The work of many Sudanese artists has been inspired by their natural surroundings. Artists like Mutaz Al-Fatih use ground coffee beans, tea leaves, plants and fruit peel to create the colours they use in their paintings. Others, like Salah Al-Mur, depict childhood memories such as his ‘Family day out’ at Al-Sunut Forest. Meanwhile, the internationally renowned Ibrahim Al-Salahi has created a series of artwork pieces based on the haraz tree. For Al-Salahi the haraz, which is dry in the rainy season and green during drought, is unique and has character and further represents the spiritual connection from its roots and reaching up into the heavens.

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Salah Elmur. Family day out, 2016.

Acrylic on canvas

Signed and dated "S.ELMUR.2016" lower left

89x119 cm

Image credit © Piasa

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Mutaz Mohammed Al-Fateh. Female forms in the traditional Sudanese Toub. 2019

Coffee on paper.

Framed against a village scene of low mud buildings and minarets.

Image credit © WOMEN'S LITERACY IN SUDAN

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Ibrahim El-Salahi. The Tree, 2003

Coloured inks on Bristol board

76.5 × 76.5 cm

Image credit © artsy.net

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The work of many Sudanese artists has been inspired by their natural surroundings. Artists like Mutaz Al-Fatih use ground coffee beans, tea leaves, plants and fruit peel to create the colours they use in their paintings. Others, like Salah Al-Mur, depict childhood memories such as his ‘Family day out’ at Al-Sunut Forest. Meanwhile, the internationally renowned Ibrahim Al-Salahi has created a series of artwork pieces based on the haraz tree. For Al-Salahi the haraz, which is dry in the rainy season and green during drought, is unique and has character and further represents the spiritual connection from its roots and reaching up into the heavens.

‍

Salah Elmur. Family day out, 2016.

Acrylic on canvas

Signed and dated "S.ELMUR.2016" lower left

89x119 cm

Image credit © Piasa

‍

Mutaz Mohammed Al-Fateh. Female forms in the traditional Sudanese Toub. 2019

Coffee on paper.

Framed against a village scene of low mud buildings and minarets.

Image credit © WOMEN'S LITERACY IN SUDAN

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Ibrahim El-Salahi. The Tree, 2003

Coloured inks on Bristol board

76.5 × 76.5 cm

Image credit © artsy.net

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The historical fiction novel River Spirit by Leila Abouela is set  in Sudan in the 1880s during the the time of the Mahdist revolution. The book’s story is narrated through eight characters who each have a different perspective. This article looks at Akuany’s point of view. The landscapes in River Spirit reflect a dynamic interplay between the geography of each location and the historical and cultural context that shapes Akuany’s experiences. The landscapes she  encounters are much more than backdrops to her journey. They are dynamic characters that shape, and are shaped by, the cultural and historical forces of her world. When taking a closer look we learn that  Akuany’s home, whether it is her village, Malakal, El Obeid, and Omdurman transform not just themselves, but her sense of self.

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Akuany’s Home Village (Along the White Nile)

‘Where the River Speaks’. For Akuany, the river that passes through her home village is not just a physical presence; it is her language, her spirit and her sanctuary. The landscape of her home village is pastoral and intimate, marked by the sticky mud, reeds swaying in the breeze, and the silk-like surface of the water. This is where she plays and where she rests.

The river is life, it is a source of sustenance and safety, a place of rituals and rhythms. But this idyllic connection is shattered when raiders descend on the village, leaving behind destruction and grief. The landscape’s transformation—from serene refuge to a site of tragedy—reflects the seismic rupture in Akuany’s life. Her home becomes a memory, a place she can no longer return to, even in her dreams.

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Malakal

Malakal, located along the Nile, is a bustling urban hub, alive with trade and the presence of outsiders. To Akuany, it is a world of contrasts. Here, the rhythms of her village clash with the commercial and social influences brought in by merchants and colonial powers.

This city is a reminder that her world is larger and more complex than the village she left behind. It is a place of new possibilities but also of unsettling changes. Malakal introduces Akuany to the realities of power and displacement, marking the start of her journey away from innocence.

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ElObeid

The dry plains and reddish-brown tones of El Obeid create an environment that feels harsher and more utilitarian than Akuany’s cozy, riverbound home. Water here comes from wells, not the ever-present river, and the bustling markets pulse with energy.

El Obeid is a microcosm of colonial influence and resistance. As Akuany navigates this space, she confronts the turbulence of the Mahdist revolt and the weight of new societal expectations. The town’s vibrancy is tinged with a sense of unease, as it stands on the precipice of change. For Akuany, El Obeid is both an education and a challenge—a place where she begins to understand the complexities of survival in a world far removed from the simplicity of her childhood.

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Omdurman

Omdurman, her last home,  is a place of chaos and energy embodied. Its labyrinthine alleys and earthen homes reflect the urgency and fervour of a city at the heart of revolution. As the Mahdi’s stronghold, Omdurman is a stage for ideological battles and cultural shifts, a place where oppression and resistance collide.

To Akuany, Omdurman is a paradox. It is a city of loss—a reminder of what’s been taken from her—but also a symbol of resilience. In this sprawling, turbulent landscape, she finds fragments of herself, piecing together a new identity in the face of relentless upheaval.

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Through Akuany’s eyes, the landscapes of River Spirit come alive as more than mere settings. Her home village, Malakal, El Obeid, and Omdurman are just as much characters in her story as the people she meets. Each place shapes her—challenges her, teaches her, and forces her to grow. And as these landscapes transform under the weight of history, so too does Akuany, carrying pieces of each place within her. The landscapes symbolize transitions in her life: from the innocence of her village to the complexities of survival in cities shaped by trade, colonialism, and revolution.

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Cover picture: River Spirit book cover

The historical fiction novel River Spirit by Leila Abouela is set  in Sudan in the 1880s during the the time of the Mahdist revolution. The book’s story is narrated through eight characters who each have a different perspective. This article looks at Akuany’s point of view. The landscapes in River Spirit reflect a dynamic interplay between the geography of each location and the historical and cultural context that shapes Akuany’s experiences. The landscapes she  encounters are much more than backdrops to her journey. They are dynamic characters that shape, and are shaped by, the cultural and historical forces of her world. When taking a closer look we learn that  Akuany’s home, whether it is her village, Malakal, El Obeid, and Omdurman transform not just themselves, but her sense of self.

‍

Akuany’s Home Village (Along the White Nile)

‘Where the River Speaks’. For Akuany, the river that passes through her home village is not just a physical presence; it is her language, her spirit and her sanctuary. The landscape of her home village is pastoral and intimate, marked by the sticky mud, reeds swaying in the breeze, and the silk-like surface of the water. This is where she plays and where she rests.

The river is life, it is a source of sustenance and safety, a place of rituals and rhythms. But this idyllic connection is shattered when raiders descend on the village, leaving behind destruction and grief. The landscape’s transformation—from serene refuge to a site of tragedy—reflects the seismic rupture in Akuany’s life. Her home becomes a memory, a place she can no longer return to, even in her dreams.

‍

Malakal

Malakal, located along the Nile, is a bustling urban hub, alive with trade and the presence of outsiders. To Akuany, it is a world of contrasts. Here, the rhythms of her village clash with the commercial and social influences brought in by merchants and colonial powers.

This city is a reminder that her world is larger and more complex than the village she left behind. It is a place of new possibilities but also of unsettling changes. Malakal introduces Akuany to the realities of power and displacement, marking the start of her journey away from innocence.

‍

ElObeid

The dry plains and reddish-brown tones of El Obeid create an environment that feels harsher and more utilitarian than Akuany’s cozy, riverbound home. Water here comes from wells, not the ever-present river, and the bustling markets pulse with energy.

El Obeid is a microcosm of colonial influence and resistance. As Akuany navigates this space, she confronts the turbulence of the Mahdist revolt and the weight of new societal expectations. The town’s vibrancy is tinged with a sense of unease, as it stands on the precipice of change. For Akuany, El Obeid is both an education and a challenge—a place where she begins to understand the complexities of survival in a world far removed from the simplicity of her childhood.

‍

Omdurman

Omdurman, her last home,  is a place of chaos and energy embodied. Its labyrinthine alleys and earthen homes reflect the urgency and fervour of a city at the heart of revolution. As the Mahdi’s stronghold, Omdurman is a stage for ideological battles and cultural shifts, a place where oppression and resistance collide.

To Akuany, Omdurman is a paradox. It is a city of loss—a reminder of what’s been taken from her—but also a symbol of resilience. In this sprawling, turbulent landscape, she finds fragments of herself, piecing together a new identity in the face of relentless upheaval.

‍

Through Akuany’s eyes, the landscapes of River Spirit come alive as more than mere settings. Her home village, Malakal, El Obeid, and Omdurman are just as much characters in her story as the people she meets. Each place shapes her—challenges her, teaches her, and forces her to grow. And as these landscapes transform under the weight of history, so too does Akuany, carrying pieces of each place within her. The landscapes symbolize transitions in her life: from the innocence of her village to the complexities of survival in cities shaped by trade, colonialism, and revolution.

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Cover picture: River Spirit book cover

The Department for Africa, Oceania and the Americas at the British Museum cares for around 200 objects associated with Nuba people. Most were given to the Museum by two donors, both connected to the British government in Sudan (1898-1956). They were Norman Corkill – a medical doctor who worked in Kadugli between 1931 and 1937 and Seigfried Nadel – who worked as government anthropologist and wrote the book ‘The Nuba, an Anthropological Study of the Hill Tribes in Kordofan’ based on field research in 1938 and 1939.

