eid with family and friends.

Let this recently told true anecdote from Sudan serve as a reminder that neither dictators nor military coups can erase Sudanese virtues. Tamer conveyed it to me after a telephone conversation with his younger sister, who laughingly told him about an unusual incident at their home in Khartoum.

“It’s still customary for people to show up unannounced at the door. Even today, when everyone has a phone, they don’t call in advance,” Tamer tells me.

“I remember this as well from my childhood,” I tell him, “we also used to visit each other without notice. But with cell phones, that (at least in our circles) went out of fashion.”

“Yes, I’m sure. It always bothered me. I would ask my father each time to call before we go to visit someone… But in Sudan, there is this unwritten rule that in case of an announcement, the hosts should make special preparations and not skimp with a feast. That’s exactly why many people don’t want to call, because they don’t want to be the reason to inconvenience the host.”

Tamer’s distant relatives, who wanted to visit Tamer’s family in Khartoum last week, also had that in mind. They didn’t call before, they just went ahead. They wanted to surprise them for iftar, the evening meal after a day of fasting. Upon knocking the door, they realized no one was home. So they just let themselves in. Nothing unusual, that’s how it is in Sudan. Unlocked doors are the norm. They brought food with them so as not to be a burden to their hosts. The azan announced the end of fasting at sundown, and the guests served the food brought from plastic containers onto the plates that were at hand. They broke their fast and ate their fill. At one point, one of the family members finally realized, they were in the wrong house. That Tamer’s parents live on the other side of the concrete wall. That they had just eaten iftar from other people’s plates, that they were sitting on their neighbors’ beds.

After realizing their mistake, the modern-day Goldilocks finally set out to knock on the right door. Apparently, it has been a very long time since their last visit for such a misunderstanding to happen.

“Did they at least wash the dishes before they left???”

“That was also my first question,” Tamer replied with a broad smile, who was put in a really good mood by his sister’s story.

They did. They washed the dishes and later returned with an apology and an explanation of what happened during the absence of the owners of the house.

“Something like this can truly only happen in Sudan,” we agreed.

Here I go again, debating with myself which letter should be the next in line for posting. A Sudanese proverb here and there (the one in question is also known in other Arabic-speaking countries) always comes in handy.

When Tamer first shared it with me to reassure me about the dilemma I was facing at the time, I immediately pricked up my ears. “I love it!”

It was then when I put it away to a safe and cozy, draught-free treasury of wisdom, that I can reopen and share with you when the opportunity arises.

What I myself can extract from the proverb of the day: when something or someone causes you distress, puts you in a bad mood… you can put an end to it. Close the door, walk away, remove yourself from the situation that brings out the worst in you. It’s not about running away from a challenge, it’s about keeping a calm state of mind and giving your soul a rest.

Might we add anything else? How do you perceive the saying? Let me know in the comments.

“Oh, come on! Why do people have to stare at me everywhere we go?!”

I wondered this several times on our second visit to Sudan.
Abaya? ✔️ In black!
Scarf? ✔️ And an undercap!

In addition to the inevitably obvious fact that I was the only white woman within a radius of 100 m, Tamer reminded me of another thing:

“You’re wearing sunglasses.” Because I had no idea where he was going with this, he continued: “Nobody wears sunglasses here. And you’re basically screaming for attention with your pair, like you’re some sort of a rock star.”

“But I can’t see without them! The sun is totally blinding me,” I was in shock, trying to explain to my husband, who already knew all this very well and could only laugh at my embarrassment.

“Sudanese don’t know that. Sunglasses are only worn here for the show,” he replied with a smile.

And so, over the next few days, I watched passersby on the road more closely. Riding a minibus I observed the next scene which is only imprinted in my memory, since I was unable to take a picture of it.

A young Sudanese woman in a black abaya and a bright red scarf stood on the edge of the sidewalk, where a young man with a motorbike came to a stop. She sat behind him, in a lady-like manner, riding the bike sideway in her long skirt. She clung to him around his waist and as they started to ride into traffic, it seemed like something out of the movies, when the edge of her red scarf fluttered behind them. The motorcyclist wore sunglasses, although the late afternoon sun was already losing its light. The smiles of both riders shone brighter.

“I’m hungry.”
Tamer looks at me in astonishment: “How can you be hungry? We’ve had a big lunch.”

A big lunch or any other meal in a Sudanese household means two or three dishes with an unlimited amount of bread. Every bite of vegetable or meat sauce, every time they reach into the plate for a piece of omelette, meat or falafel, they do so with bread.

“I can’t eat that much bread. It’s not good for me, I feel it’s not,” I try to explain quietly so that no one else in the house would hear me and be offended.

“And that little plate of salad? I’d eat it on my own like it’s nothing if it weren’t for 5 other family members sitting around the food tray.”

