Abakar Yusuf, blind and crippled, was sleeping off the afternoon heat on his sagging mattress. The sound of shots jerked him awake. The militiamen were back.
Soon Yusuf was being lifted up and carried by a relative to a donkey cart, screaming that he wanted to stay and die on his land.
Displaced children mill about in the Nera camp. The violence in Darfur has driven families away from their farmlands and children away from their schools.
(Jahi Chikwediu - The Washington Post)
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_____Crisis in Sudan_____
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Q&A: Darfur A brief explanation of the issues and current humanitarian situation in Western Sudan.
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Photos: Sudan's Rebels
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New Pilgrims, Familiar Dreams (The Washington Post, Nov 25, 2004)
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Violence Fractures Cease-Fire In Sudan (The Washington Post, Nov 24, 2004)
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Violence in Darfur Inspires Surge In Student Activism (The Washington Post, Nov 23, 2004)
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Rebel Attacks Raise Tensions in Darfur (The Washington Post, Nov 21, 2004)
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In Sudan, a Sense of Abandonment (The Washington Post, Nov 16, 2004)
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"They are lucky I couldn't see," the old man recalled later. "I would have killed the Janjaweed with my hands."
Yusuf's nephew, Fadullah Khrief, struggling to carry him to safety, was shot twice in one leg. Halima and the other children ran to their side.
"Abakar Yusuf is a walking history book for our people," said Khrief, 55. "We weren't going to let him die, even if he wanted to."
Khrief watched from the bushes, his leg bleeding, while the family's five huts were burned to the ground.
That night they left, traveling eight miles south to Nera, where Yusuf was placed in a straw-roofed schoolhouse.
Most of the time the old man snoozed in the shade, but whenever he woke up, he began ranting again about the land, about how not even drought or locusts were worse than being away from his land.
"I have always been a farmer," he said. A single brown tooth dangled from his gums. "If you lose your land, you lose your life. I am glad I can't see this happening."
One recent afternoon, Halima and the other children came to visit. They listened quietly as Yusuf spoke about how good life was in Darfur before the war. A tray of scorching sweet tea was passed around, and a plate of gooey asida. Everyone joked about how old Yusuf was, and about how they were glad he had not died in Ta'asha.
For now, the families would stay here, camped under the acacias, ready to run again. Halima had unpacked her teapot and her pink dress. She had trudged into the bush with her mother to find water and collect wood.
On long, hot afternoons, when the chores were finished, the little girl made tea, sat under a tree and stared off into the distance.
