Abu Assal Abu Assal Exile لقاء

Abu Assal

Abu Assal

Exile



Abu Assal Abu Assal is a native of The Sudan, currently in exile because of the conflict there between the Arab-defined regime and the traditional, rural communities of Darfur. He teaches ESL at Lutheran Social Services. Born in Al-Fashir, Darfur, he attended Gordon Memorial College in Khartoum, earning a BS in veterinary science. He taught high school and then operated a mobile veterinary clinic in rural Darfur, before running afoul of the government regime. He fled Sudan for Cairo, where he did human rights work and published a novel, and he came to this country in 2005. He is 36 years old and lives in Worcester.



What is the fundamental basis for the conflict in your country?

I think our country has been a victim to a continuous, painful process of “Arab-ization;” excluding other cultures that existed. I’m not against Arabs as a race, but eventually, like has happened in many Arab countries, they combine pan-Arabism with Islam. And I think the two things are completely different.



When did you become anti-government?

I think that started when I was a kid — an intermediate school student. I remember that a man from the neighborhood mentioned that these things are happening here, and “do not think that these things are coincidental.” I went to school and I could see the difference in the way people were treated.



What things are you talking about?

We didn’t have enough education, enough schools. In cities like Al-Fashir we had only three high schools in a city of 2 million. Something like that never happens in Northern or Central Sudan. We used to go to the hospitals and see the situation — it’s just different. And we always contributed to the economy. And of course we always provided the bulk of the army.



What is your own ethnic background?

I am like most of the Sudanese. You can’t say that this person is this tribe, because people are not pure races there. I learned Arabic, and we spoke it in the home. The only conduit of communication in the country for all people is Arabic. That process has been going on, and I’m not against it. I think Arabic is a beautiful language, but other people’s languages should be more recognized, written, taught at school — and our government does not do that. I am a Muslim: I fast; I don’t eat pork, I don’t drink, I don’t smoke. I have read The Koran more than 30 times. But at the same time I think it’s completely separate from cultural Arabic things.



Did you discuss politics at home?

No. Right after I got accepted to the university, my father told me to stay away from politics. And I couldn’t; but I wanted to stay loyal to my father, so I didn’t affiliate myself with any of the political parties. I became a member of a couple of student associations, and that was how I identified myself with anti-government people. During my first year, there was a student from Western Sudan and he was assassinated, and that was a huge shock to me. That was a real turning point for me.



You became radicalized?

I would say that I came to realize things — to really realize. But later on I realized that my problem was not with the Northern Sudanese people, or with the Arabs — my problem was with the mentality that ran the country like that and wants to run it forever.



We hear a lot about the janjaweed and what they apparently do there. What was your experience with that?

When I had the mobile veterinary clinic, I was based in a town, and my job was to travel to villages. The government at that time started recruiting people who were members of gangs, armed robbers, and they started integrating them into the security forces. And actually those gangs started in ’84, ’85, when a strong drought and famine hit that part of Africa. There were many refugees from Chad, and the gangs started from there and started #####ng those people, and the government never took action. Then they started integrating them into the security forces in the late 1990s. I couldn’t understand why and I was asking myself, and then after the breakout of fighting in Darfur, when people started talking about the janjaweed, I realized that those were the same people. “Janjaweed” is a Darfurian word, by the way, and it is a way to describe people who are just hanging around, doing nothing, and are opportunistic people.



How did your family regard your political activities?

My family is a poor family. At some point I decided I didn’t want to do anything that contributed to this regime, and they were not happy with my decision because they wanted me to help. We are a family of 11 siblings plus my parents, and I am the oldest one, and that’s how people perceive it there: You’re educated, your family strives to get you the best education, and they wanted me to help. And I wouldn’t do that and that put me under a lot of pressure. But I think [my father] is proud that I published my first novel in Cairo.



What is living here like?

It is hard, culturally speaking. You grow up with all the cultural heritage and so forth, and now living within a culture which is completely different is a very hard thing to do. Language, traditions, even the way you walk on the street, the way you stare at people, it’s a completely different thing. It’s hard. But still I think I am a lucky person. I have friends. I have Sudanese friends I talk to and visit. I’m trying different means of survival, I think, and so far it has been successful.



What do you miss most?

I miss everything there. I miss the life. I miss the heat of the summer there, the sweating; I miss the talks I had with my friends, fellow writers. I miss my mother, my father — my disagreements and fights with him — my younger brothers and sisters, my childhood friends, my cousins; the sight of our houses, huts, cottages; the large animals I used to work with — cows, horses. I miss the whole country that might never get back together because of this regime and the civil war.



What are your hopes and expectations?

I hope for peace for the human race. My expectations are not good, but now it’s hard only to speak of Darfur. The world around us really has become a village, because of technology, with everything happening everywhere at once. I started thinking of the whole human race, and I think it’s a way also to detach myself from the ugly situation in my country: The things in common we have as a human race; the suffering we endure; the suppression. They do the same things in completely different countries, and it has made me realize that things are always the same — in South America, in Africa, in Asia — and sometimes in this country. Atrocities are there, and the perpetrators are there, and they always get away with it.



Do you hope to get back to your country?

Definitely, yes. But because I do not have great expectations for my country I think it would be better if I base myself in this country, and then from here I can go and visit, and help with the situation. After I become a citizen of this country, I think then I can help more.o


Allen Fletcher may be reached at [email protected].