I can see how confused he is, because home cooking always leaves him with a full belly. At the same time, I see shock and sadness in his eyes. He wants to put my well-being first, and for a few days he didn’t dwell much on his wife’s annoying complaints. He thought I’d just rather eat something else. He didn’t understand, and I didn’t know how else to explain it to him.

“Just don’t say anything to your mom, please. I don’t want her to be offended. I wouldn’t want to hurt her for anything in the world!”

He promised me he wouldn’t say anything. Instructed me that I just be more vocal on what I need. Some more bananas and tomatoes from the market No problem.

In the last week of our visit I ate really well in my Sudanese in-laws’ house. There was even more rice and vegetable sauces on the menu. My dearest mother-in-law, who supposedly doesn’t understand more than a few words of English, made sure that her daughter-in-law’s occasional crankiness miraculously disappeared.

Tamer swore to me that he had not revealed anything to her. And so it happened that, with more and more frequent surprising exchanges, when she addressed me with ever-increasing admixtures of English, I was forced to conclude that Mamma Niemat had a secret.

Turns out that she, in fact, had not forgotten English from her years at the university, or that her memory of it came back while her daughter-in-law from abroad was visiting again for three weeks.

I could only guess, however, whether she really heard my complaints, perhaps from another room or perhaps from outside the window in the backyard where she might have been washing the dishes. How embarrassing. Or just lucky?

This afternoon we’re going for a visit to Aunt Árafa. Of all the aunties we are to visit, Árafa lives the closest. We don’t even need a rickshaw, we’ll just take a walk down the street.

“You don’t need to put on anything special. Just throw one of your abayas over what you’re already wearing,” my sister-in-law advised me. No drama.

We knock on the big rosy iron door. They are opened by Mohammed, the eldest of the sons in the family. We follow him across the yard and despite the fact that daylight is already slowly fading, I notice the pinkish hue of the inside walls. The two daughters then emerge from one of the rooms, loosely wrapped in a long cotton cloth, a traditional Sudanese outer outfit – thobe/toub. Greetings and pleasantries follow.

– Salaam aleykum.
– Aleykum salaam.
– How are you?
– All is well. Alhamdulillah. How are you?
– Alhamdulillah.

To an outside observer this exchange between the Sudanese takes unusually long. When I was first introduced to Tamer’s relatives and neighbors last year, I must have looked like a deer caught in headlights, the opposite of confident with my replies. Every time there was a new visitor at the door, I kept checking at the notes in my phone and tried to remember something more than just “I’m fine, how are you”. I did so much better this year. Touch the left shoulder with your right hand and then reach for a handshake. The Sudanese ladies do the latter quite lightly, so I had to be careful not to squeeze any auntie or cousin too hard. We are taught to have a firm handshake back in Slovenia.

Then we all entered one of the rooms together. We sat down on beds covered with colorful bed linens. Yes, really. And no, it wasn’t a bedroom.

Last summer, when I first came to Sudan in the middle of the night and was hosted by the family of my soon-to-be-husband, I found myself in a frontyard, which was occupied with beds. “Okay, obviously I’m sleeping under the stars tonight,” I told myself with a pinch of surprise. And that’s how it really is in this country: in the summer heat, many Sudanese simply sleep beneath the starry sky. Large iron bed frames are arranged across the yard in front of the house behind a higher wall, which provides privacy to the household. Another surprising realization, however, awaited me in the morning. I sat and drank tea on the same beds with my hosts. When it was time for lunch, they brought a small table between them and placed a tray with the daily meal on it.

At Aunt Árafa’s there was also a set of small tables in front of us, and first they served us with glasses of water. Sitting on the beds, we waited for auntie, who had recently returned from the market, and our visit was, as per usual, unannounced.

As soon as she joined us in her beautifully patterned thobe, greetings followed again, a touch to the shoulder, a handshake. “Alhamdulillah.” Then it’s time for at least a round of tea or coffee. This time I enjoy sipping the famous Sudanese milk tea and dipping homemade cookies in it. To my delight, there is sugar in a special container next to the teapot on this occasion. In other households, there is a big chance, an overly sweet drink can be served and then you find yourself in a dilemma: to drink or not to drink. They even add sugar to a freshly squeezed fruit juice quite often in the Sudanese kitchen.

We don’t stay too long, we have to go to the far end of town tomorrow. According to the unwritten Sudanese rule, we have to return a visit in kind to another auntie who came a few days ago and brought her home-made poundcake. I can’t wait to see what color her house is and what kind of beds will be waiting for us there.

***

“Do you think I’ll be able to take some photos of Aunt Alawía’s place, too?” I ask my husband and sister-in-law as we’re sitting crammed in the back seat of the rickshaw that whizzes through the dusty streets. I really want to document a bit of this Sudanese phenomenon of beds.

