The love between two Fatima’s

   I was about four years old when I met my beautiful grandmother Fatima for the first time. I was her “american” grandaughter, her namesake, and the only daughter of her most beloved child, her first born son. Unfortunately being that I was such a young child, my memories of the time I spent with her are very frail, but everytime I return to Sudan, I love going to my grandparents house, and sitting around with my aunts, my uncles and cousins and listening to the countless stories they have of the first time I ever visited Sudan. Its pretty interesting because they each have their own unique recollection of me at that age, but I always ask to hear the stories of the love between my grandmother Fatima and I. 

To give some background info, i’ll start off saying that my family in Sudan are prideful members of the Ja3ali tribe, from a village in Northern Sudan along the coast of the Nile. This city is called Kabushiya, and its a recognized area that holds a lot ofSudan’s history. There are wells that have been opened for thousands of years, and pyramids that date back to the ancient Egyptian empires. Its the type of place that almost makes you feel as though you’ve entered a different era, where life is so simple, but blissful. As a child, i loved going to Kaboshia every time I got the chance. With plenty of kids my age, and the nile practically in my parents backyard, it was my ultimate summer spot every year, and til this day, its the only place in the world that i truly feel at home, free, comfortable, and most of all loved. 

So anyways back to my grandmother and I. As I mentioned before, i was four years old when my father and I visited Sudan. It was my first time and at that age, I had no understanding of what we were doing there, but I longed for my american mother who was back home. No longer than a week from arriving to Sudan at the khartoum international airport, my dad and I hopped on a bus and headed to the village. I don’t really remember, but im sure my eyes got big as this was a different world for me. Instead of towering buildings, I was facing a never-ending road through the dessert to meet some of my closest relatives. From the stories i’ve been told, i was shy and only clung to my dad. I feel as though i was probably afraid as these strange people tried to love on me. The women wearing traditional clothing, some with tribal marks and henna hand tattoos, this was all unfamiliar, and my daddy is all I knew. In his words, to get me used to being there, he abandoned me for a couple of days and when he came back, I was a completely different person. I already picked up on a few arabic words and I started calling my grandmother Mama.

At that time, she was my everything. She cared for in every way possible, loved me, and took me everywhere with her. I had a special place in her heart and to me, she was my mama. My aunts have funny stories of me making a fuss if i woke up and she wasnt near, or how I wouldnt let anyone leave wearing her shoes or her toub. They had to take it off if it belonged to her or I wouldn’t let them leave. Apparently I was very protective of her. There’s one story inparticular of how she left while I was napping to visit some distant relatives in another city that had someone in their family pass away. When I awoke, i wouldnt stop crying and screaming for her that my uncle literally drove me to the other city to be with her until she was ready to come back home. These are the stories that warm my heart, as I think of how much I loved her at that age.

After a couple of months of being in Sudan, my dad was ready to return to the states and he came to get me from under my grandmothers care in Kaboshia. It left us both broken-hearted to be separated, but I had to return to my real mother, that was missing as well. After I left Sudan, my grandmother wrote me a song. One that makes me cry everytime I hear it, especially when it gets to the verse “y7leel feetaina, kanit be tgolay ya mama, y7leel feetaina.” My aunts tell me she would sit around the house singing it and cry whenever she remembered me. I think even my other cousins were almost envious of the love she had for me.

My grandmother died when I was about 11 years old and I got one last chance to see her and spend time with her right before she died. Being that she passed and I hadn’t reached adolescence, I feel that there are many things that I missed out on. So many things I wanted to talk to her about that I didn’t get the chance to. I later learned in life that not only did we share names, but our childhoods were much alike. Her parents, like mine divorced when she was very young, and they both moved on and married other people, giving her a ton of half brothers and sisters from both her mom and dad’s side. She practically grew up in two homes, just like me and I wish we could have bonded on that level.

Another thing that I wish i would have been able to witness about my grandmother, is the passionate love she and my grandfather had. I’ve been told many times by all kinds of relatives and family friends in Sudan that her and my grandfather had a love like no other. Their love was deeply visible just by the way they looked at each other. They lived for each other and their deaths weren’t far apart. This is another thing that I hope to share in common with my grandmother one day. She was a beautiful woman, and I wish I had more moments with her in this lifetime but she will always have a special place in my heart as the woman I got my name from; My habooba.