Sometimes, I go back to the past when my grandparents used to wander the great landscapes of the Sahara. Before colonialism, my people would take their cattle to wherever a means of life was. Allow me to go back to a few centuries ago.
A Brief… Very Brief History
Before 1884, meaning before Spanish colonialism in the region of the Sahara, my people adopted a nomadic lifestyle. There were no borders; no limits per se. There was war. A few tribes killed each other when matters escalated. By the way, our Sahara was always in a state of war. Ironically, this constant state of war brought peace. Everyone was ready for war. However, no one was ready to enter that war. What has changed? Nothing actually, but history repeats itself.
Spain and other European countries negotiated the division of the precious “cake.” But this cake is not just some material ingredients, battered to one’s desire. It has a long history of existence. It is a long existence of history. It is history itself. But who cares! For sure not them. Who are “them?” Dark rooms. Gray suits. Conspiracy makers. Ah! Yes! The makers of ingredients. The batter makers. The “cakers.” Now, the cake is divided. Who got the bigger part and who got the bigger-bigger part? Those “them” do not get the small portion. The small portion is for people like me, like us. Again, who is “us?” Do you hear that? Too many questions you are asking. Great. But wait… I will answer them do not worry.
Do you believe in luck? I suppose your answer would be yes or no. Am I right? Luck is always related to how we conceive things. Let me explain. In the 1950s, my people were unlucky. Very unlucky actually. Famine hit the Sahara. Rain aligned with “them.” Camels have a strange superpower. De facto camels are considered to be holy among the nomads. When camels feel rain to be falling hundreds of kilometres away, they start scratching their toes on the ground. It was a sign of movement. It was the green light for my people to start packing their moving home – tent – toward a new chapter in the book of life. It’s strange, isn’t it? Nature is also strange. It doesn’t know the difference between good and bad. Nature is not bad, but the bad is who uses nature against the good. The good is my people who waited for their camels to scratch their toes to move to new places. That was good. Isolating the camels from their owners is bad. Nature got tired of giving signs to camels. Maybe out of mercy since camels’ toes decayed because of humans’ exploitation. Now Spain used nature for its own good to be bad. They built cities in the Sahara. The nomads had to move to the city. They exchanged camels with water. After all, camels were always a source of water. Either in the hump or as a byproduct of famine. Strange creatures, indeed.
Someone is knocking on the door. Who is it coming at this time? It’s 2 a.m. The knocking gets louder. I think it’s “them.” My thread of thought has stopped.
The City… Cage… Prison
It’s my neighbour, Jawad, who brought some dinner with him. Thankfully, that’s something that has not disappeared despite our move to the city. Back then, there were no walls, no doors, and no such things called “houses.” What’s a house? A closed box with tiny holes for breathing. That’s a cage; a prison. For us Sahrawis, we had tents; the moving home. Women built our tents in a ceremony called Twiza. They used to gather for the special day of creating a home. The tents are significantly interesting. Besides the way they encompass two spheres: a private and public sphere within the same unfold of cloth layers, tents symbolize a well-crafted moving home. It symbolises women’s superb ability in creating a safe place to live, though temporarily because of the nomads’ constant movement. Now, here I am dwelling again on the token past.
I remembered a story that my grandmother told me once. The story of the first time they moved to the city. They used to live in frigs: a collection of tents in one single location in the desert, where they gathered for feasts and meals. Women sat separately from men, not forcibly as the case now with cities, and shared sharp looks with their crushes. These women usually write beautiful poetry called tebra’, in which they flirt with their secret lovers. My grandma saw a man walking by in a dark dara’a: a native Sahrawi dress. That night, her heart skipped a beat, she confirmed to me. After all, Bedouins were also into romance. Amidst famine and lack of water, these nomads who were always portrayed as “savage” and “merciless” were capable of love. My grandma Ambarka married her husband Ambarak eventually. Funny how both of them share a similar name. Two days after that shared look, Ambarak gave her a visit to her tent. He came with two big white camels, which is a good omen for a good marriage. However, this omen was bad because it was the beginning of moving towards the city.
Three months later, Ambarak and Ambarka (my grandparents) moved to the city; their stories would take a horrible turn.
Who Killed My Grandpa?
By the 1970s, most of the nomads became city dwellers. Only a few families kept going here and there in search of wells and following rain clouds into the distanced mirages. My family now has stayed indoors with a small cattle consisting of some sheep and goats. My grandma was young when she got married; 17 years old. It is common in Arabic/ Sahrawi cultures that women get married at a young age. My grandpa wasn’t that old too; he was 19. Life was not easy in the city; my grandma told me. People had to trade their cattle to secure the basic means. The war between the Army of Liberation and Spain reached its apex. My grandpa joined the army as a way to help secure some food for his family, now with my mom and uncle coming to life.
In 1978, on a gloomy night, my grandma was preparing a meal for her hungry kids when neighbours rushed into the house built of some rocks and clay and conveyed to her the shocking news: Ambarak died!!!
The shocked woman dropped everything from her hands and hurried toward the unknown, tears flying from her eyes and thinking in music. Who killed him? How? Why? To this day, no answer was provided. Later Ambarka lamented her husband with a beautiful poem which goes like this:
From the wells of Tilmzoun
To the wells of blood,
I put my heart in my hand to burn
All he wanted was to bring us food
How dare they slip a soul
From kids who found no hours
In the absence of a beautiful
Man, struggling with all his powers
Ah! My heart now is tormented;
Ah! My eyes are now dry;
Alas; the city made us cry
And from the tent, we deserted
For what! For death to take us apart
For what! For laughs heard from afar
Ambarak died. At last, his quest for water ended up killing a brave soldier—a widow left with broken kids. No rain is to be awaited, but a hurt family stuck within walls curated by colonial forces.
