The Milk of Birds Read Online Free Page B

When first she came to the camp, she wore a tobe , but today she dresses like a khawaja , in pants.
    â€œWhy do you come late?” a man calls.
    Saida Noor looks down, then draws breath to tell us the story. Men in uniform turned them away from the fourth camp on their route. These soldiers said that camp residents had killed three government workers.
    Let us in, Saida Julie said to the soldiers. We have no guns. We come only to help girls .
    Why do you want to help any of these rebels? the soldiers said. We care for your safety.
    We care for theirs, said Saida Julie.
    The men laughed and made ugly jokes, and the driver insisted that the saidas leave.
    Saida Julie insisted that they look for African Union troops. They are supposed to be here, she said. They are neutral. They can prevent a massacre.
    â€œBut we did not find protectors,” says Saida Noor. “We did not find anyone. We did not find anything but villages with empty houses.”
    The saidas slept sitting in the car rather than lie down in a house where the roof had been cut off, like a head from a body.
    The next day Saida Julie spotted smoke. People must be cooking, she said.
    As they got closer, the smoke thickened. Where are the houses? Saida Julie asked.
    As Saida Noor speaks, several women weep. “Where? What is the name of that village?” a woman calls.
    â€œI do not know,” says Saida Noor. She speaks softly. The crowd has grown quiet. “We did not see anyone to ask. We saw only charred rings where houses must have stood and inside—”
    Saida Noor does not have to finish because we all know what was inside. Most of us have seen the blackened bones. We know the smell that rides the smoke and seeps into your clothes and your hair and your skin. Even if you find water, you cannot wash it off.
    They left the village. Then Saida Julie remembered her camera, so she made the driver turn back. Saida Julie took many pictures, some far, some near, stepping carefully where the ground was still hot, pointing at the bones.
    Adeeba is nodding. “Give the story a human face,” she says. “That is what my father did.”
    I do not tell her that bones have no face.
    Saida Noor says that when the driver blew the horn, Saida Julie grew angry. But Saida Noor told her it was right that they should leave. Whoever did this might come back.
    Whoever did this had government backing, Saida Julie said. Look at those craters. Someone dropped a bomb. That requires a plane, or a helicopter.
    So they drove and drove, sleeping little. Once they stopped to share food with a group of people walking. Outside onetown, a new settlement had sprung up, and they found a patrol of five protectors.
    When they told the commander about the burned village, he said, What do you want me to do? My mission is to protect civilians. Those people are dead.
    When they told him about the camp, he said, Last week militias grabbed six women near here as they gathered firewood. Only four came back, blood running down their legs. Tell me how five troops are supposed to protect all these thousands of refugees. Tell me how seven thousand troops are supposed to stop a civil war.
    Saida Noor turns her head sharply, as if a hand has slapped her face. When she looks at us again, tears run down her cheeks. “What could we do?”
    As they headed toward Zalingei, the winds came out of nowhere, creating a huge red cloud from ground to sky. Riding ahead of the haboob were three men wrapped in white.
    The saidas did not know if they were Janjaweed. Saida Julie made sure that their driver could reach his gun but told him not to stop the car. Yet he had to stop because he could not see the track through the dust. The riders passed in front—farmers, kicking their donkeys as they hurried home from the fields with cloths drawn across their faces.
    Saida Noor smiles. “We are glad to be here,” she says.
    â€œAnd we are glad that you are here,” says a