“Yeah, it probably won’t be a problem. I’ll ask her. But, Misha … Why are you so fascinated by our houses?” visibly confused, Malak replied. “Where do you seat your guests?”
“We have a living room with a big couch and armchairs,” I reply to her.
“What do you mean? Where do you have beds?” At this point, my sister-in-law is practically in shock, but I find it really funny, and since we communicate in English, I can’t help but smile and tell her with a touch of irony: “In the bedroom.”

The rickshaw stops by the road, where mini buses are parked. Once we’re boarded, we have to wait for the vehicle to fill up. Fortunately, this never lasts too long. The debate over Sudanese beds is not over yet. Tamer joins us in the conversation, explaining why in fact every Sudanese house has so many beds, not only in the private sleeping quarters, but also where they receive guests and even outside in the yard.

“This dates back to when people had to travel longer distances, from one village to another. When they arrived at their destination in this Sudanese heat, the hosts always offered them a bed to rest. Visitors were able to stay for several days even and there was no embarrassment whether there was room for them as well. Although we might travel and visit each other less these days, we preserved this side of traditional hospitality. If you are tired, you may lie down without hesitation, even in the company of others who sit and drink tea at the time.”

Malak then alerts him that we have reached Aunt Alawía’s neighborhood. Tamer snaps his fingers, as it is customary, so the driver would stop by the side of the road. Then we have to walk a short distance and soon we arrive to the house, where we knock on the great green iron door.
As we are waiting, Tamer quietly asks me, “What if we also had a few beds in our living room?” He looks at me mischievously and continues: “We have a lot of space, we could add a bed or two, or even replace the couch.”
“Not a chance” I blurt out, because I know he’s just messing with me. We already talked about the beds and sofas about a year ago when we started furnishing the apartment.
“So basically we have a European home, don’t we?” Steps are approaching behind the door, so I don’t think long and playfully conclude the debate: “That’s right. Our home is designed by its Mistress.”

“You know what? You’re so incredibly upfront. Sometimes even too much. You always say what you think. What you like and what you don’t.
We don’t do that here in Sudan.”

I first heard something similar in Saudi Arabia from my Egyptian friend, who says she likes this trait about me, but my Sudanese sister-in-law is a little less enthusiastic about it. The remark surprised me a bit, because I have always placed myself among polite and diplomatically skilled people. At the same time, I’m sure I’ll never hide my honesty about things that really aren’t my cup of tea. I believe that kind words and a smile can go far without sacrificing one’s own and other’s dignity.

Do you perhaps have such an experience, when a cultural difference might have been pointed out to you by your foreign friends, but you weren’t even aware of it?

***

“You really do say please and thank you for everything,” my sister-in-law told me again in astonishment this year. “For the slightest thing, even when you’re addressing Tamer … And me. Well, we’re family, you really don’t need to ask in such a manner.”

Again, I found myself in a situation where I wasn’t quite sure if this was cultural or just a difference in character. But I really have no problem saying please. Or thank you. I’m really honest in having this such a habit. Both out of courtesy to strangers, as well as with closest friends and family.

“So you don’t say please to your friends,” I asked her.
“No, why? We’re close, we don’t need to be so formal,” she tried to explain.

Then I shared my point of view: This year, when I’m no longer the bride, I’m no longer a special guest in this house, because I’m “part of the family” … I sometimes get a strange feeling when they tell me “bring this … you’re going to slice the onion etc.” I admit to her that this kind of interaction seems completely foreign to me when I don’t hear a please and it makes me want to reply childishly:” What’s the magic word?”

Isn’t it curious and marvelous at the same time, how different everyone is?

***

“So we can’t spend the night at the hotel?” My nightmare was becoming more and more real. Fine, I’m exaggerating a bit. But I really just wanted to go to bed. I would sleep like the dead.
“No, the owner doesn’t want to rent us the rooms for just one night. Maybe if we paid for at least 3 nights,” Tamer explains to me, just as tired from a full-day adventure in the desert.
“Do these people hate money? How can they turn down customers and have an empty hotel,” I frowned and despaired in the back seat of the car.
“Don’t fret, we’re going to Saif’s relatives. He’s already called them, they know we’re nearby,” my husband tries to reassure me, oblivious to the fact that this alternative was exactly what I was afraid of.

Sudanese hospitality. Anyone who visits Sudan hears about the friendly locals and the incomparable hospitality with which they receive anyone, be it a relative, friend or stranger.

