Moments with Yumma in The Sudan

Minutes after the Friday prayer, I walked into my mother�s hut. I kissed her hand and forehead and sat beside her. Then I asked her �how do you feel today Yumma?� Ignoring my question, she said, "We seldom see you Yubba, I always wait for Fridays to see you on day light, you leave after the Morning Prayer when it is still dark and you come late at night. Be blessed my son, you are toiling to feed your old parents and your kids, I remember you in all my five prayers" Kissing her head again, I told her not to worry about me but to take care of herself and her health. She smiled and said, "what is there for an old sick and half-blind women to worry about but her children". Both of us were quiet for a while. I knew what was going to follow. Drops of tears started to run down he shedelli, the three scars on each side of her cheeks. In a low voice she said, "I do not desire any thing for myself, I have lived enough and seen enough but as you know half of my guts, my beloved children�s bones are there. I don't want to be buried in this foreign desert but beside them". Resisting her subdued wailing she continued "When I heard that the Ethiopian Army had brought the bodies of five of our children, my heart told me that either one or both of mine were among them. Bare footed and my head uncovered, I run to the Market Square where their bodies were hanged. I saw him, my child, he was hanged by his legs, I wanted to kiss him, to touch him but they pushed me away, his hair� his face�.�. Wiping her tears, in apprehension, "your father told me it was not him, he said that to console me, I knew it was him".

I had heard this story many times; I knew if we continued, more old scares would be remembered. I had to change the subject. I told her that she must be proud of her brave sons because their goal was achieved. Eritrea is free and InshaAllah, someday, all of us will go back. Wishing her longevity, I told her that she will live and be buried in her own country. To cheer her up I asked my wife to bring me the Eritrean flag from a dusty box that lay under the bed in the other hut. I showed it to my mother and suggested placing it over her bed. She asked, "what is this? This cannot be it. Where is the Green Olive leaves, what is this red?" I tried to explain. She took it from my hand and examined it carefully, and said "DRY AND YELLOW OLIVE LEAVES IMMERSSED IN RED, BLOOD! This is a bad omen, it is a bad omen indeed.�

I thought it was the man there that is dividing our people and creating all possible obstacles to prevent our return but it is the whole country that is caste with a bad omen. The green olive leaves were the symbol of peace, a symbol of coexistence and unity among Eritreans. Even the green olive branch got its share of suffering; life was sucked out of it and squeezed into a bloody corner.

Yumma turned her face away from me and started praying, "May Allah save this people, may the almighty save my people from the disguised unjust government that trampled on all our symbols, morals and ethics of our people". I