Destination: Nuba Mountains

ONCE AGAIN I am in a little aeroplane which clandestinely lands on the Nuba mountains, in the geographical heart of Sudan. We are quickly approaching the run way of red earth, the impact is violent. The aeroplane loaded with hoes and seeds rattles and seems about to break apart, then it finally stops at the edge of a wood.
Under the relentless midday sun, there is a handful of armed men to welcome us with the ever-present Kalashnikov and a small crowd of about one hundred people. As I approach and my eyes get used to the dazzling light, each face acquires its own countenance. It is no longer an anonymous crowd of bodies roughly clothed in rags, they are friends who know me and call me by name. There are the catechists Paul and Andraus; from the group of women with their hair tied in fine little braids, Miriam, Fatuma and Kaka come closer with cups of fresh water and toasted nuts; there are old people with faces lined by the sun and by hard work; there are young people with straw hats decorated with feathers which give them a relaxed, festive air.
They are the Nuba who in the last six years have allowed me the privilege of entering and becoming part of their history.

A minority population

All of the evils which afflict Africa today, can be found in Sudan, and particularly in the region of the Nuba mountains.
Sudan is a monster created by English colonisation. In an area of over two-and-a-half million square kilometres, two of the most different African realities are united: a north which is strongly arabic and a south inhabited by a black population with a culture, traditions and religions which are completely different from those of the north. What is more, the populations of the south have, in the last few centuries, been enslaved by the north. There is a certain irony to the colonisation which created dozens of borders where there was no need, even dividing populations, while here where there are important historical, cultural and political reasons, one was never drawn up.
The Nuba are a minority population and within the group which defines itself as Nuba, co-exist different languages and cultures, probably due to the presence of slaves fleeing convoys which travelled towards the Arabic peninsular from all over Africa.
As a consequence of their geographical and cultural marginalisation, the Nuba have always been placed in isolation, either by the colonial government or by the governments which followed from its independence in 1956, until the present day. Education and technological development have never reached these mountains. Once they were no longer thought of as a reservoir of slaves, the Nuba became an inexpensive work force and low rank soldiers.
Their reaction to the dominance of the arabized people of the north who in the 1970s began to claim Nuba territory, has provoked a religious war, a jihad, against them, a political suicide which, supported by the majority of Muslims, aims at eliminating the Nuba, at least culturally.
In face of all of this, the Nuba have been able to react with an armed resistance which has lasted since 1989 and which has some unique aspects.
The greater part of the Nubas, even the simpler people of the villages, are aware they are fighting in defence of their own identity and dignity. I am a Nuba. I want to be a Nuba, and my children must remain Nuba. These are phrases which you often hear repeated with determination. It is always an extraordinary event to take part in a Nuba celebration, with free fighting, dances and songs and held a few kilometres from a government garrison, almost as if to defy those who want to annihilate their identity.

A tolerant people

Political power is organised in a predominantly democratic way. The different linguistic groups do not have a chief, but instead are ruled by the elders who meet to examine problems and attempt to find a solution, discussing matters until a consensus has been reached. An important limit is that women cannot participate officially in these decision-making procedures, even if their influence is felt in other ways by the elders. However it is interesting to note that not even war with a great number of armed men, which in other parts of Sudan has given rise to a culture of prevarication and violence, has been able to alter this need to share responsibility and examine important decisions together. This is a unique example in areas of Africa’s largest country which are under the control of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA). In fact, a few years after the beginning of the armed resistance, the Nuba assembled together to decide if resistance was worth continuing or not, and the elders who gathered then formed an assembly which meets annually to make communal decisions.
The various languages and cultures have rendered the Nuba expert in the practise of tolerance. Diversity, at all levels is seen as enriching and not as problematic. This is particularly evident in the individual freedom regarding religion. In a situation of conflict and persecution, even religious, on the part of the fundamentalist Muslims in power in Khartoum which might ordinarily generate deep divisions, Islam and Christianity live side by side without conflict in the Nuba villages and families. Everyone can distinguish between the feeling of belonging to a community of faith and unhealthy fanaticism.
Yusuf Kuwa Mekki, the Nuba leader who recently passed away, was the personification of this quality. But there are many people like him in every Nuba village.

Don’t forget my name

During my last visit to the Nuba mountains, one evening at dusk, I had withdrawn to sit on a rock from which you could see the wild and austere beauty of the ample valley. I lost myself in contemplation, nothing was there to remind me of the war. At a certain point, I realised that next to me there was a young man with a submachine gun over his shoulder. He didn’t break the silence until he saw that I was about to move. Father Kitzito, do you remember my name? he asked me. Yes, I remembered I had spoken with him, Kafi, the day before, when he had taken me to his hut to meet his wife and two children. He said to me seriously and humbly: Don’t ever forget my name, carry it always with you.
I was speechless. In the African tradition, your name is your person. Kafi, entrusting me with his name, was entrusting himself to me, feeling too humble and poor to be able to access in first person distant priests and God. I will never forget the responsibility that Kafi handed over to me.