Bha acharjee 50

Zajovic (1994) concluded, ‘the female womb becomes occupied territory’. (Bagchi

and Dasgupta 3)

While talking about the mass rape committed during the Bosnian genocide, Beverly Allen, in

her 1996 book Rape Warfare: The Hidden Genocide in Bosnia-Herzegovina and Croatia,

elaborated how wartime rape has been intentionally used to murder, torture, displace, and

forcibly impregnate13 the targeted community as a means of exterminating the community

entirely.

This is essentially why intersectionality becomes important as a lens to understand

rape and other forms of sexual violence committed during conflicts throughout the world.

Borrowing Kirthi Jayakumar’s conceptualisation again, it can be said here that in an armed

conflict, sexual violence is often used strategically to break down groups adhering to different

racial/religious/ethnic/political/national identities. Intersectionality helps us understand why

women, monstrously valued for their chastity, monogamy, and fertility in peacetime, become

key targets during conflicts.

Looking through an Intersectional Lens: Analysing the Selected Memoirs

An Intersection of Race and Gender: Darfur

Sumiah14, a school teacher who survived rape, recollects the words that the Janjaweed

militia spat at their victims: “You are black slaves! You are worse than dogs! Either we will

kill you or we give you Arab children.” (Bashir 257) – words that starkly reflect how racial

and gendered violence frequently intersected in Darfur. The threat of “giving Arab children”

is a testament to how women are doubly victimised for their race and gender since the goal is

13
In a strictly patriarchal society, children bear the iden es of their fathers. Hence, children born out of rape
will bear the rapists’ iden es instead of the mothers. In this way, the impregnated women’s iden es are
thought to be erased and their community is perceived to be broken down.
14
Probably the name was changed for privacy and security.
 Bha acharjee 51

not just to kill but to violate their bodily autonomy and erase their cultural and ethnic identity

through forced reproduction, underscoring the genocidal intent. Bashir’s memoir is smeared

with such instances which reveal how such atrocities are not merely individual crimes but

components of a systematic effort to erase an entire culture through both physical

extermination and reproductive control. And, that is why it becomes important to analyse the

memoir closely using an intersectional perspective to understand better the intersection of

race and gender.

Halima Bashir – which is not her real name – begins her memoir with a loving

account of how she sings her baby boy to sleep. It reminds her of her gentle mother and her

strong grandmother who also used to sing the same song that she now sings to her child.

Suddenly, this happy remembrance is ruptured by the invasion of a horrible memory – the

memory of rape. The haunting memory perturbs her but she resolves to tell the world her

story for numerous innocent souls who could not survive the horrors of Darfur.

In Part One (Child of the Desert) of the memoir, Bashir sketches a happy picture of

her childhood in a peaceful remote village of Darfur, a region of western Sudan. From the

very beginning, she talks about her tribe, Zaghawa, “a fierce, warlike black African people

who are the most generous and open when welcoming strangers” (Bashir 4). She proudly

recalls how she, the firstborn of her parents, Abdul and Bokheta, was named after a medicine

woman who once miraculously saved Bashir’s father’s life. Through the course of the

narrative, it becomes apparent that Halima was a treasured child to her parents, especially her

father, and she was raised in a manner that was mostly progressive but a little traditional in

some aspects, e.g., she was sent to a school far from her village but, before that she had to

undergo the painful experience of female genital mutilation.

The first time that Bashir mentions her awareness of the colour of her skin is when

she compares her complexion with that of Kadiga, a neighbour and a childhood friend: “Her

complexion was more a golden-red, as opposed to smoky-black like mine, and people used to

say that she was the more beautiful” (Bashir 22). However, Bashir seemed proud of her own

complexion which distinguished her from the Arabs:

…I used to tell myself that my black skin was better: it couldn’t be damaged by the

strong sun and it was the original colour of us Africans. I was far more robust and

suited to being here than was Kadiga. I’d tease her that she looked like an Arab,

telling her to paint her skin with some black paint. (Bashir 22)

With this apparently innocent childish prattle, a subtle distinction is drawn between the Black

and the Arabs and the obvious question that has been raised is, which race does Sudan belong

to?