This short essay gives a brief introduction to these collections. The information given here is sparse and incomplete, it is based entirely on short descriptions provided by each donor and the descriptions fail to capture the rich cultures and knowledge systems of which these objects were part. However, we hope that by sharing this information more widely, it may be possible to start conversations that will enhance the ways the objects are presented in the Museum and raise awareness of the collections more widely.

The first group of objects was assembled by medical doctor Norman Corkill from the area around Kadugli. An article he published on Kambala festivals in 1939, shows that Corkill saw Nuba societies of Kadugli and Miri hills as being in a state of change due to the spread of urban, Islamic and colonial cultures. Corkill saw transformations to the Kambala festival as a key example of these changes.

It is no coincidence that he assembled and donated to the British Museum the full ensemble worn by Kambala initiates in the early 1930s (a similar outfit is in the collection of the Ethnographic Museum in Khartoum). This includes leg rattles, made from dried palm leaves and with small stones, elbow ornaments, a grass skirt and bull’s tail girdle worn by initiates and even the iconic headdress and  examples of a palm whip and cowtail ‘wand’ that was ‘waved by initiates in the Kambala ceremony’.

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The collection also includes three wrestler’s belts. This one is made from a root that has been wrapped in reptile skin and sealed with gum Arabic. Nuba wrestling has become a famous activity in Khartoum, and it is exciting to see the wrestlers’ costumes of the past.  

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Many other aspects of creative cultural life are captured in the collection. For example, eleven body stamps made from pieces of gourd are a record of body art designs and how these were made in the 1930s. At least some of these do appear to have been used, because traces of a paint or dye can be seen.

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A further collection was donated by the anthropologist and colonial administrator Siegfried Frederick Nadel. It was mainly assembled in the context of anthropological research between 1938 and 1940. This research was commissioned by the Government of Sudan with the explicit purpose of informing the colonial administration on economic and political life in the Nuba Mountains. Nadel studied ten different Nuba groups and collected objects from each: Tira, Otoro, Mesakin, Tulishi, Moro, Heiban, Dilling, Kadaru, Korongo and Koalib, as well as from Kao and Daju people. The objects came to the Museum in two groups – a larger group in 1939, and subsequently in 1948.

Because the focus of his research was on political relations and changes, he wrote very little about the objects that were donated to the Museum leaving only a few reflections on material culture. Still, they also comprise a valuable record of Nuba art and everyday life in the 1930s.

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The Department for Africa, Oceania and the Americas at the British Museum cares for around 200 objects associated with Nuba people. Most were given to the Museum by two donors, both connected to the British government in Sudan (1898-1956). They were Norman Corkill – a medical doctor who worked in Kadugli between 1931 and 1937 and Seigfried Nadel – who worked as government anthropologist and wrote the book ‘The Nuba, an Anthropological Study of the Hill Tribes in Kordofan’ based on field research in 1938 and 1939.

This short essay gives a brief introduction to these collections. The information given here is sparse and incomplete, it is based entirely on short descriptions provided by each donor and the descriptions fail to capture the rich cultures and knowledge systems of which these objects were part. However, we hope that by sharing this information more widely, it may be possible to start conversations that will enhance the ways the objects are presented in the Museum and raise awareness of the collections more widely.

The first group of objects was assembled by medical doctor Norman Corkill from the area around Kadugli. An article he published on Kambala festivals in 1939, shows that Corkill saw Nuba societies of Kadugli and Miri hills as being in a state of change due to the spread of urban, Islamic and colonial cultures. Corkill saw transformations to the Kambala festival as a key example of these changes.

It is no coincidence that he assembled and donated to the British Museum the full ensemble worn by Kambala initiates in the early 1930s (a similar outfit is in the collection of the Ethnographic Museum in Khartoum). This includes leg rattles, made from dried palm leaves and with small stones, elbow ornaments, a grass skirt and bull’s tail girdle worn by initiates and even the iconic headdress and  examples of a palm whip and cowtail ‘wand’ that was ‘waved by initiates in the Kambala ceremony’.

‍

The collection also includes three wrestler’s belts. This one is made from a root that has been wrapped in reptile skin and sealed with gum Arabic. Nuba wrestling has become a famous activity in Khartoum, and it is exciting to see the wrestlers’ costumes of the past.  

‍

‍

‍

Many other aspects of creative cultural life are captured in the collection. For example, eleven body stamps made from pieces of gourd are a record of body art designs and how these were made in the 1930s. At least some of these do appear to have been used, because traces of a paint or dye can be seen.

‍

‍

A further collection was donated by the anthropologist and colonial administrator Siegfried Frederick Nadel. It was mainly assembled in the context of anthropological research between 1938 and 1940. This research was commissioned by the Government of Sudan with the explicit purpose of informing the colonial administration on economic and political life in the Nuba Mountains. Nadel studied ten different Nuba groups and collected objects from each: Tira, Otoro, Mesakin, Tulishi, Moro, Heiban, Dilling, Kadaru, Korongo and Koalib, as well as from Kao and Daju people. The objects came to the Museum in two groups – a larger group in 1939, and subsequently in 1948.

Because the focus of his research was on political relations and changes, he wrote very little about the objects that were donated to the Museum leaving only a few reflections on material culture. Still, they also comprise a valuable record of Nuba art and everyday life in the 1930s.

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Um Kiki is a stringed instrument found in many Arab and African countries. In Algeria, it is called Amzad and is traditionally played only by women. In Burundi, it is known as Andonongo, in Ethiopia as Masengo, in most Gulf countries it is known as the Arabic Rabab, and in Kenya as Urutu. In western Sudan, it is widely used among the Baggara tribes.  

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Um Kiki is a bowed instrument, meaning it produces sound by means of a bow. This bow is passed over a single string of hair taken from a horse's tail. This instrument’s deep-rooted connection to the Baggara people reflects their cultural and environmental landscape. Among these tribes, horses and cows are inseparable; it is a commonly held belief that "there are no cows without a horse"—as only a horse can track a lost cow. The use of Um Kiki in their music further illustrates how musical instruments are intrinsically linked to the environment and daily life of the people who play them.  

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In western Sudan, the Um Kiki player is also its maker. Crafting the instrument begins with preparing the Monitor lizard’s skin, the most crucial part, as it determines the beauty of its sound (according to the auditory perception of the maker). The maker often finds a suitable lizard while tending to his cows and skins it carefully in order to avoid making any holes. The skin is then left to dry while he searches for the perfect gourd to serve as the instrument's body.  

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While he takes a break along his route, the maker assembles the instrument by cutting the gourd in half and stretching the dried skin over one of the halves. He then inserts the neck of the instrument and allows it to dry for a day or two. During this time, he prepares the bowstring and bow, selecting the longest strands from a horse’s tail. He carefully cuts between 10 to 15 strands for both the bowstring and the bow itself. Once the skin on the gourd has fully dried, he fastens the bowstring with a string tied to both ends of the instrument’s neck, the strings are slightly elevated from the instrument body with two pieces of gourd called the donky. One of which is placed on the surface of the skin to amplify the sound coming from the string, and the other is fixed at the top of the neck thus completing the assembly of the Um Kiki.  

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The bow is covered over with Gum Arabic (kaakul) taken from the Hashab trees, which are commonly found in the region, to make the threads into one string. The sound notes are changed by pressing down the string at the top of the neck. The Um Kiki is often played while seated, with the player resting the instrument on their thighs, holding the bow with one hand, and altering pitches with the other.  

Haddai: The Voice of the People

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In western Sudan, a Haddai is a man with a significant social role who is a powerful form of popular media. He travels between villages, delivering news, offering praise, and honouring individuals of his choosing. This role of popular media is carried out by figures such as Al-Haddai, Al-Bushani, Al-Barmaki, and Al-Muqai.  

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The Haddai plays the Um Kiki while seated in a gathering space known as Al-Darra—a traditional place of hospitality in Sudanese villages. Men gather around him, seeking wisdom from his poetry and staying informed about current events.  

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In his poetic performances, the Haddai uses a technique called Al-Rabqi, delivering long, rhyming verses known as Al-Majdoula, which shift in rhyme throughout the performance. His style incorporates half-tone melodies, linking his art to Arabic traditions, particularly the musical scale of 7 notes.  

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Um Kiki is a stringed instrument found in many Arab and African countries. In Algeria, it is called Amzad and is traditionally played only by women. In Burundi, it is known as Andonongo, in Ethiopia as Masengo, in most Gulf countries it is known as the Arabic Rabab, and in Kenya as Urutu. In western Sudan, it is widely used among the Baggara tribes.  

‍

Um Kiki is a bowed instrument, meaning it produces sound by means of a bow. This bow is passed over a single string of hair taken from a horse's tail. This instrument’s deep-rooted connection to the Baggara people reflects their cultural and environmental landscape. Among these tribes, horses and cows are inseparable; it is a commonly held belief that "there are no cows without a horse"—as only a horse can track a lost cow. The use of Um Kiki in their music further illustrates how musical instruments are intrinsically linked to the environment and daily life of the people who play them.  

‍

‍

In western Sudan, the Um Kiki player is also its maker. Crafting the instrument begins with preparing the Monitor lizard’s skin, the most crucial part, as it determines the beauty of its sound (according to the auditory perception of the maker). The maker often finds a suitable lizard while tending to his cows and skins it carefully in order to avoid making any holes. The skin is then left to dry while he searches for the perfect gourd to serve as the instrument's body.  

