My Sudani-American LiFE #18: Abdelaziz Baraka Sakin's "Messiah of Darfur" (2008-12)
Reviewing one of the most famous works in contemporary Sudanese literature. Spoilers ahead!
(former dictator and head of SAF Omar al-Bashir, standing next to Hemedti, the current head of the RSF)
Reading the Messiah of Darfur amidst the ongoing genocide in Sudan, it’s hard not to think: “the more things change, the more they stay the same.”
The Janjaweed are not a new problem in Sudan. Originating in Darfuri Arab tribal militias formed in the 1980s, their rise was fueled by drought-driven resource scarcity. As these nomadic Arab tribes sought settled lands belonging to Darfur’s non-Arab groups — often violently — the democratically-elected government of Sadig al-Mahdi armed them in hopes of weaponizing these militias in the Second Sudanese Civil War.
After repeated attempts to peacefully petition the government of Omar al-Bashir to intervene, eventually, people from non-Arab groups in Darfur began forming their own militias, leading to an escalation in 2003 that erupted into Sudan’s third civil war and a genocide that continues until today, as the Janjaweed have continued to target agricultural groups not just in Darfur, but across Sudan, like in el-Gezira, attempting to resettle these lands with Sudanese and non-Sudanese Sahelian Arab nomads.
For us riverine Sudanese, the eruption of the war was, in many ways, a shock. However, outside of riverine Sudanese discourses that generally relegated events in Darfur to “that’s so sad for them” and “not my business,” Darfuri Sudanese had been sounding the alarm for over a decade, developing comprehensive documentation and critique of the Janjaweed’s brutality, their origins, and their goals.
The Messiah of Darfur is a shining example of this, being the second-most popular work by Abdelaziz Baraka Sakin, arguably Sudan’s most important contemporary author. The book, at its core, is a stunningly comprehensive and scathing condemnation of the Janjaweed and the Sudanese military government backing them, which situates the War in Darfur within the region’s historical and material context. On those grounds alone, it is a must read for anybody who wants to capture an early Darfuri perspective on the root causes for the War in Darfur (and thus, by extension, the rest of Sudan).
As a story, however, the results are more mixed: a creative and compelling premise and genuinely inventive storytelling moments are mired down by a lack of character development, a loose plot, and a stilted writing style.
Comprehensive Critique
(picture of Darfuri Arabs migrating during the dry season in the 70s, from the “Darfur Before” database)
Ever read a book that makes you say: “damn, they really talked about everything?”
Well, that’s The Messiah of Darfur for me. Amidst the handful of Sudanese books I’ve read (Tayeb Salih’s fictional works, then 7 short stories by Hammour Ziada), it’s undoubtedly the most far-reaching and direct in terms of its political commentary.
While the book doesn’t directly name any real political figures (except Mahmoud Mohamed Taha), it does name real institutions: the military government, the Janjaweed militias, the Darfuri armed rebel groups, and international observers in Darfur. The portrayal of each is without romance, although it’s clear Sakin’s sympathies lie with Darfuri non-Arabs who join the rebellion.
The Janjaweed receive the harshest treatment. Sakin portrays the Janjaweed as inhuman, almost beast-like or robotic, centering the presence of Nigerien and non-Sudanese, Sahelian militia members, and characterizing each member of the militia with an insatiable appetite for murder and sexual violence. This portrayal of the Janjaweed, and Sakin’s extremely quotable lines about them, are probably what will appeal to most readers, especially today as trauma from Janjaweed violence has become so widespread in Sudan.
Despite their portrayal (and explicit designation) as pure evil, however, Sakin does not fail to contextualize them materially and politically, and that’s what I find so appealing. Sakin has a chapter where he deals with the emergence of the Janjaweed after government intervention in the community of Khurbatti, a primarily Fur community that chose to sell some of its agrarian land to a nomadic Arab tribe as a response to the West Sudanese drought of the 1980s, before the military government attempts to push the new Arab villagers to wage war against their non-Arab neighbors, turning their village into a military base of operations when they refuse. The book is clear about the pre-existing conflicts over resources in Darfur, the material factors exacerbating them, but also the role of the government in playing off ethnic and material divides for their own purposes. Both state and non-state factors are taken into account, which is not something you can say for every piece of writing that tries to explain the complex factors behind the War in Darfur.
