YUSTUR's Alphabet (A Short Story)

[Abtigiis]

By Abdullahi D. Moge

Jan. 09, 2011

 

Before the altercation at the seat behind woke me up of my reverie, I was judging my mother, Maryama Aw-Siraad, and how unfair she was to me. What did she used to call me? Footloose! An impatient itinerant son!

“He is bewitched on the bottom. He roams around”, she used to say. Never in malice, never in resentment, but casually; mostly when introducing me to women guests as her third child but she could not locate me nearby.

 

Maybe she spoke too soon. It is difficult to reconcile her verdict with the fact that I am travelling to see my village after thirty two years of life without journey, in the land of snow, in the land of pork-meat, in the land of pimps and pedophiles. I stayed put; coming close to validate my mother’s allegations only when I take a trip to and from workplace.

 

And even then, I sat in a crowded train, motionlessly. ‘There is no free lunch in America’; there is no free bariido (greetings) too. At least, on the train.

 

“I will sing, and sing, and sing, the way I want. Do you own my mouth?” A woman was yelling at a young girl, who sat alone on the row behind me.

 

The girl - Yustur, as I later learned, was initially fighting back but soon sank her body into her seat. She was running away from the stares and scrutiny of passengers, I can tell.

 

The fat Qat-merchant women let out a big guffaw, revealing one missing front teeth, and continued the provocative Sida Hara gingimano song, clearly intent on inflicting more misery on her subdued rival. She put emphasis on Shankaroon’s macabre lines.

 

Hadaan anigu go’ayoo,

Cudurkaad I galisay

Intuu halista ii galay

Aan gabay talaabada

Geeri iyo god mooye

Ifka gogoli ii ool….

 

Every time the raucous women receives an applause from small number of passengers beside her, who I was sure knew her, she would look at a man next to the driver and give him a big giggle. I assumed the woman was seeking his attention, although there was no hint the man was enjoying the coquettish parade.

 

Yustur’s muffled cry continued.

 

My father’s land has truly changed with the changing world. Here is a young girl crying and no one came to ask her why; to console her; or to curse her if she was petulantly overreacting. Even those who did not approve of the mordant chants of the older lady did not show much mercy to the mournful young girl. Harshin, the village the bus was destined to, loomed from close distance.

 

I have also changed. For Dakhare would never have sat beside a girl uninvited and inquire about her issues. Unless, of course, the terms of the conversation fit the Haasaawe (talking) framework - that obfuscatory term, which exempted us of societal censure, but more crucially served as the only compensatory outlet for imprisoned carnal temptations.

 

If the fool Ina-Gheele didn’t use an axe to hit my forehead, I would have only remained Hashi Adan Aamusane. The land of the white men gave me heart, gave me compassion. But that knowledge also pained me for it meant my people are heartless, vicious, and wicked.

 

“Adeer (uncle), why are you crying? Did somebody do harm to you that I don’t know?” I joined the bus from Qabri-bayax, and wondered if things happened before that.

 

“Leave me adeer! You yourself are one of them. You don’t think I saw how you run away from the seat beside me when you boarded the bus?” The girl shocked me, but more disbelief followed. “I saw you say, is that girl the one with the saddex xaraf?”

 

The girl might have also earned the wrath of the unruly women with her paranoia, I suspected. I know I didn’t say what she was accusing me of. What I said was “Saddex qof”, after the bus boy asked me how many people were in the seats at the last row. For some reason, he wanted me not to sit next to Yustur, instead trying to find me some place elsewhere.

 

I decided to talk to her after we disembark at Harshin. “We should be there in ten minutes”, I said to myself. Then, Yustur talked, this time calmly. It was as if she woke up from a bad dream. Tired and exhausted, she asked me if I was coming from abroad.

 

I said I was here to see my ailing father. “If I reach him with life”.

 

Yustur’s wart-filled face was like a horror movie. The depravation, hunger, disease, and self-hate on a face that barely saw twenty Gu’ rains was hard to imagine. The emaciated long check bones gave a clue of a face that once was flaunted with pride, not hidden behind niqab, like Yustur was doing today. It was not hard to know Yustur’s darker skin could not have dimmed her beauty in her good days.

 

“I am sorry, uncle. I thought you are one of them”, her apology was sincere.

 

“AIDS was found in me”, she added, the Somali parlance is like that. And surprisingly she seemed to be relishing telling her sad story.

 

“I don’t know where I got it from. I am from Aware town, and was among eight girls arrested and raped by the Ethiopian army in the town. That happened in 2006. The problem is, all other girls are fine and healthy. It is only me who got it.”

 

She told me many things: That the head of the district Health office, Saleeye, married her later, and that some people say it is him who infected her.

 

But Sheikh Tarabi, whose blessings she asked for, said her ill-health is an expression of God’s displeasure with her. He said, since the rest of the girls were all well, it is the knower of the unknown who knows why she has to get the disease from the unbelievers who defiled her. He asked her to turn to her God and repent for sins she may have committed. God’s compassion is infinite and she may get his miracle, if she prays hard, the Sheikh advised.