‍

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While he takes a break along his route, the maker assembles the instrument by cutting the gourd in half and stretching the dried skin over one of the halves. He then inserts the neck of the instrument and allows it to dry for a day or two. During this time, he prepares the bowstring and bow, selecting the longest strands from a horse’s tail. He carefully cuts between 10 to 15 strands for both the bowstring and the bow itself. Once the skin on the gourd has fully dried, he fastens the bowstring with a string tied to both ends of the instrument’s neck, the strings are slightly elevated from the instrument body with two pieces of gourd called the donky. One of which is placed on the surface of the skin to amplify the sound coming from the string, and the other is fixed at the top of the neck thus completing the assembly of the Um Kiki.  

‍

The bow is covered over with Gum Arabic (kaakul) taken from the Hashab trees, which are commonly found in the region, to make the threads into one string. The sound notes are changed by pressing down the string at the top of the neck. The Um Kiki is often played while seated, with the player resting the instrument on their thighs, holding the bow with one hand, and altering pitches with the other.  

Haddai: The Voice of the People

‍

In western Sudan, a Haddai is a man with a significant social role who is a powerful form of popular media. He travels between villages, delivering news, offering praise, and honouring individuals of his choosing. This role of popular media is carried out by figures such as Al-Haddai, Al-Bushani, Al-Barmaki, and Al-Muqai.  

‍

The Haddai plays the Um Kiki while seated in a gathering space known as Al-Darra—a traditional place of hospitality in Sudanese villages. Men gather around him, seeking wisdom from his poetry and staying informed about current events.  

‍

In his poetic performances, the Haddai uses a technique called Al-Rabqi, delivering long, rhyming verses known as Al-Majdoula, which shift in rhyme throughout the performance. His style incorporates half-tone melodies, linking his art to Arabic traditions, particularly the musical scale of 7 notes.  

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Landscapes of the Soul: The Symbolism of Space in Sudanese Cinema

Sudanese cinema masterfully transforms landscapes into profound narrative tools. From vast, unyielding deserts to decaying urban ruins, every frame becomes more than a backdrop—it becomes a character. These cinematic spaces reflect the cultural, emotional, and political realities of a nation striving to define its identity. Films like You Will Die at Twenty and Talking About Trees elevate their environments into metaphors for personal and collective struggles, spaces of memory, and enduring symbols of hope.

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The Desert as Destiny in You Will Die at Twenty

In Amjad Abu Alala’s You Will Die at Twenty, the desert evolves into a haunting metaphor for Muzamil’s existential journey. Its vast, unending expanse amplifies the weight of a prophecy that foretells his premature death, overshadowing his dreams and identity.

As the golden hues of sunset bathe the dunes, the desert’s emptiness contrasts with moments of transcendence, as though it offers solace amidst despair. This interplay between isolation and possibility transforms the landscape into a stage for reflection on vulnerability, resilience, and the universal human search for meaning. The desert becomes a mirror of Sudan’s broader quest to navigate its future amidst uncertainty.

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Urban Ruins as Memory in Talking About Trees

Suhaib Gasmelbari’s Talking About Trees turns Khartoum’s decaying architecture into a poignant canvas of neglect and resistance. The derelict cinema at the heart of the story symbolizes Sudan’s forgotten cultural heritage. Its crumbling walls and empty seats echo a nation’s overlooked artistic potential.

However, the filmmakers’ resolve to revive this abandoned space imbues it with hope and defiance. Through their efforts, the cinema becomes a metaphor for resilience—a testament to art’s power to endure and inspire, even in the face of suppression. The quiet streets of Khartoum, wrapped in longing and nostalgia, reflect both a turbulent history and the filmmakers’ unyielding pursuit of creative renewal.

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Emotional Topography in Sudanese Storytelling

Sudanese cinema merges external landscapes with internal emotions, crafting a distinct narrative language that resonates universally. A dusty road might symbolize displacement and possibility, while the flicker of a dim streetlight evokes the fragility of hope.

These cinematic choices anchor global themes in uniquely Sudanese contexts. In You Will Die at Twenty, the desert embodies existential musings, while in Talking About Trees, urban decay becomes a backdrop for cultural resistance. Together, these films showcase how Sudanese filmmakers blur the line between place and identity, creating stories that speak to both local and global audiences.

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Aflam-Sudan Film Festival: Stories of Migration and Resilience

The second edition of the Aflam-Sudan Film Festival, held in Kigali, Rwanda, celebrated landscapes as powerful metaphors for migration, displacement, and belonging. By curating films that traversed deserts, cities, and intimate interiors, the festival spotlighted stories of resilience and cultural identity.

These cinematic landscapes resonated deeply with audiences, fostering global empathy and connecting viewers to universal experiences of home, exile, and the human spirit’s unyielding strength.

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Conclusion: Landscapes as Catalysts of Meaning

In Sudanese cinema, landscapes transcend their physicality to become catalysts for storytelling. Whether it’s the infinite sands of You Will Die at Twenty or the crumbling cinema of Talking About Trees, these environments carry the soul of Sudan’s cultural and emotional narratives.

Through my work on the Aflam-Sudan Film Festival, I have sought to amplify these voices and landscapes, blending art with advocacy. The festival celebrates the transformative power of cinema to inspire understanding, empathy, and action.

Enjoy the trailer from the last edition of the Aflam-Sudan Film Festival.

This trailer encapsulates the essence of Sudanese cinema and reflects my dedication to sharing these compelling narratives with the world.

‍

‍

Landscapes of the Soul: The Symbolism of Space in Sudanese Cinema

Sudanese cinema masterfully transforms landscapes into profound narrative tools. From vast, unyielding deserts to decaying urban ruins, every frame becomes more than a backdrop—it becomes a character. These cinematic spaces reflect the cultural, emotional, and political realities of a nation striving to define its identity. Films like You Will Die at Twenty and Talking About Trees elevate their environments into metaphors for personal and collective struggles, spaces of memory, and enduring symbols of hope.

‍

The Desert as Destiny in You Will Die at Twenty

In Amjad Abu Alala’s You Will Die at Twenty, the desert evolves into a haunting metaphor for Muzamil’s existential journey. Its vast, unending expanse amplifies the weight of a prophecy that foretells his premature death, overshadowing his dreams and identity.

As the golden hues of sunset bathe the dunes, the desert’s emptiness contrasts with moments of transcendence, as though it offers solace amidst despair. This interplay between isolation and possibility transforms the landscape into a stage for reflection on vulnerability, resilience, and the universal human search for meaning. The desert becomes a mirror of Sudan’s broader quest to navigate its future amidst uncertainty.

‍

‍

Urban Ruins as Memory in Talking About Trees

Suhaib Gasmelbari’s Talking About Trees turns Khartoum’s decaying architecture into a poignant canvas of neglect and resistance. The derelict cinema at the heart of the story symbolizes Sudan’s forgotten cultural heritage. Its crumbling walls and empty seats echo a nation’s overlooked artistic potential.

However, the filmmakers’ resolve to revive this abandoned space imbues it with hope and defiance. Through their efforts, the cinema becomes a metaphor for resilience—a testament to art’s power to endure and inspire, even in the face of suppression. The quiet streets of Khartoum, wrapped in longing and nostalgia, reflect both a turbulent history and the filmmakers’ unyielding pursuit of creative renewal.

‍

Emotional Topography in Sudanese Storytelling

Sudanese cinema merges external landscapes with internal emotions, crafting a distinct narrative language that resonates universally. A dusty road might symbolize displacement and possibility, while the flicker of a dim streetlight evokes the fragility of hope.

These cinematic choices anchor global themes in uniquely Sudanese contexts. In You Will Die at Twenty, the desert embodies existential musings, while in Talking About Trees, urban decay becomes a backdrop for cultural resistance. Together, these films showcase how Sudanese filmmakers blur the line between place and identity, creating stories that speak to both local and global audiences.

‍

Aflam-Sudan Film Festival: Stories of Migration and Resilience

The second edition of the Aflam-Sudan Film Festival, held in Kigali, Rwanda, celebrated landscapes as powerful metaphors for migration, displacement, and belonging. By curating films that traversed deserts, cities, and intimate interiors, the festival spotlighted stories of resilience and cultural identity.

These cinematic landscapes resonated deeply with audiences, fostering global empathy and connecting viewers to universal experiences of home, exile, and the human spirit’s unyielding strength.

‍

Conclusion: Landscapes as Catalysts of Meaning

In Sudanese cinema, landscapes transcend their physicality to become catalysts for storytelling. Whether it’s the infinite sands of You Will Die at Twenty or the crumbling cinema of Talking About Trees, these environments carry the soul of Sudan’s cultural and emotional narratives.

Through my work on the Aflam-Sudan Film Festival, I have sought to amplify these voices and landscapes, blending art with advocacy. The festival celebrates the transformative power of cinema to inspire understanding, empathy, and action.

Enjoy the trailer from the last edition of the Aflam-Sudan Film Festival.

This trailer encapsulates the essence of Sudanese cinema and reflects my dedication to sharing these compelling narratives with the world.

‍

‍

Sounds of the Land: Landscapes in Sudanese Music

Sudanese music is deeply intertwined with the land, reflecting the beauty, struggles, and rhythms of its diverse landscapes. From the vast golden sands of the desert to the lush banks of the Nile, the music carries the essence of place, expressed through melodies, instruments, and poetic lyrics. This playlist explores how Sudanese artists capture the spirit of nature, weaving the sounds of rivers, mountains, and open plains into their compositions. Whether evoking nostalgia for a homeland or celebrating the resilience of its people, these songs offer a journey through Sudan’s musical and geographical landscapes. Enjoy the voyage!

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Sounds of the Land: Landscapes in Sudanese Music

Sudanese music is deeply intertwined with the land, reflecting the beauty, struggles, and rhythms of its diverse landscapes. From the vast golden sands of the desert to the lush banks of the Nile, the music carries the essence of place, expressed through melodies, instruments, and poetic lyrics. This playlist explores how Sudanese artists capture the spirit of nature, weaving the sounds of rivers, mountains, and open plains into their compositions. Whether evoking nostalgia for a homeland or celebrating the resilience of its people, these songs offer a journey through Sudan’s musical and geographical landscapes. Enjoy the voyage!