Beyond the Janjaweed, Sakin also criticizes the Sudanese military for aiding and abetting Janjaweed violence and for its antipathy towards the citizens of Darfur. At the same time, its portrayal is notably more human; whereas the Janjaweed are explicitly said to “resemble each other in all things” and lack individuality, the members of the military are portrayed with more diversity. High-ranking commanders are portrayed as duplicitous, devoid of moral conscience, and concerned only with maintaining and power and keeping SAF’s involvement in Janjaweed crimes from reaching the international community.
By contrast, the rank and file are more complicated: indeed, Sakin centers the role of conscription in terms of boosting SAF’s numbers, with two of our protagonists, Ibrahim Khidir and Sheykiri Tutu Kuwa both being drafted in the middle of a bus ride to Khartoum. Ibrahim Khidir is a Sudanese liberal, specifically, a Mahmoud Mohamed Taha fan, who in many ways is at odds with state ideology but has no real choice but to fight in the military. Sheykiri Tutu Kuwa has absolutely no ideological commitment; he switches allegiances from the military to the Torabora for no real reason except that his wife would rather fight the Janjaweed than fight with them. The background characters also reflect this portrayal of the rank-and-file as apathetic and self-interested, with complicated relationships with the high command and the state. For instance, in the seminal chapter “How Aunt Khureyfiyya Lost Faith,” a high-ranking military officer considers leaving a Darfuri rape victim who watched her son get beheaded by the Janjaweed right in front of her tied up, or possibly killing her just to cut down on paper work, except that a couple of Darfuri soldiers intervene to get her taken to an IDP camp instead, with one of them donating his own clothes to her.
Again, there’s no romance here: there are no military heroes, or any soldiers truly torn up by the ethical implications of what they’re doing. But they’re far from the mindless, rapacious killing machines that the Janjaweed are in the novel.
Perhaps where Sakin is most positive is in his portrayal of the Darfuri armed rebel groups, denoted as “the Torabora” (maybe a reference to the Battle of Tora Bora?). Their head, nicknamed Charon after the mythical boatman from Greek myth, is portrayed as cunning and far and away the most ethical fighter in the book, albeit one who is still noted to be rather merciless with, say, escaping POWs. The bulk of the book also centers the perspectives of Sheykiri, Abdarrahman, and Maryam al-Habiba, all rebel fighters, the latter two who are shown to be joining the rebellion for personal revenge against the Janjaweed — undoubtedly a just cause.
In this way, you could say Sakin’s writing may reflect a pro-rebel perspective, although I think things are more complicated. For instance, while Abdarrahman’s reason to fight is undoubtedly just, she horrifies her husband Sheykiri (and likely the audience) with her desire to complete her revenge by eating Janjaweed liver. While she gives up her cannibalistic aspirations due to raw human meat not exactly being delicious, she’s still portrayed as being recklessly violent and quick to anger.
Beyond her, Maryam al-Habiba (also known as Mary Magdalene) is portrayed as something of a religious fanatic, joining Charon’s movement because she thinks he may be the Second Coming of Christ, before finding that Charon is not much of a military commander, much less a messiah. This point of view not only complicates the picture we have of Charon, but also creates an overarching characterization of Darfuri’s armed rebels being driven by trauma, but lacking in ideology. In the end, I didn’t feel any sense of heroism from the rebel characters; their motivations are understandable, but they don’t really have a vision beyond getting revenge.
The last key political actor of the era portrayed are international observers, who make a brief appearance in “How Aunt Khureyfiyya Lost Faith,” only to come and photograph the aforementioned rape victim. They’re called “the Africans and the Europeans,” coming through “like thieves,” leaving her so quickly that she genuinely wonders if she dreamt them. They’re portrayed as sympathizing, but ultimately useless and self-interested; there to take pictures and report, but not actually do anything for her, leaving her as soon as she asks where her sons are. In an era where you had American celebrities like George Clooney and Angelina Jolie pushing the “Save Darfur” campaign, this portrayal also serves to critique an ineffectual international community driven by sensationalist media concerns. The very possibility of their presence is the top concern of the military, showing how this type of international oversight increased the military’s anxiety and hostility, while failing to materially aid the actual victim of the state’s crimes.
Overall, the book serves as a pessimistic portrayal of a real political nightmare. Everybody is driven by self-interest and hate, all the while, real crimes against humanity take place and are described in blistering, near-unreadable detail. The book features incredibly violent scenarios and stomach-turning descriptions of rape. It makes The Messiah of Darfur hard to read, despite its relative brevity. That said, in terms of portraying the reasons behind the emergence of the War in Darfur and its brutal human consequences, it feels like it leaves nothing out.