 

A bad thought crossed her mind, but she quickly dispelled it as the voice-over of the devil. “Why did God does this to me?” She suppressed her blasphemous anger.

 

Sheikh Tarabi was immovable, and didn’t listen to her claims of innocence and previous piousness.

“A Muslim is never infected with AIDS. This is God’s weapon against infidels and their filth. The Almighty protected the Muslim girls from Axmaaro venom. Otherwise, how did Mulki survive that entire ordeal? We know it is her who was raped most! Even six men at once, according to what the District head told me.”

 

Sheikh Tarabi narrated how he almost got arrested when he tried to denounce the act. It was the District head, Dahir Kuus, who dissuaded him from doing so. Dahir Kuus is a man of wisdom, Sheikh Tarabi told Yustur.

 

“If Dahir Kuus did not bring me to my senses, did not tell me that it is for the good of the girls that we don’t make noises, didn’t show me the wider consequences for the families of the girls if this shame is known, I would have caused pain and suffering to many noble parents”, he cringed at the thought, according to Yustur.

 

She agreed with Shiekh’s reasoning and Dahir’s farsightedness. But she is not sure if the Dahir’s joke that “what is raped is women, not men; we should really not make it as if what happened to Prophet Lott's (Luud’s) people is happening here”, was relevant.

 

So, now I understood why the song irritated young Yustur, although I doubt the bothersome Qat merchant was taunting the girl, or was simply attracting the attention of the man with the hat, who later changed his seat.

 

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,Continued

[Abtigiis]

I now know that Yustur’s brother asked her to leave the town. He couldn’t bear the ridicule of his peers. She worked as maid in Jigjiga, Borame, and later in Qabribayax. As if someone with her secrets followed her from the village, wherever she went, it only took her two to three months to see people pointing fingers at her. A cruel firing always followed.

 

It was one Jigjiga maid who told her that she heard some boys saying Yustur has “three letters”. They meant HIV.

 

From the day she come back from Hospital and were told that she needs to take Antiretroviral drugs, Yustur carried the unbearable burden of tiny letters - at times three, at times four, other times seven when they are all added together, that become her name, her identity, her shadow at sunlight and even in the darkness of night. She met me on her way to the end of her horizon, Yemen. If she is lucky, the sea that ate many people will be kind enough to swallow her and spare her more misery, more disgrace. That is the last words she said to me.

“Alla waa Dakhare! You reached on time.” Ahmed-deeq was relieved I was there.

 

“Your father is blind and can’t see you. Which is good, because he won’t be able to see your bald head, your graying beard and the creases all over your face,” Ahmed embraced me.

 

“My son, things have changed. What was shame is now fame, what was fame is now shame in our land. There are new rulers, new religions, new diseases, and new medicines” my father’s words comforted me.

 

It means my people will change too; they will not treat people, with illnesses they don’t understand, as criminals and social rejects. I told my father about Yustur.

 

His words were measured and came as if rehearsed for a long time. “Some things will never change - things we can never understand. God’s way of dealing with those who disobey him is a matter we can’t know about. You don’t have to feel for the girl. Feel for this society. Feel for our culture. Feel for our progeny.”

 

He raised his voice. “Loose girls in our times were rare, but they were there. They brought unclean children, without father, without ancestors to this world. God exposed their decadence through their stomachs’ protuberance; through pregnancy.”

 

The conclusions came with the finality and certainty of a man who saw too many things change, and too many others not change.

 

“Today, he grows them thin, thinner, and thinner. It is a sign. Their sins are written on their body, they can’t hide or deny. It is what our world needed; for the warning that humans will pay for their transgressions in their graves and after the grave is ridiculed and ignored. The verdict is not delivered after death anymore. They are made to watch hell in this world. Can they say they were not warned? Can they turn their eyes from divine punishment?”

 

My whole body became numb. I wished Yustur never makes to Yemen. I prayed the boat that she boards capsizes. I saw her dead body in the shores of Somalia, in my mind. I felt reprieve.

 

Abdullahi D. Moge

WardheerNews Contributor

E-Mail: abdullahimoge@yahoo.com

http://www.wardheernews.com/Articles_11/Jan/Moge/09_Yusturs_Alphabet.html

[wyre]

I feel very sorry for yustur:( so your name is daqarre

[Abtigiis]

Wyre,

 

My name is Hashi Adan Aamusane. Dakhare is my nickname.

[wyre]

I see and who is abdullahi dahir;) I guess that guy of wejibook inuu yahay

[NGONGE]

Good stuff. Xiin would approve.

[Humming bird]

oh..thats a disturbing story..but it's interesting because it brings together a whole set of ideas and experiences of "another world"..its seems too real to be just pure fiction thought up in America or wherever you are.