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"The Doum Tree of Wad Hamid" by the great Sudanese novelist Tayeb Salih represents, for me, a rare monologic glimpse into life in northern rural Sudan—a life both harsh and enchanting. The narrator constantly points to their deep love for this existence, one that might seem unbearable to outsiders. Whether directly or metaphorically, he reveals their spiritual and Sufi-like connection to their land and nature through a great tree they call: The Doum Tree of Wad Hamid.  

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Throughout the story, we can see the infinite magic of Sudanese life, their mesmerizing tales that no one disputes—because they lived them, saw them with their own eyes. No one told them about Wad Hamid, the righteous saint; they met him. And as for the doum tree, it is not just a source of shade stretching across the riverbank, nor merely a miracle growing on rocky ground—it inhabits their dreams. If it is not the centerpiece, it is always there, at some point in time or space, within the corridors of their subconscious.  

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I chose to read and discuss this story in our "Landscapes Room" to explore the deep connection Sudanese people have with their natural surroundings—a connection that Tayeb Salih masterfully expressed. His words are not just rooted in the text; they are rooted in the very soil of Sudan.  

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Note: I have skipped the political segment at the end of the story. Readers can find the full text online. I made this decision to shorten the reading time and to focus on what we want to highlight in the Landscapes Room.  

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The English translation is by Denys Johnson-Davies, who had a close relationship with Tayeb Salih. He translated Season of Migration to the North while Tayeb Salih was still writing it, receiving the chapters as they were completed.  

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Denys Johnson-Davies (1922–2017) was a British translator born in Canada. He spent part of his childhood in Cairo and Wadi Halfa, Sudan and is considered one of the pioneers of Arabic-English literary translation. His translations include over thirty volumes of Arabic literature, bringing many works to the Western audience. Both Naguib Mahfouz and Edward Said recognized him as a major figure in Arabic literary translation. He passed away in Cairo on May 22, 2017, at the age of 95.  

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- Mamoun Eltlib

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Tayeb Salih

The Doum Tree of Wad Hamid 1960

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Were you to come to our village as a tourist, it is likely, my son, that you would not stay long. If it were in winter time, when the palm trees are pollinated, you would find that a dark cloud had descended over the village. This, my son, would not be dust, nor yet that mist which rises up after rainfall. It would be a swarm of those sand-flies which obstruct all paths to those who wish to enter our village. Maybe you have seen this pest before, but I swear that you have never seen this particular species. Take this gauze netting, my son, and put it over your head. While it won't protect you against these devils, it will at least help you to bear them. I remember a friend of my son's, a fellow student at school, whom my son invited to stay with us a year ago at this time of the year. His people come from the town. He stayed one night with us and got up next day, feverish, with a running nose and swollen face; he swore that he wouldn't spend another night with us. If you were to come to us in summer you would find the horse-flies with us — enormous flies the size of young sheep, as we say. In comparison to these the sand-flies are a thousand times more bearable. They are savage flies, my son: they bite, sting, buzz, and whirr, They have a special love for man and no sooner smell him out than they attach themselves to him. Wave them off you, my son — God curse all sand-flies. And were you to come at a time which was neither summer nor winter you would find nothing at all. No doubt, my son, you read the papers daily, listen to the radio, and go to the cinema once or twice a week. Should you become ill you have the right to be treated in hospital, and if you have a son he is entitled to receive education at a school. I know, my son, that you hate dark streets and like to see electric light shining out into the night. I know, too, that you are not enamoured of walking and that riding donkeys gives you a bruise on your backside. Oh, I wish, my son, I wish — the asphalted roads of the towns — the modern means of transport — the fine comfortable buses. We have none of all this — we are people who live on what God sees fit to give us. Tomorrow you will depart from our village, of this I am sure, and you will be right to do so. What have you to do with such hardship? We are thick-skinned people and in this we differ from others. We have become used to this hard life, in fact we like it, but we ask no one to subject himself to the difficulties of our life. Tomorrow you will depart, my son — 1 know that. Before you leave, though, let me show you one thing — something which, in a manner of speaking, we are proud of. In the towns you have museums, places in which the local history and the great deeds of the past are preserved. This thing that I want to show you can be said to be a museum. It is one thing we insist our visitors should see. Once a preacher, sent by the government, came to us to stay for a month. He arrived at a time when the horse-flies had never been fatter. On the very first day the man's face swelled up. He bore this manfully and joined us in evening prayers on the second night, and after prayers he talked to us of the delights of the primitive life. On the third day he was down with malaria, he contracted dysentery, and his eyes were completely gummed up. 1 visited him at noon and found him prostrate in bed, with a boy standing at his head waving away the flies.

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'O Sheikh,' I said to him, 'there is nothing in our village to show you, though I would like you to see the doum tree of Wad Hamid.' He didn't ask me what Wad Hamid's doum tree was, but I presumed that he had heard of it, for who has not? He raised his face which was like the lung of a slaughtered cow; his eyes (as I said) were firmly closed; though I knew that behind the lashes there lurked a certain bitterness. 'By God,' he said to me, 'if this were the doum tree of Jandal, and you the Moslems who fought with Ali and Mu'awiya, and I the arbitrator between you, holding your fate in these two hands of mine, I would not stir an inch!' and he spat upon the ground as though to curse me and turned his face away, After that we heard that the Sheikh had cabled to those who had sent him, saying: 'The horse-flies have eaten into my neck, malaria has burnt up my skin, and dysentery has lodged itself in my bowels. Come to my rescue, may God bless you — these are people who are in no need of me or of any other preacher.' And so the man departed and the government sent us no preacher after him. But, my son, our village actually witnessed many great men of power and influence, people with names that rang through the country like drums, whom we never even dreamed would ever come here — they came, by God, in droves. We have arrived. Have patience, my son; in a little while there will be the noonday breeze to lighten the agony of this pest upon your face. Here it is: the doum tree of Wad Hamid. Look how it holds its head aloft to the skies; look how its roots strike down into the earth; look at its full, sturdy trunk, like the form of a comely woman, at the branches on high resembling the mane of a frolicsome steed! In the afternoon, when the sun is low, the doum tree casts its shadow from this high mound right across the river so that someone sitting on the far bank can rest in its shade. At dawn, when the sun rises, the shadow of the tree stretches across the cultivated land and houses right up to the cemetery. Don't you think it is like some mythical eagle spreading its wings over the village and everyone in it? Once the government, wanting to put through an agricultural scheme, decided to cut it down: they said that the best place for setting up the pump was where the doum tree stood. As you can see, the people of our village are concerned solely with their everyday needs and I cannot remember their ever having rebelled against anything. However, when they heard about cutting down the doum tree they all rose up as one man and barred the district commissioner's way. That was in the time of foreign rule. The flies assisted them too — the horse-flies. The man was surrounded by the clamouring people shouting that if the doum tree were cut down they would fight the government to the last man, while the flies played havoc with the man's face. As his papers were scattered in the water we heard him cry out: 'All right — doum tree stay — scheme no stay!' And so neither the pump nor the scheme came about and we kept our doum tree. Let us go home, my son, for this is no time for talking in the open. This hour just before sunset is a time when the army of sand-flies becomes particularly active before going to sleep. At such a time no one who isn't well-accustomed to them and has become as thick-skinned as we are can bear their stings. Look at it, my son, look at the doum tree: lofty, proud, and haughty as though — as though it were some ancient idol.

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Wherever you happen to be in the village you can see it; in fact, you can even see it from four villages away. Tomorrow you will depart from our village, of that there is no doubt, the mementoes of the short walk we have taken visible upon your face, neck and hands. But before you leave I shall finish the story of the tree, the doum tree of Wad Hamid. Come in, my son, treat this house as your own. You ask who planted the doum tree? No one planted it, my son. Is the ground in which it grows arable land? Do you not see that it is stony and appreciably higher than the river bank, like the pedestal of a statue, while the river twists and turns below it like a sacred snake, one of the ancient gods of the Egyptians? My son, no one planted it. Drink your tea, for you must be in need of it after the trying experience you have undergone. Most probably it grew up by itself, though no one remembers having known it other than as you now find it. Our sons opened their eyes to find it commanding the village. And we, when we take ourselves back to childhood memories, to that dividing line beyond which you remember nothing, see in our minds a giant doum tree standing on a river bank; everything beyond it is as cryptic as talismans, like the boundary between day and night, like that fading light which is not the dawn but the light directly preceding the break of day. My son, do you find that you can follow what I say? Are you aware of this feeling I have within me but which I am powerless to express? Every new generation finds the doum tree as though it had been born at the time of their birth and would grow up with them. Go and sit with the people of this village and listen to them recounting their dreams. A man awakens from sleep and tells his neighbour how he found himself in a vast sandy tract of land, the sand as white as pure silver; how his feet sank in as he walked so that he could only draw them out again with difficulty; how he walked and walked until he was overcome with thirst and stricken with hunger, while the sands stretched endlessly around him; how he climbed a hill and on reaching the top espied a dense forest of doum trees with a single tall tree in the centre which in comparison with the others looked like a camel amid a herd of goats; how the man went down the hill to find that the earth seemed to be rolled up before him so that it was but a few steps before he found himself under the doum tree of Wad Hamid; how he then discovered a vessel containing milk, its surface still fresh with froth, and how the milk did not go down though he drank until he had quenched his thirst. At which his neighbour says to him, 'Rejoice at release from your troubles.' You can also hear one of the women telling her friend: 'It was as though I were in a boat sailing through a channel in the sea, so narrow that I could stretch out my hands and touch the shore on either side. I found myself on the crest of a mountainous wave which carried me upwards till I was almost touching the clouds, then bore me down into a dark, bottomless pit. I began shouting in my fear, but my voice seemed to be trapped in my throat. Suddenly I found the channel opening out a little. I saw that on the two shores were black, leafless trees with thorns, the tips of which were like the heads of hawks. I saw the two shores closing in upon me and the trees seemed to be walking towards me. I was filled with terror and called out at the top of my voice, ''O Wad Hamid!”