Bashir’s knowledge about the Arabs and the age-old rivalry between them and the

black Africans deepened when her grandmother’s goats were forcibly taken by a nomadic

Arab tribe. Even the very name that the Zaghawa people used to describe them demonstrates

this animosity:

To the east and south of our lands lived several semi-nomadic Arab tribes – the

Rizeiqat, the Hamar, the Ta-aisha and others. We called these people the Ahrao – a

word that for us signifies ‘the Arab enemy.’ Traditionally, there was little love lost

between the Ahrao and us black African tribes. If trouble was to come, it came

invariably from the Ahrao. (Bashir 59)

Bashir came to know more about this racial strife from her father after the theft of her

grandmother’s goats:
 Bha acharjee 53

Whenever I saw the Ahrao approaching I would recognise them by their light skins,

their pointed features and their beards. The very sight of them made everyone fearful,

and in the months of the dry season no one went out alone. After the theft of

Grandma’s goats my father sat me down and told me all about the Ahrao. We

Zaghawa, together with the other black African tribes, had to resist them, he said.

Otherwise, they would push and push and push until we had lost our villages, our

fields and our very identity. (Bashir 61)

This racial struggle assumed an enormous figure when Bashir was admitted to a junior girls’

school in a town far away from her village, as described in Part Two (School of the Desert) of

the memoir. Unlike her village, this town (fictitiously named Hashma) was inhabited by the

both black Africans and Arabs, with the latter being the elite minority. From being beaten for

speaking Zaghawa at school to being ordered to do a cleaning task on behalf of an Arab

fellow student, Bashir had to confront racial discriminations that had already swept through

the entire country. Although she was strong enough to resist her prejudiced Arab teachers

[“No way was I going to be treated like this, just because I was a little black Zaghawa girl”

(Bashir 89)], her father tried to make her understand the truth: “The Arabs won’t make

anything easy for us in this country” (Bashir 95). He simplified this by drawing a

comparison between Sudan and the apartheid South Africa: “what the white man is to South

Africa, the Arabs are to Sudan” (Bashir 125). When her father brought home a radio, Bashir

first learnt about the chaotic Arabic rule: “This was one of the earliest inklings I had that

there were dark powers at work in our country, and that little they said could be trusted”

(Bashir 58). Now, she started learning about the root of all these troubles: “Hundreds of years

ago the British came as invaders, to divide the tribes and make them fight each other. They

called this policy “divide and rule.” …When they left they gave all the power to the Arab

tribes. They handed power to the Arabs” (Bashir 100).

Bashir’s first encounter with the ruthlessly racist politics of her country happened

when she saw a black man getting battered and carried off by six Arab policemen when he

protested against an Arab calling him and his community names. It was the consequence of a

political argument springing from the news of the black rebel groups securing a victory

against the Arab rulers:

A muscular black man was in a heated exchange with an Arab… ‘Idiot! What do you

think?’ the Arab yelled. ‘You think we will allow you black dogs to beat us, to rule

over us? Is that what you believe?’… ‘Abeed! Abeed! – Slave! Slave!’ he yelled….

You’re nothing but a black slave….’ The black man sprang at him, and with one blow

he knocked the Arab to the ground. …He smashed his fist into the Arab’s face… a

police Land Rover ground to a halt. Six Arab policemen rushed over, their batons

drawn. With barely a moment’s hesitation they started to give the black man a savage

beating. …They dragged the bloodied black man into the rear of the Land Rover, and

roared away from the scene. (Bashir 148)

A teenage Bashir understood that a “ruthless Arab elite was ruling the country, and they

didn’t even try to disguise their racist policies” (Bashir 149). She realised that the very colour

of her skin was going to cause her trouble in her country:

The Arab man had openly called the African man a ‘black dog’ and a ‘black slave.’

That meant that he had also called me a black dog and a slave – for the African man

and I were the same colour, with similar facial features. What was it about the

difference in the shade of the colour of one’s skin that made the Arab believe he was

superior to me? What was there in a sharper, more pointed set of facial features that

made him believe he was my master? (Bashir 149)

The possibility of a civil war was already looming large when Bashir completed her

secondary school education and got admitted to the medical school of University of

Khartoum. In the longest third part (Desert of Fire) of the memoir, she described how she

managed to complete her cherished course in medical science and became the first certified

doctor of her tribe. However, during her stay in Khartoum as a medical student, the university

was shut down once by the armed forces of the Sudanese government after an open call for

the students to join the army and fight off the rebels. Even when the university was reopened,

the threatening presence of the military kept larking in the campus. Students were inevitably

divided between two hostile groups as those who already joined the militia were given

academic favour despite being absent in the lectures as well as the examinations.

