Handicrafts and heartache

Henna set

I was invited to go along to the Ed Damer branch of the Society for Progressing Women in Communities today by a local volunteer teacher at one of the girls’ schools in town.

Ahmed - a former university lecturer - has a rather endearing habit of calling me “Miss Kate” and regularly drops none-too-subtle hints about wanting to go to Australia.

Still, he makes a lively conversationalist on Sudanese political, social and education topics.

Ahmed explained that the society was established two-years ago and is funded by well-off local benefactors.

Essentially the society helps disadvantaged women set up small cottage industries to help generate extra income and improve the quality of their lives.

They run six-month educational courses for women covering topics including religion, health, Arabic, cooking and crafts.

A few purchases

To celebrate the program’s latest graduates, the centre was having an Open Day.

Ahmed tells me that most of the women come from poor backgrounds; many are illiterate or had been married young and were unable to complete their education.

After classes finished for the day one of the other teachers - who I will call Inayat accompanies me to the nearby centre.

In a Pied Piper kind of moment, I was almost mobbed by about 40 students along the way – one even offered to carry my bag.

Dressed identically in white headscarves and pale blue abayas, the girls fired an exhausting stream of disjointed questions at me, while the bolder amongst them grabbed my hand or linked their arm with mine.

As we walked Inayat introduced me to a young student I will call Aisha.

A shy and petite girl with big dimples and broad smile, Aisha tells me she wants to be a lawyer.

Crafty chooks

She looked about 15 years old, but in fact she is 20, having recently returned to her studies.

She had been married off at 15 and given birth to two children that died in infancy. 

Her husband had since left her and they no longer had contact.

Aisha said she had decided to finish her education so that she could go to university and get a good job to help improve her family’s situation.

After hearing her story I kept glancing over at her laughing with her friends.

As I watched her I couldn’t help thinking of all the times I had complained or fallen in a heap over something relatively trivial in comparison.

After arriving at the centre I am quickly ushered into a small room.

A colourful assortment of women’s handicrafts hang from the walls and spill across tables, including beaded vases, scarfs, baskets, bags, purses, children’s clothing and other items.

Sudan in still life

A diabetic-inducing array of sweets and biscuits were also on offer.

Outside a series of still life drawings and paintings depicting Sudanese village life hang on the wall.

Ahmed diligently provides detailed commentary about the pictures and individual artists.

By this time, the embroidered bags and colourful knit purses are making my bag addiction hard to suppress, but it’s hard to browse given the sheer volume of students crammed in and still shadowing my every move.

My eyes linger a moment too long on a small beaded purse and a slender woman in a lavender tobe steps forward and offers it as a gift.

Nurah, who speaks a smattering of English, is from Atbara and has three children.

I feel embarrassed to accept, but she insists and tells me to come back anytime.

Ahmed tells me that the women want to hold regular handicrafts markets in the area, but are waiting on some kind of official permission.

Crafty lovelies

He swiftly produces a notepad and pen and tells me to write my impressions of the centre and any suggestions I might have.

I’m still not sure, what benefit my insights can bring, but I admire their enthusiasm.

On my way out, the ladies load me up with small trays of sweet cakes and butterfly-shaped biscuits, which they are selling for 1 pound (17 cents) a piece.

I also stop by Nurah’s table again to buy a red-knitted purse that catches my eye.

Intayat, who has been patiently waiting to accompany me home, invites me for a guava juice at Ed Damer’s heavenly sweet shop El Bashayer.

She waves away my apology for delaying her return home and tells me that the time she passes with me is like no time at all.

I want to hug her.

Knitted purses

Later she invites me to join her for dinner at her in-laws house - a sparse, mud brick affair with a few beds, a goat pen and rusted household junk.

Almost every item in the kitchen drawers and shelves is caked in a thick layer of dirt.

I’m having an inner hygiene freak-out moment as it is before I even I spot the swarms of flies hovering over discarded meat bones and a half open watermelon.

Inayat's husband shows up later – a brusque man who completely ignores me at first and then strangely asks for my phone number in front of his wife.

His name means honest, she explains later by way of introduction/explanation.

“But he is not honest.”

The quiet bitterness in her comment catches me off-guard.

Bags, bags!!

Later, while I am helping her in the kitchen she reveals that her husband of 12 years is planning to marry a second wife at the end of the month.

She says that after the marriage he intends to live with his new wife and will visit her and the children only on occasion.

She concedes that although multiple marriages are part of Islamic custom, she cannot reconcile with his decision.

She says she keeps the deep sadness she feels inside hidden and tries to take solace in work and prayer.

Still, she tells me she is desperate to escape her unhappy marriage and would like to migrate to another Arabic speaking country, but is worried about losing her children.

“I really loved him and he loved me, I think, but now what is left?”

She stirs the potatoes and her question hangs in the air – unanswerable.