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As I looked I saw a man with a radiant face and a heavy white beard flowing down over his chest, dressed in spotless white and holding a string of amber prayer-beads. Placing his hand on my brow he said; “Be not afraid,” and I was calmed. Then I found the shore opening up and the water flowing gently. I looked to my left and saw fields of ripe corn, water-wheels turning, and cattle grazing, and on the shore stood the doum tree of Wad Hamid. The boat came to rest under the tree and the man got out, tied up the boat, and stretched out his hand to me. He then struck me gently on the shoulder with the string of beads, picked up a doum fruit from the ground and put it in my hand. When I turned round he was no longer there.' 'That was Wad Hamid,' her friend then says to her, 'you will have an illness that will bring you to the brink of death, but you will recover. You must make an offering to Wad Hamid under the doum tree.' So it is, my son, that there is not a man or woman, young or old, who dreams at night without seeing the doum tree of Wad Hamid at some point in the dream. You ask me why it was called the doum tree of Wad Hamid and who Wad Hamid was. Be patient, my son — have another cup of tea. At the beginning of home rule a civil servant came to inform us that the government was intending to set up a stopping-place for the steamer. He told us that the national government wished to help us and to see us progress, and his face was radiant with enthusiasm as he talked. But he could see that the faces around him expressed no reaction. My son, we are not people who travel very much, and when we wish to do so for some important matter such as registering land, or seeking advice about a matter of divorce, we take a morning's ride on our donkeys and then board the steamer from the neighbouring village. My son, we have grown accustomed to this, in fact it is precisely for this reason that we breed donkeys. It is little wonder, then, that the government official could see nothing in the people's faces to indicate that they were pleased with the news. His enthusiasm waned and, being at his wit's end, he began to fumble for words. 'Where will the stopping-place be?' someone asked him after a period of silence. The official replied that there was only one suitable place — where the doum tree stood. Had you that instant brought along a woman and had her stand among those men as naked as the day her mother bore her, they could not have been more astonished. 'The steamer usually passes here on a Wednesday,' one of the men quickly replied; 'if you made a stopping-place, then it would be here on Wednesday afternoon.' The official replied that the time fixed for the steamer to stop by their village would be four o'clock on Wednesday afternoon. 'But that is the time when we visit the tomb of Wad Hamid at the doum tree,' answered the man; 'when we take our women and children and make offerings. We do this every week.' The official laughed. 'Then change the day!' he replied. Had the official told these men at that moment that every one of them was a bastard, that would not have angered them more than this remark of his. They rose up as one man, bore down upon him, and would certainly have killed him if I had not intervened and snatched him from their clutches. I then put him on a donkey and told him to make good his escape.

And so it was that the steamer still does not stop here and that we still ride off on our donkeys for a whole morning and take the steamer from the neighbouring village when circumstances require us to travel. We content ourselves with the thought that we visit the tomb of Wad Hamid with our women and children and that we make offerings there every Wednesday as our fathers and fathers' fathers did before us. Excuse me, my son, while I perform the sunset prayer — it is said that the sunset prayer is 'strange': if you don't catch it in time it eludes you. God's pious servants — I declare that there is no god but God and I declare that Mohamed is His Servant and His Prophet — Peace be upon you and the mercy of God! Ah, ah. For a week this back of mine has been giving me pain. What do you think it is, my son? I know, though — it's just old age. Oh to be young! In my young days I would breakfast off half a sheep, drink the milk of five cows for supper, and be able to lift a sack of dates with one hand. He lies who says he ever beat me at wrestling. They used to call me 'the crocodile'. Once I swam the river, using my chest to push a boat loaded with wheat to the other shore — at night! On the shore were some men at work at their water-wheels, who threw down their clothes in terror and fled when they saw me pushing the boat towards them. 'Oh people', I shouted at them, what's wrong, shame upon you! Don't you know me? I'm “the crocodile”. By God, the devils themselves would be scared off by your ugly faces.' My son, have you asked me what we do when we're ill? I laugh because I know what's going on in your head. You townsfolk hurry to the hospital on the slightest pretext. If one of you hurts his finger you dash off to the doctor who puts a bandage on and you carry it in a sling for days; and even then it doesn't get better. Once 1 was working in the fields and something bit my finger — this little finger of mine. I jumped to my feet and looked around in the grass where I found a snake lurking. I swear to you it was longer than my arm. I took hold of it by the head and crushed it between two fingers, then bit into my finger, sucked out the blood, and took up a handful of dust and rubbed it on the bite. But that was only a little thing. What do we do when faced with real illness? This neighbour of ours, now. One day her neck swelled up and she was confined to bed for two months. One night she had a heavy fever, so at first dawn she rose from her bed and dragged herself along till she came — yes, my son, till she came to the doum tree of Wad Hamid. The woman told us what happened. 'I was under the doum tree,' she said, with hardly sufficient strength to stand up, and called out at the top of my voice: “O Wad Hamid, I have come to you to seek refuge and protection — I shall sleep here at your tomb and under your doum tree. Either you let me die or you restore me to life; I shall not leave here until one of these two things happens.” 'And so I curled myself up in fear,' the woman continued with her story, 'and was soon overcome by sleep. While midway between wakefulness and sleep I suddenly heard sounds of recitation from the Koran and a bright light, as sharp as a knife-edge, radiated out, joining up the two river banks, and I saw the doum tree prostrating itself in worship. My heart throbbed so violently that I thought it would leap up through my mouth.

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I saw a venerable old man with a white beard and wearing a spotless white robe come up to me, a smile on his face. He struck me on the head with his string of prayer-beads and called out: 'Arise.' 'I swear that I got up I know not how and went home I know not how. I arrived back at dawn and woke up my husband, my son, and my daughters. I told my husband to light the fire and make tea. Then I ordered my daughters to give trilling cries of joy, and the whole village prostrated themselves before us. I swear that I have never again been afraid, nor yet ill.' Yes, my son, we are people who have no experience of hospitals. In Small matters such as the bites of scorpions, fever, sprains, and fractures, we take to our beds until we are cured. When in serious trouble we go to the doum tree. Shall 1 tell you the story of Wad Hamid, my son, or would you like to sleep? Townsfolk don't go to sleep till late at night — I know that of them. We, though, go to sleep directly the birds are silent, the flies stop harrying the cattle, the leaves of the trees settle down, the hens spread their wings over their chicks, and the goats turn on their sides to chew the cud. We and our animals are alike: we rise in the morning when they rise and go to sleep when they sleep, our breathing and theirs following one and the same pattern. My father, reporting what my grandfather had told him, said: 'Wad Hamid, in times gone by, used to be the slave of a wicked man. He was one of God's holy saints but kept his faith to himself, not daring to pray openly lest his wicked master should kill him. When he could no longer bear his life with (his infidel he called upon God to deliver him and a voice told him to spread his prayer-mat on the water and that when it stopped by the shore he should descend. The prayer-mat put him down at the place where the doum tree is now and which used to be waste land. And there he stayed alone, praying the whole day. At nightfall a man came to him with dishes of food, so he ate and continued his worship till dawn.' All this happened before the village was built up. It is as though this village, with its inhabitants, its water-wheels and buildings, had become split off from the earth. Anyone who tells you he knows the history of its origin is a liar. Other places begin by being small and then grow larger, but this village of ours came into being at one bound, its population neither increases nor decreases, while its appearance remains unchanged, And ever since our village has existed, so has the doom tree of Wad Hamid; and just as no one remembers how it originated and grew, so no one remembers how the doum tree came to grow in a patch of rocky ground by the river, standing above it like a sentinel. When I took you to visit the tree, my son, do you remember the iron railing round it? Do you remember the marble plaque standing on a stone pedestal with 'The doum tree of Wad Hamid' written on it? Do you remember the doum tree with the gilded crescents above the tomb? They are the only new things about the village since God first planted it here, and I shall now recount to you how they came into being. When you leave us tomorrow — and you will certainly do so, swollen of face and inflamed of eye — it will be fitting if you do not curse us but rather think kindly of us and of the things that I have told you this night, for you may well find that your visit to us was not wholly bad.