Bashir tried her best to remain neutral during her university days and, instead of

getting involved in the burning politics of the campus, she focused entirely on fulfilling her

father’s dream, i.e., becoming a doctor. However, she could not keep herself away for long

from what was happening in her country. Shortly after her graduation, she was appointed as a

junior doctor in the accident and emergency ward of a hospital in the town from where she

did her schooling. And, it was time for her to come to grips with the horrors that her country

was living through. Shortly after her joining the accident and emergency ward, victims of

ethnic violence poured in the hospital and there were people of all age groups, from infants to

the elderly. Unable to conceal her mounting rage and frustration under the façade of being

only a dutiful doctor, Bashir decided to speak her mind when interviewed by a local

newspaper. Besides, she also tried to help the injured rebels by providing them with supplies

of basic medicines and aids whenever they came to seek medical help in the hospital.

Unfortunately, these actions did not remain undercover and she was summoned by the

authorities. It was made clear to her that because of the fact that she was a Zaghawa and
 Bha acharjee 56

moreover because she was a woman, she was strictly forbidden to speak anything against the

government or any of its policies:

‘You are this Zaghawa doctor! This Zaghawa doctor woman!... Dr Halima Bashir….

The Zaghawa doctor who spoke to the newspapers…. You really think you are

allowed to speak out? Permitted to? … We know you give medicines to your people.

We know you help them. We know you are the black Zaghawa doctor they all come to

see….you will never speak to a newspaper about anyone or anything…. And if you

disobey – then we will deal with you.’ (Bashir 220, 221, 222)

However, this ultimatum only escalated her fury and she resolved to keep doing her

surreptitious work in favour of the rebels: “In spite of what had happened to me … I

continued to treat all the war-wounded, just as we had done before” (Bashir 224).

Arlene Getz, in the article “Surviving Darfur: An African Doctor’s Memoir” says:

“…it was when [Bashir] first saw the bleeding bodies of the 8-year-old girls from the school

in the remote Darfuri village of Mazkhabad that she realized “someone had let the devil in” to

her country” (Getz). Shortly after she was threatened by the authorities, Bashir was

transferred to a hospital of a remote village in which she was the only certified doctor leading

a miserably small team of two nurses with basic first-aid training, the in-charge Sayed, an

orderly, and a person managing the dispensary. With their meagre help, she continued her

noble service of helping the injured and the needy and, most importantly, the injured rebels.

Then, the worst of the nightmares that she ever imagined to have happened in the small

village:

I was sitting out at the front of the clinic with Sayed having a mid-morning cup of tea.

The village seemed to be strangely, eerily quiet – almost as if it were holding its

breath, awaiting something…. I heard a distant commotion down at the market-place.

There were faint cries and the pounding of running feet, as if lots of people were on

the move….

Suddenly, I caught sight of a crowd of people surging out of the market-place….

Among them were figures carrying heavy burdens in their arms…. As the crowd drew

closer, I realised what they were carrying: it was the girls from the village school….

As the crowd enveloped us, I realised that the school-girls’ nyangours15 were ripped

and dirtied, and streaked with blood….

The cries were all around me now, confusing and deafening. I tried to make sense of

the words.

‘…beasts…’

‘…attacked the school…’

‘…monsters…’

‘…the devil himself…’

‘…children…’

‘…raped…’

‘…ruined…’

‘The Janjaweed! The Janjaweed!’…

Never, not even in my darkest, blackest nightmare, had I imagined that I would ever

witness such horror. (Bashir 247, 248, 249)

15
A long dress that was the tradi onal uniform for school girls in Sudan
 Bha acharjee 58

While trying her best to provide comfort and basic treatment to the crowd of patients with an

insufficient supply of tools and medicines, Bashir shockingly realised who her patients were

and what exactly they suffered; the Janjaweed militia had attacked a girls’ school in the

neighbourhood and brutally raped the schoolgirls, aged between seven and thirteen, inside the

school building itself. Agitated parents crowded round the school but were forcibly denied

entry during this carefully orchestrated crime spree. The most horrifying aspect was the fact

that all these girls were infibulated16 and the primary concern was to stich them again.