I was having a one-woman-show in my head and she was rambling on:
“When we get there, it will be 10 o’clock in the evening. We got up at 5am so we were able to reach the pyramids in the desert. It’s too late for the bus back to the city, we have no choice. But I know what awaits us. That damn hospitality. When you are tired to death and your ankle hurts cause you hit a rock while awkwardly climbing a camel, you are simply not in the mood for the socially dictated smile, even though you know, you should be grateful that a stranger’s family will accept you into their home, they will even offer you a meal. But they also want to chat with you and introduce you to every single one of their playful children and the aunties and possibly a grandmother.”

“You can lie down and rest,” my sister in law Malak translates to me from Arabic the kind words by the hostess a good hour later when, as I had anticipated, we had dinner and ended up sitting on beds with the grandma and a few kids. The beds again. Just like in any Sudanese household.
“Thank you, but I’d rather sleep in peace when we all turn in. I can’t sleep otherwise,” I reply visibly tired but still forcing a smile, hoping they will understand my hint and won’t be offended at the same time.
After a few minutes, Malak and I were finally left alone. We fell asleep quickly, and Tamer’s promise to leave early in the morning was also bringing me a peaceful mind. I made my request in advance because I didn’t want to “be right” again the next day when, at the benevolent but intrusive request of the hosts, we would have to stay until breakfast. This meant, that at best, we would head towards the bus station at noon. Sudanese get up very early, and first thing they drink tea and fill their bellies with biscuits or other homemade cake. But the “real breakfast” doesn’t follow until around 11am. “No, no, no. I can’t. My leg hurts. I just need to go home,” I was having another inner monologue as I played out the possible scenarios of the following day.

I woke up on my own just a few minutes after 6am, because I already got the hang of the early morning routine after only a couple of weeks in Sudan. Tamer was also awake and the three of us with Malak started the “we really have to catch the bus, so unfortunately we can’t stay much longer” protocol. Despite my ill-concealed bad mood and fatigue the night before, the mistress of the house, the children, and the grandmother all greeted me warmly and wished us a safe journey. Still, they expressed their surprise with: “Why are you leaving already … You could stay a bit longer. Why don’t you stay for breakfast?”

Before Tamer’s friend Saif took us to the bus station, we said our goodbyes and as a foreign guest I received a parting gift. They handed me an ordinary transparent bag, which I sniffed with pleasure, because I already knew what was in it. “Oh, bakhour!” Because I recognized the special type of incense, I made an even better impression on our hosts. They were very pleased I accepted the gift with such genuine enthusiasm. And I truly was grateful to them. For the bakhour and for the bed to sleep in. For the late dinner and the morning milk tea. For sincere hospitality, which I still don’t comprehend quite well. It will remain in my memory with this letter. Maybe I’ll read it before the next trip and look on everything they do differently in Sudan with a much better understanding.

One month ago:

-Then it’s decided? We’re going to Sudan?
-Yeah, but this time you’re taking me to the pyramids!
-We’ll see if we can make it. Inshallah.
-And the camels. To the pyramids with the camels!

Last week:

After 4 hours by car, and before that, a ride with 1 rickshaw and 2 buses to the outskirts of Khartoum … We arrived. And at the last turn towards the old royal tombs on the horizon we were spotted. From one side a rider on a white camel, from the other a group of Bedouin boys running with all their might towards our car and shouting with their treasure for sale – handmade sandstone souvenirs – small pyramids in their hands.

Camels were also waiting for us and with great joy and admiration I was able to ride the white male camel, which was the first to greet us and accompany us on the way to the parking lot.

And then there were scenes of the ancient pyramids, which still stand against all odds and, despite the partially damaged image due to the ruthless treasure hunters, still manage to take your breath away. In the saddle high above the ground, you approach them with enthusiasm and a kind of awe, as these majestic Nubian tombs leave you speechless.

The late afternoon sun was our companion just high enough that we could enjoy the most beautiful views of the Saharan dunes, and the heat wore off towards the end of the day. Our “movie like” expedition wouldn’t be complete without the wind. So many thoughts and feelings filled me. I’m really here. So far away from home. Among the resting places of ancient queens and kings. They are called Great grandparents of the descendants who are still among us. Their villages are here in the north of Sudan along the river Nile. – Where’s your family from, Tamer?- From Dongola, in the north.

Into the sunset without any words. Just a smile on my face.

P. S.: I will write more on the history of the pyramids soon.

– How’s the December weather in Sudan?
– Oh, it’s cold! Such dry cold that cracks your skin.
I check the weather prognosis. 30 degrees Celsius during the day, 20 at night.
Cold, my ass.

…

Day 3 in Sudan: I apply thick layers of raw shea butter on my face, hands and feet every day.
I wear socks in the morning and in the evening. Sometimes even long sleeves. AC remains turned off.
Never in my wildest dreams I would have imagined such dry air, if I haven’t experienced it with my own skin. Literally.