You remember that some years ago we had Members of Parliament and political parties and a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing which we couldn't make head or tail of. The roads would sometimes cast down strangers at our very doors, just as the waves of the sea wash up strange weeds. Though not a single one of them prolonged his stay beyond one night, they would nevertheless bring us the news of the great fuss going on in the capital. One day they told us that the government which had driven out imperialism had been substituted by an even bigger and noisier government. 'And who has changed it?' we asked them, but received no answer. As for us, ever since we refused to allow the stopping-place to be set up at the doum tree no one has disturbed our tranquil existence. Two years passed without our knowing what form the government had taken, black or white. Its emissaries passed through our village without staying in it, while we thanked God that He had saved us the trouble of putting them up. So things went on till, four years ago, a new government came into power. As though this new authority wished to make us conscious of its presence, we awoke one day to find an official with an enormous hat and small head, in the company of two soldiers, measuring up and doing calculations at the doum tree. We asked them what it was about, to which they replied that the government wished to build a stopping-place for the steamer under the doum tree. 'But we have already given you our answer about that/ we told them. 'What makes you think we'll accept it now?' 'The government which gave in to you was a weak one/ they said, 'but the position has now changed.' To cut a long story short, we took them by the scruffs of their necks, hurled them into the water, and went off to our work. It wasn't more than a week later when a group of soldiers came along commanded by the small-headed official with the large hat, shouting, 'Arrest that man, and that one, and that one,' until they'd taken off twenty of us, I among them. We spent a month in prison. Then one day the very soldiers who had put us there opened the prison gates. We asked them what it was all about but no one said anything. Outside the prison we found a great gathering of people; no sooner had we been spotted than there were shouts and cheering and we were embraced by some cleanly- dressed people, heavily scented and with gold watches gleaming on their wrists. They carried us off in a great procession, back to our own people. There we found an unbelievably immense gathering of people, carts, horses, and camels. We said to each other, 'The din and flurry of the capital has caught up with us.' They made us twenty men stand in a row and the people passed along it shaking us by the hand: the Prime Minister — the President of the Parliament — The President of the Senate — the member for such and such constituency — the member for such and such other constituency. We looked at each other without understanding a thing of what was going on around us except that our arms were aching with all the handshakes we had been receiving from those Presidents and Members of Parliament. Then they took us off in a great mass to the place where the doum tree and the tomb stand. The Prime Minister laid the foundation stone for the monument you've seen, and for the dome you've seen, and for the railing you've seen.

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Like a tornado blowing up for a while and then passing over, so that mighty host disappeared as suddenly as it had come without spending a night in the village — no doubt because of the horse-flies which, that particular year, were as large and fat and buzzed and whirred as much as during the year the preacher came to us. One of those strangers who were occasionally cast upon us in the village later told us the story of all this fuss and bother. 'The people,' he said, 'hadn't been happy about this government since it had come to power, for they knew that it had got there by bribing a number of the Members of Parliament, They therefore bided their time and waited for the right opportunities to present themselves, while the opposition looked around for something to spark things off. When the doum tree incident occurred and they marched you all off and slung you into prison, the newspapers took this up and the leader of the government which had resigned made a fiery speech in Parliament in which he said: 'To such tyranny has this government come that it has begun to interfere in the beliefs of the people, in those holy things held most sacred by them.' Then, taking a most imposing stance and in a voice choked with emotion, he said: 'Ask our worthy Prime Minister about the doum tree of Wad Hamid. Ask him how it was that he permitted himself to send his troops and henchmen to desecrate that pure and holy place!' 'The people took up the cry and throughout the country their hearts responded to the incident of the doum tree as to nothing before. Perhaps the reason is that in every village in this country there is some monument like the doum tree of Wad Hamid which people see in their dreams. After a month of fuss and shouting and inflamed feelings, fifty members of the government were forced to withdraw their support, their constituencies having warned them that unless they did sb they would wash their hands of them. And so the government fell, the first government returned to power and the leading paper in the country wrote: “The doum tree of Wad Hamid has become the symbol of the nation's awakening.” Since that day we have been unaware of the existence of the new government and not one of those great giants of men who visited us has put in an appearance; we thank God that He has spared us the trouble of having to shake them by the hand. Our life returned to what it had been: no water-pump; no agricultural scheme, no stopping-place for the steamer. But we kept our doum tree which casts its shadow over the southern bank in the afternoon and, in the morning, spreads its shadow over the fields and houses right up to the cemetery, with the river flowing below it like some sacred legendary snake. And our village has acquired a marble monument, an iron railing, and a dome with gilded crescents. When the man had finished what he had to say he looked at me with an enigmatic smile playing at the corners of his mouth like the faint flickerings of a lamp. 'And when,' I asked, 'will they set up the water-pump, and put through the agricultural scheme and the stopping-place for the steamer?' He lowered his head and paused before answering me, 'When people go to sleep and don't see the doum tree in their dreams.' 'And when will that be?' I said. 'I mentioned to you that my son is in the town studying at school,' he replied; 'It wasn't I who put him there; he ran away and went there on his own, and it is my hope that he will stay where he is and not return.

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When my son's son passes out of school and the number of young men with souls foreign to our own increases, then perhaps the water-pump will be set up and the agricultural scheme put into being — maybe then the steamer will stop at our village — under the doum tree of Wad Hamid.' 'And do you think,' I said to him, 'that the doum tree will one day be cut down?' He looked at me for a long while as though wishing to project, through his tired, misty eyes, something which he was incapable of doing by word. 'There will not be the least necessity for cutting down the doum tree. There is not the slightest reason for the tomb to be removed. What all these people have overlooked is that there's plenty of room for all these things: the doum tree, the tomb, the water-pump, and the steamer's stopping-place.' When he had been silent for a time he gave me a look which I don't know how to describe, though it stirred within me a feeling of sadness, sadness for some obscure thing which I was unable to define. Then he said: 'Tomorrow, without doubt, you will be leaving us. When you arrive at your destination, think well of us and judge us not too harshly.'

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"The Doum Tree of Wad Hamid" by the great Sudanese novelist Tayeb Salih represents, for me, a rare monologic glimpse into life in northern rural Sudan—a life both harsh and enchanting. The narrator constantly points to their deep love for this existence, one that might seem unbearable to outsiders. Whether directly or metaphorically, he reveals their spiritual and Sufi-like connection to their land and nature through a great tree they call: The Doum Tree of Wad Hamid.  

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Throughout the story, we can see the infinite magic of Sudanese life, their mesmerizing tales that no one disputes—because they lived them, saw them with their own eyes. No one told them about Wad Hamid, the righteous saint; they met him. And as for the doum tree, it is not just a source of shade stretching across the riverbank, nor merely a miracle growing on rocky ground—it inhabits their dreams. If it is not the centerpiece, it is always there, at some point in time or space, within the corridors of their subconscious.  

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I chose to read and discuss this story in our "Landscapes Room" to explore the deep connection Sudanese people have with their natural surroundings—a connection that Tayeb Salih masterfully expressed. His words are not just rooted in the text; they are rooted in the very soil of Sudan.  

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Note: I have skipped the political segment at the end of the story. Readers can find the full text online. I made this decision to shorten the reading time and to focus on what we want to highlight in the Landscapes Room.  

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The English translation is by Denys Johnson-Davies, who had a close relationship with Tayeb Salih. He translated Season of Migration to the North while Tayeb Salih was still writing it, receiving the chapters as they were completed.  

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Denys Johnson-Davies (1922–2017) was a British translator born in Canada. He spent part of his childhood in Cairo and Wadi Halfa, Sudan and is considered one of the pioneers of Arabic-English literary translation. His translations include over thirty volumes of Arabic literature, bringing many works to the Western audience. Both Naguib Mahfouz and Edward Said recognized him as a major figure in Arabic literary translation. He passed away in Cairo on May 22, 2017, at the age of 95.  

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- Mamoun Eltlib

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Tayeb Salih

The Doum Tree of Wad Hamid 1960

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Were you to come to our village as a tourist, it is likely, my son, that you would not stay long. If it were in winter time, when the palm trees are pollinated, you would find that a dark cloud had descended over the village. This, my son, would not be dust, nor yet that mist which rises up after rainfall. It would be a swarm of those sand-flies which obstruct all paths to those who wish to enter our village. Maybe you have seen this pest before, but I swear that you have never seen this particular species. Take this gauze netting, my son, and put it over your head. While it won't protect you against these devils, it will at least help you to bear them. I remember a friend of my son's, a fellow student at school, whom my son invited to stay with us a year ago at this time of the year. His people come from the town. He stayed one night with us and got up next day, feverish, with a running nose and swollen face; he swore that he wouldn't spend another night with us. If you were to come to us in summer you would find the horse-flies with us — enormous flies the size of young sheep, as we say. In comparison to these the sand-flies are a thousand times more bearable. They are savage flies, my son: they bite, sting, buzz, and whirr, They have a special love for man and no sooner smell him out than they attach themselves to him. Wave them off you, my son — God curse all sand-flies. And were you to come at a time which was neither summer nor winter you would find nothing at all. No doubt, my son, you read the papers daily, listen to the radio, and go to the cinema once or twice a week. Should you become ill you have the right to be treated in hospital, and if you have a son he is entitled to receive education at a school. I know, my son, that you hate dark streets and like to see electric light shining out into the night. I know, too, that you are not enamoured of walking and that riding donkeys gives you a bruise on your backside. Oh, I wish, my son, I wish — the asphalted roads of the towns — the modern means of transport — the fine comfortable buses. We have none of all this — we are people who live on what God sees fit to give us. Tomorrow you will depart from our village, of this I am sure, and you will be right to do so. What have you to do with such hardship? We are thick-skinned people and in this we differ from others. We have become used to this hard life, in fact we like it, but we ask no one to subject himself to the difficulties of our life. Tomorrow you will depart, my son — 1 know that. Before you leave, though, let me show you one thing — something which, in a manner of speaking, we are proud of. In the towns you have museums, places in which the local history and the great deeds of the past are preserved. This thing that I want to show you can be said to be a museum. It is one thing we insist our visitors should see. Once a preacher, sent by the government, came to us to stay for a month. He arrived at a time when the horse-flies had never been fatter. On the very first day the man's face swelled up. He bore this manfully and joined us in evening prayers on the second night, and after prayers he talked to us of the delights of the primitive life. On the third day he was down with malaria, he contracted dysentery, and his eyes were completely gummed up. 1 visited him at noon and found him prostrate in bed, with a boy standing at his head waving away the flies.

