Sudan, I love you.. but you're taking a toll on me [2]

As I was preparing for my return to Sudan in 2003, I had mixed emotions. I was filled with excitement, intrigue and curiosity, yet I was also a little afraid. I had heard one too many stories from my Sudanese high school friends about women who got lashed for wearing pants (and in some scenarios the women got beaten and raped by the police). Of course I had no idea how authentic these stories were, but given I was about to embark into a new journey in a country I was pretty much alien to, it was best to arrange for my conformation process. I bought a wardrobe full of new clothes–which mainly consisted of long sleeve shirts, long skirts and huge scarfs. I also stocked up on body cream, shampoo, deodorant, hair cream, perfume and other beauty products which I was led to believe were unavailable in Sudan due to the embargo. [I had later on learned that everything was available at the McNimir pharmacy and a tiny little shop in Riyad called Oxygen–but more on that later.]

I packed my bags and headed to the airport with my entire family–a custom that until this day exists in my family and in every other family that considers itself Sudanese. My mom gave me the most dramatic goodbye; she hugged me for what felt like hours and for some reason I had a sinking feeling that this was the end for me and that I was never going to see my family again. [I was sooner proved wrong because after spending only four months in Sudan I hopped on the first plane back to UAE where again, my whole family was waiting for me at the airport.]

I made it to Khartoum, and though I had lived in one of the most humid cities in the world almost all of my life, I felt death was near after being attacked by a blast of hot air upon stepping out of the airplane. At the airport it seemed like everyone was looking at me funny… and that’s when I realized my tar7a wasn’t on my head and quickly put it back over my head to avoid dirty looks. [Believe it or not, eight years ago it was even worse than it is now.]

I enrolled at what was deemed as an English-medium university; after which I quickly learned it was just figurative speech–what they had really meant but failed to deliver was that the exams were in English (English that was riddled with grammatical and spelling mistakes, but English nonetheless). The language spoken, however, was an interesting breed between English, Sudanese Arabic and a hint of Indian English for some reason. During my five years there, most of my professors had poor English and often said stuff like ‘oben za light’, ‘iggzil sheet’, and ‘home wairk’. I made great friends who taught me the secrets of the shoulder-tar7a… which basically meant I didn’t have to wear the tar7a over my head as long as it was there resting comfortably on my shoulders. To me, this was like finding gold.

(to be continued)

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