Like the single white eyelash that graces her row of dark lashesseen by her people as a mark of good fortuneHalima Bashir's story stands out. 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 the uncompromising spirit of a young woman who refused to be silenced. Born into the Zaghawa tribe in the Sudanese desert, Halima was doted on by her father, a cattle herder, and kept in line by her formidable grandmother. A politically astute man, Halima's father saw to it that his daughter received a good education away from their rural surroundings. Halima excelled in her studies and exams, surpassing even the privileged Arab girls who looked down their noses at the black Africans. With her love of learning and her father's support, Halima went on to study medicine, and at twenty-four became her village's first formal doctor. Yet not even the symbol of good luck that dotted her eye could protect her from the encroaching conflict that would consume her land. Janjaweed Arab militias started savagely assaulting 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. In this harrowing and heartbreaking account, Halima Bashir sheds light on the hundreds of thousands of innocent lives being eradicated by what is fast becoming one of the most terrifying genocides of the twenty-first century. Raw and riveting, Tears of the Desert is more than just a memoirit is Halima Bashir's global call to action. From the Hardcover edition.

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 reporting from Darfur won the BBC One World Award. He is the internationally bestselling co-author of Slave, winner of the Index on Censorship Book Award.


From the Hardcover edition.

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. “Thenyou 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 hav

---

Excerpted from Tears of the Desert: A Memoir of Survival in Darfur by Halima Bashir, Damien Lewis
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.