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'O Sheikh,' I said to him, 'there is nothing in our village to show you, though I would like you to see the doum tree of Wad Hamid.' He didn't ask me what Wad Hamid's doum tree was, but I presumed that he had heard of it, for who has not? He raised his face which was like the lung of a slaughtered cow; his eyes (as I said) were firmly closed; though I knew that behind the lashes there lurked a certain bitterness. 'By God,' he said to me, 'if this were the doum tree of Jandal, and you the Moslems who fought with Ali and Mu'awiya, and I the arbitrator between you, holding your fate in these two hands of mine, I would not stir an inch!' and he spat upon the ground as though to curse me and turned his face away, After that we heard that the Sheikh had cabled to those who had sent him, saying: 'The horse-flies have eaten into my neck, malaria has burnt up my skin, and dysentery has lodged itself in my bowels. Come to my rescue, may God bless you — these are people who are in no need of me or of any other preacher.' And so the man departed and the government sent us no preacher after him. But, my son, our village actually witnessed many great men of power and influence, people with names that rang through the country like drums, whom we never even dreamed would ever come here — they came, by God, in droves. We have arrived. Have patience, my son; in a little while there will be the noonday breeze to lighten the agony of this pest upon your face. Here it is: the doum tree of Wad Hamid. Look how it holds its head aloft to the skies; look how its roots strike down into the earth; look at its full, sturdy trunk, like the form of a comely woman, at the branches on high resembling the mane of a frolicsome steed! In the afternoon, when the sun is low, the doum tree casts its shadow from this high mound right across the river so that someone sitting on the far bank can rest in its shade. At dawn, when the sun rises, the shadow of the tree stretches across the cultivated land and houses right up to the cemetery. Don't you think it is like some mythical eagle spreading its wings over the village and everyone in it? Once the government, wanting to put through an agricultural scheme, decided to cut it down: they said that the best place for setting up the pump was where the doum tree stood. As you can see, the people of our village are concerned solely with their everyday needs and I cannot remember their ever having rebelled against anything. However, when they heard about cutting down the doum tree they all rose up as one man and barred the district commissioner's way. That was in the time of foreign rule. The flies assisted them too — the horse-flies. The man was surrounded by the clamouring people shouting that if the doum tree were cut down they would fight the government to the last man, while the flies played havoc with the man's face. As his papers were scattered in the water we heard him cry out: 'All right — doum tree stay — scheme no stay!' And so neither the pump nor the scheme came about and we kept our doum tree. Let us go home, my son, for this is no time for talking in the open. This hour just before sunset is a time when the army of sand-flies becomes particularly active before going to sleep. At such a time no one who isn't well-accustomed to them and has become as thick-skinned as we are can bear their stings. Look at it, my son, look at the doum tree: lofty, proud, and haughty as though — as though it were some ancient idol.

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Wherever you happen to be in the village you can see it; in fact, you can even see it from four villages away. Tomorrow you will depart from our village, of that there is no doubt, the mementoes of the short walk we have taken visible upon your face, neck and hands. But before you leave I shall finish the story of the tree, the doum tree of Wad Hamid. Come in, my son, treat this house as your own. You ask who planted the doum tree? No one planted it, my son. Is the ground in which it grows arable land? Do you not see that it is stony and appreciably higher than the river bank, like the pedestal of a statue, while the river twists and turns below it like a sacred snake, one of the ancient gods of the Egyptians? My son, no one planted it. Drink your tea, for you must be in need of it after the trying experience you have undergone. Most probably it grew up by itself, though no one remembers having known it other than as you now find it. Our sons opened their eyes to find it commanding the village. And we, when we take ourselves back to childhood memories, to that dividing line beyond which you remember nothing, see in our minds a giant doum tree standing on a river bank; everything beyond it is as cryptic as talismans, like the boundary between day and night, like that fading light which is not the dawn but the light directly preceding the break of day. My son, do you find that you can follow what I say? Are you aware of this feeling I have within me but which I am powerless to express? Every new generation finds the doum tree as though it had been born at the time of their birth and would grow up with them. Go and sit with the people of this village and listen to them recounting their dreams. A man awakens from sleep and tells his neighbour how he found himself in a vast sandy tract of land, the sand as white as pure silver; how his feet sank in as he walked so that he could only draw them out again with difficulty; how he walked and walked until he was overcome with thirst and stricken with hunger, while the sands stretched endlessly around him; how he climbed a hill and on reaching the top espied a dense forest of doum trees with a single tall tree in the centre which in comparison with the others looked like a camel amid a herd of goats; how the man went down the hill to find that the earth seemed to be rolled up before him so that it was but a few steps before he found himself under the doum tree of Wad Hamid; how he then discovered a vessel containing milk, its surface still fresh with froth, and how the milk did not go down though he drank until he had quenched his thirst. At which his neighbour says to him, 'Rejoice at release from your troubles.' You can also hear one of the women telling her friend: 'It was as though I were in a boat sailing through a channel in the sea, so narrow that I could stretch out my hands and touch the shore on either side. I found myself on the crest of a mountainous wave which carried me upwards till I was almost touching the clouds, then bore me down into a dark, bottomless pit. I began shouting in my fear, but my voice seemed to be trapped in my throat. Suddenly I found the channel opening out a little. I saw that on the two shores were black, leafless trees with thorns, the tips of which were like the heads of hawks. I saw the two shores closing in upon me and the trees seemed to be walking towards me. I was filled with terror and called out at the top of my voice, ''O Wad Hamid!”

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As I looked I saw a man with a radiant face and a heavy white beard flowing down over his chest, dressed in spotless white and holding a string of amber prayer-beads. Placing his hand on my brow he said; “Be not afraid,” and I was calmed. Then I found the shore opening up and the water flowing gently. I looked to my left and saw fields of ripe corn, water-wheels turning, and cattle grazing, and on the shore stood the doum tree of Wad Hamid. The boat came to rest under the tree and the man got out, tied up the boat, and stretched out his hand to me. He then struck me gently on the shoulder with the string of beads, picked up a doum fruit from the ground and put it in my hand. When I turned round he was no longer there.' 'That was Wad Hamid,' her friend then says to her, 'you will have an illness that will bring you to the brink of death, but you will recover. You must make an offering to Wad Hamid under the doum tree.' So it is, my son, that there is not a man or woman, young or old, who dreams at night without seeing the doum tree of Wad Hamid at some point in the dream. You ask me why it was called the doum tree of Wad Hamid and who Wad Hamid was. Be patient, my son — have another cup of tea. At the beginning of home rule a civil servant came to inform us that the government was intending to set up a stopping-place for the steamer. He told us that the national government wished to help us and to see us progress, and his face was radiant with enthusiasm as he talked. But he could see that the faces around him expressed no reaction. My son, we are not people who travel very much, and when we wish to do so for some important matter such as registering land, or seeking advice about a matter of divorce, we take a morning's ride on our donkeys and then board the steamer from the neighbouring village. My son, we have grown accustomed to this, in fact it is precisely for this reason that we breed donkeys. It is little wonder, then, that the government official could see nothing in the people's faces to indicate that they were pleased with the news. His enthusiasm waned and, being at his wit's end, he began to fumble for words. 'Where will the stopping-place be?' someone asked him after a period of silence. The official replied that there was only one suitable place — where the doum tree stood. Had you that instant brought along a woman and had her stand among those men as naked as the day her mother bore her, they could not have been more astonished. 'The steamer usually passes here on a Wednesday,' one of the men quickly replied; 'if you made a stopping-place, then it would be here on Wednesday afternoon.' The official replied that the time fixed for the steamer to stop by their village would be four o'clock on Wednesday afternoon. 'But that is the time when we visit the tomb of Wad Hamid at the doum tree,' answered the man; 'when we take our women and children and make offerings. We do this every week.' The official laughed. 'Then change the day!' he replied. Had the official told these men at that moment that every one of them was a bastard, that would not have angered them more than this remark of his. They rose up as one man, bore down upon him, and would certainly have killed him if I had not intervened and snatched him from their clutches. I then put him on a donkey and told him to make good his escape.

And so it was that the steamer still does not stop here and that we still ride off on our donkeys for a whole morning and take the steamer from the neighbouring village when circumstances require us to travel. We content ourselves with the thought that we visit the tomb of Wad Hamid with our women and children and that we make offerings there every Wednesday as our fathers and fathers' fathers did before us. Excuse me, my son, while I perform the sunset prayer — it is said that the sunset prayer is 'strange': if you don't catch it in time it eludes you. God's pious servants — I declare that there is no god but God and I declare that Mohamed is His Servant and His Prophet — Peace be upon you and the mercy of God! Ah, ah. For a week this back of mine has been giving me pain. What do you think it is, my son? I know, though — it's just old age. Oh to be young! In my young days I would breakfast off half a sheep, drink the milk of five cows for supper, and be able to lift a sack of dates with one hand. He lies who says he ever beat me at wrestling. They used to call me 'the crocodile'. Once I swam the river, using my chest to push a boat loaded with wheat to the other shore — at night! On the shore were some men at work at their water-wheels, who threw down their clothes in terror and fled when they saw me pushing the boat towards them. 'Oh people', I shouted at them, what's wrong, shame upon you! Don't you know me? I'm “the crocodile”. By God, the devils themselves would be scared off by your ugly faces.' My son, have you asked me what we do when we're ill? I laugh because I know what's going on in your head. You townsfolk hurry to the hospital on the slightest pretext. If one of you hurts his finger you dash off to the doctor who puts a bandage on and you carry it in a sling for days; and even then it doesn't get better. Once 1 was working in the fields and something bit my finger — this little finger of mine. I jumped to my feet and looked around in the grass where I found a snake lurking. I swear to you it was longer than my arm. I took hold of it by the head and crushed it between two fingers, then bit into my finger, sucked out the blood, and took up a handful of dust and rubbed it on the bite. But that was only a little thing. What do we do when faced with real illness? This neighbour of ours, now. One day her neck swelled up and she was confined to bed for two months. One night she had a heavy fever, so at first dawn she rose from her bed and dragged herself along till she came — yes, my son, till she came to the doum tree of Wad Hamid. The woman told us what happened. 'I was under the doum tree,' she said, with hardly sufficient strength to stand up, and called out at the top of my voice: “O Wad Hamid, I have come to you to seek refuge and protection — I shall sleep here at your tomb and under your doum tree. Either you let me die or you restore me to life; I shall not leave here until one of these two things happens.” 'And so I curled myself up in fear,' the woman continued with her story, 'and was soon overcome by sleep. While midway between wakefulness and sleep I suddenly heard sounds of recitation from the Koran and a bright light, as sharp as a knife-edge, radiated out, joining up the two river banks, and I saw the doum tree prostrating itself in worship. My heart throbbed so violently that I thought it would leap up through my mouth.