It is from the words shared by Sumiah, the teacher survivor of the mass rape, that

Bashir came to know the intersectional nature of the crime. The little girls were mercilessly

raped not only because they were females but also, and most importantly, because they

belonged to different black African tribes:

‘They were shouting and screaming at us. You know what they were saying? “We

have come here to kill you! To finish you all! You are black slaves! You are worse

than dogs! Either we kill you or we give you Arab children. Then there will be no

more black slaves in this country.” (Bashir 257)

Dr Mukesh Kapila, in his 2013 book Against a Tide of Evil describes similar accounts of

sexual violence in Darfur where the intersectionality of the crime became salient:

I turned to Idris. ‘And what about race?’ I asked. ‘I see all here are black Africans – I

presume Zaghawa, Masalit, Fur…’

16
Infibula on is the most severe form of female genital mu la on (FGM), a harmful prac ce involving the
cu ng and altera on of female genitalia for non-medical reasons. Specifically, infibula on refers to the process
of narrowing the vaginal opening by cu ng and reposi oning the labia minora and/or labia majora to create a
covering seal. The procedure o en involves s tching or sealing, leaving only a small opening for the passage of
urine and menstrual blood.
 Bha acharjee 59

‘Of course, race is the thing!’ Idris replied angrily. ‘The Arab raiders call us abusive

names. Zurka, Abeed. This means like “nigger” and “slave”. It is hugely insulting.’

‘And with the women, they say, “We’ll give you slaves Arab babies!”’ the rainbow-

scarfed woman added. ‘“We’ll rid this land of you niggers!”’ (Kapila 145)

Only a few pages later, Dr Kapila recalls what Hassan, a black rebel leader in Darfur told him

about bringing peace to Darfur as well as entire Sudan. For him, real peace could only be

achieved with “No more women getting raped because they have the black skin” (Kapila

148). Dr Kapila also recalls what Aisha, a gang-rape survivor from Darfur, told him about her

experience: “As they violated me, they insulted me. They kept calling me “zurka” and

“abeed”, and telling me they would give me “fine Arab babies”” (Kapila 205).

A few days after the gang-rape of the schoolgirls, two reporters from the United

Nations came to investigate the attack on the school and they asked Bashir to share her

experiences. On condition that her identity would not be revealed, Bashir not only agreed to

tell them what she witnessed but urged them to have a talk with some of the survivors also.

However, Bashir’s activities were already being spied on and this news was not anymore

hidden from the government. After one week of the attack on the school, three khaki

uniformed men stormed into the clinic and marched Bashir away. They took her to a military

camp, detained her there for two days, tortured and gang-raped her, then released her on the

third day. She was throughout called “black bitch,” “black dog,” and “black slave” by her

abusers. One of them told her that she deserved to be treated like this because she is black:

“Lie back and take it like the black slave you are” (Bashir 267).

Shortly afterward, her village was attacked by the Janjaweed militia and Bashir lost

her father. She remembers the racial slurs that the “devil horsemen” were hurling at their

victims: “‘Kill the black slaves!’... ‘Kill the black donkeys!’ ‘Kill the black dogs!’ ‘Kill the
 Bha acharjee 60

black monkeys!’” (Bashir 283). After the attack, her two brothers registered themselves as

rebel fighters and left the village with the rebel leaders. After getting separated from her

mother and sister during the mayhem, Bashir gathered whatever valuables her family had and

left her village in search of peace and security. Her lonely but desperate journey took her to

London, where she was reunited with her husband Sharif (with whom she had a distant

wedding shortly after her rape), had a kid, and struggled hard to receive asylum. While

leaving her village and then her country behind to seek the security of a normal human life,

Bashir reflected on the reason of her and her people’s catastrophe:

I knew that many Nuba were Christian, and others were moderate Muslims. Now I

knew that religion was irrelevant in our country. All that mattered was the colour of

one’s skin. If someone had an Arab skin, they were my enemy: if they had a black

skin, they were my friend. I would seek safety among black Africans, no matter what

belief system they followed. (Bashir 298)

At the end of her memoir, it has been mentioned that Halima Bashir, along with her husband

and her son, was granted asylum/refugee status by the UK government in May 2008 but still,

she was unable to track down any of her family members in Sudan who she knew to be alive

at the time of leaving the country.

An Intersection of Ethnicity and Gender: Rwanda

An Intersection of Religion and Gender: Iraq