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I saw a venerable old man with a white beard and wearing a spotless white robe come up to me, a smile on his face. He struck me on the head with his string of prayer-beads and called out: 'Arise.' 'I swear that I got up I know not how and went home I know not how. I arrived back at dawn and woke up my husband, my son, and my daughters. I told my husband to light the fire and make tea. Then I ordered my daughters to give trilling cries of joy, and the whole village prostrated themselves before us. I swear that I have never again been afraid, nor yet ill.' Yes, my son, we are people who have no experience of hospitals. In Small matters such as the bites of scorpions, fever, sprains, and fractures, we take to our beds until we are cured. When in serious trouble we go to the doum tree. Shall 1 tell you the story of Wad Hamid, my son, or would you like to sleep? Townsfolk don't go to sleep till late at night — I know that of them. We, though, go to sleep directly the birds are silent, the flies stop harrying the cattle, the leaves of the trees settle down, the hens spread their wings over their chicks, and the goats turn on their sides to chew the cud. We and our animals are alike: we rise in the morning when they rise and go to sleep when they sleep, our breathing and theirs following one and the same pattern. My father, reporting what my grandfather had told him, said: 'Wad Hamid, in times gone by, used to be the slave of a wicked man. He was one of God's holy saints but kept his faith to himself, not daring to pray openly lest his wicked master should kill him. When he could no longer bear his life with (his infidel he called upon God to deliver him and a voice told him to spread his prayer-mat on the water and that when it stopped by the shore he should descend. The prayer-mat put him down at the place where the doum tree is now and which used to be waste land. And there he stayed alone, praying the whole day. At nightfall a man came to him with dishes of food, so he ate and continued his worship till dawn.' All this happened before the village was built up. It is as though this village, with its inhabitants, its water-wheels and buildings, had become split off from the earth. Anyone who tells you he knows the history of its origin is a liar. Other places begin by being small and then grow larger, but this village of ours came into being at one bound, its population neither increases nor decreases, while its appearance remains unchanged, And ever since our village has existed, so has the doom tree of Wad Hamid; and just as no one remembers how it originated and grew, so no one remembers how the doum tree came to grow in a patch of rocky ground by the river, standing above it like a sentinel. When I took you to visit the tree, my son, do you remember the iron railing round it? Do you remember the marble plaque standing on a stone pedestal with 'The doum tree of Wad Hamid' written on it? Do you remember the doum tree with the gilded crescents above the tomb? They are the only new things about the village since God first planted it here, and I shall now recount to you how they came into being. When you leave us tomorrow — and you will certainly do so, swollen of face and inflamed of eye — it will be fitting if you do not curse us but rather think kindly of us and of the things that I have told you this night, for you may well find that your visit to us was not wholly bad.

You remember that some years ago we had Members of Parliament and political parties and a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing which we couldn't make head or tail of. The roads would sometimes cast down strangers at our very doors, just as the waves of the sea wash up strange weeds. Though not a single one of them prolonged his stay beyond one night, they would nevertheless bring us the news of the great fuss going on in the capital. One day they told us that the government which had driven out imperialism had been substituted by an even bigger and noisier government. 'And who has changed it?' we asked them, but received no answer. As for us, ever since we refused to allow the stopping-place to be set up at the doum tree no one has disturbed our tranquil existence. Two years passed without our knowing what form the government had taken, black or white. Its emissaries passed through our village without staying in it, while we thanked God that He had saved us the trouble of putting them up. So things went on till, four years ago, a new government came into power. As though this new authority wished to make us conscious of its presence, we awoke one day to find an official with an enormous hat and small head, in the company of two soldiers, measuring up and doing calculations at the doum tree. We asked them what it was about, to which they replied that the government wished to build a stopping-place for the steamer under the doum tree. 'But we have already given you our answer about that/ we told them. 'What makes you think we'll accept it now?' 'The government which gave in to you was a weak one/ they said, 'but the position has now changed.' To cut a long story short, we took them by the scruffs of their necks, hurled them into the water, and went off to our work. It wasn't more than a week later when a group of soldiers came along commanded by the small-headed official with the large hat, shouting, 'Arrest that man, and that one, and that one,' until they'd taken off twenty of us, I among them. We spent a month in prison. Then one day the very soldiers who had put us there opened the prison gates. We asked them what it was all about but no one said anything. Outside the prison we found a great gathering of people; no sooner had we been spotted than there were shouts and cheering and we were embraced by some cleanly- dressed people, heavily scented and with gold watches gleaming on their wrists. They carried us off in a great procession, back to our own people. There we found an unbelievably immense gathering of people, carts, horses, and camels. We said to each other, 'The din and flurry of the capital has caught up with us.' They made us twenty men stand in a row and the people passed along it shaking us by the hand: the Prime Minister — the President of the Parliament — The President of the Senate — the member for such and such constituency — the member for such and such other constituency. We looked at each other without understanding a thing of what was going on around us except that our arms were aching with all the handshakes we had been receiving from those Presidents and Members of Parliament. Then they took us off in a great mass to the place where the doum tree and the tomb stand. The Prime Minister laid the foundation stone for the monument you've seen, and for the dome you've seen, and for the railing you've seen.

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Like a tornado blowing up for a while and then passing over, so that mighty host disappeared as suddenly as it had come without spending a night in the village — no doubt because of the horse-flies which, that particular year, were as large and fat and buzzed and whirred as much as during the year the preacher came to us. One of those strangers who were occasionally cast upon us in the village later told us the story of all this fuss and bother. 'The people,' he said, 'hadn't been happy about this government since it had come to power, for they knew that it had got there by bribing a number of the Members of Parliament, They therefore bided their time and waited for the right opportunities to present themselves, while the opposition looked around for something to spark things off. When the doum tree incident occurred and they marched you all off and slung you into prison, the newspapers took this up and the leader of the government which had resigned made a fiery speech in Parliament in which he said: 'To such tyranny has this government come that it has begun to interfere in the beliefs of the people, in those holy things held most sacred by them.' Then, taking a most imposing stance and in a voice choked with emotion, he said: 'Ask our worthy Prime Minister about the doum tree of Wad Hamid. Ask him how it was that he permitted himself to send his troops and henchmen to desecrate that pure and holy place!' 'The people took up the cry and throughout the country their hearts responded to the incident of the doum tree as to nothing before. Perhaps the reason is that in every village in this country there is some monument like the doum tree of Wad Hamid which people see in their dreams. After a month of fuss and shouting and inflamed feelings, fifty members of the government were forced to withdraw their support, their constituencies having warned them that unless they did sb they would wash their hands of them. And so the government fell, the first government returned to power and the leading paper in the country wrote: “The doum tree of Wad Hamid has become the symbol of the nation's awakening.” Since that day we have been unaware of the existence of the new government and not one of those great giants of men who visited us has put in an appearance; we thank God that He has spared us the trouble of having to shake them by the hand. Our life returned to what it had been: no water-pump; no agricultural scheme, no stopping-place for the steamer. But we kept our doum tree which casts its shadow over the southern bank in the afternoon and, in the morning, spreads its shadow over the fields and houses right up to the cemetery, with the river flowing below it like some sacred legendary snake. And our village has acquired a marble monument, an iron railing, and a dome with gilded crescents. When the man had finished what he had to say he looked at me with an enigmatic smile playing at the corners of his mouth like the faint flickerings of a lamp. 'And when,' I asked, 'will they set up the water-pump, and put through the agricultural scheme and the stopping-place for the steamer?' He lowered his head and paused before answering me, 'When people go to sleep and don't see the doum tree in their dreams.' 'And when will that be?' I said. 'I mentioned to you that my son is in the town studying at school,' he replied; 'It wasn't I who put him there; he ran away and went there on his own, and it is my hope that he will stay where he is and not return.

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When my son's son passes out of school and the number of young men with souls foreign to our own increases, then perhaps the water-pump will be set up and the agricultural scheme put into being — maybe then the steamer will stop at our village — under the doum tree of Wad Hamid.' 'And do you think,' I said to him, 'that the doum tree will one day be cut down?' He looked at me for a long while as though wishing to project, through his tired, misty eyes, something which he was incapable of doing by word. 'There will not be the least necessity for cutting down the doum tree. There is not the slightest reason for the tomb to be removed. What all these people have overlooked is that there's plenty of room for all these things: the doum tree, the tomb, the water-pump, and the steamer's stopping-place.' When he had been silent for a time he gave me a look which I don't know how to describe, though it stirred within me a feeling of sadness, sadness for some obscure thing which I was unable to define. Then he said: 'Tomorrow, without doubt, you will be leaving us. When you arrive at your destination, think well of us and judge us not too harshly.'

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