A Dystopian Utopianism
(a picture of the gorgeous Jebel Marra, homeland of the Fur and a key location in the novel)
The most distinctive element of the story, however, is unsurprisingly the titular Messiah of Darfur. Upon this first read, I would describe him as a “dystopian hope of utopia,” which is to say, I think his very existence in the novel as this utopian, mystical figure is a reflection of just how dystopian the situation really is: the only way the crisis can be solved is through literal divine intervention.
Despite bearing the title of the book, however, Isa ibn Maryam (literally Jesus son of Mary) gets a relatively small amount of page time. Most of that time is spent in idyllic images of his followers, a portrayal of Darfuri tribal harmony, and in the recitation of highly esoteric sermons reminiscent of Christian Gospels.
From a religious studies perspective (one that I think would have a field day with this book), it’s incredibly interesting to investigate the synthesis of Islamic and Christian images of Jesus in this Sudanese context. For instance, Isa ibn Maryam is portrayed as being able to create live birds from a feather, mirroring the miracle of the clay bird in the Qur’an. His family also reflects a distinctly Quranic pattern: he has a grandfather named ‘Imran, and his mom, Maryam, has brothers named Musa and Haroun.
Simultaneously, however, when he recites sermons, they are in the form of John-style monologues, where he talks about his mystical status as the perfect man and of the metaphysical principle of “The Word,” through which miracles are performed and creation is brought into being, reflecting both Christian and Sufi motifs. These sermons are also where the book’s most quotable moments, emerge, such as:
“It would be easier for a camel to leap through the eye of a needle than for the Janjaweed to enter the kingdom of God.”
“In this life, one has a choice: they can either be a human, or they can be a Janjaweed.”
The way the Messiah of Darfur talks about the Janjaweed sets them up as this cosmic evil, paralleling Sakin’s writing, and I think, reflecting the perspectives of those who have been terrorized by the Janjaweed since this book was written and before it.
But the bulk of it is so impenetrable I wonder if it’s actually profound, or is merely written in a way that mimics mystical writings but is empty of any coherent philosophy? This is the type of thing that would require studying the passages in depth, side-by-side, and I imagine it would be really interesting.
But, from a storytelling standpoint: it adds to the mystique of the character, but never really clarifies his ideology, other than that he thinks the Janjaweed are really bad. Unlike his 20th-century precursor Ahmed al-Suheini, however, who led an armed uprising against the British while claiming to be the Second Coming, the Messiah of Darfur works through supernatural means. Despite appearing as a perfectly average guy, even being from a family that represents three major ethnic groups in Darfur simultaneously (Arab, Masalit, Fur), he revives waters, raises the dead, brings birds to life from a single feather, and, in the united dream of his followers at the end of the novel, he magically revives the land of Darfur before leading his followers on a march up into the heavens.
It’s an impossible hope, and perhaps that’s the intended tragedy of it; to highlight the extreme desperation of the situation by envisioning a romantic ending. In terms of its relation to the broader plot, however, it admittedly feels somewhat underwhelming: while the Messiah attracts attention, he doesn’t really disrupt nor ideologically counter the Janjaweed-Military coalition nor the Torabora. Characters like Sheykiri and Abdarrahman, extremely significant in the beginning of the novel, don’t even meet the Messiah; whereas the book gives us a chapter focusing on a hitherto background character, Maryam al-Habiba/Mary Magdalene, and her quest to join the Messiah’s movement.
To some degree, honestly, it feels like Sakin was too focused on the novelty of having scenes that parallel the Gospels without fully considering what they actually mean in the context of the characters’ broader arcs or the book’s messages. That said, this is only my first reading: perhaps close reading and literary analysis can bring out the ideological, maybe even spiritual dimensions of these passages.
A Sprawling Cast & Scattered Plot
It’s time to dive into the more structural elements of the novel. The book is a character-driven narrative, that bounces between the perspectives and stories of:
Ibrahim Khidir
Sheykiri Tutu Kuwa
Charon
Abdarrahman
Maryam al-Habiba
With key vignettes revolving around side characters like Aunt Khureyfiyya, various victims of Janjaweed violence, the titular Messiah of Darfur, Ibrahim Khidir’s ancestors and sister, and Abu Dajaana, the commander of the Janjaweed.
I think a lot of the side stories, ironically, make up for the most interesting parts of the novel: “How Aunt Khureyfiyya Lost Faith” is an unforgettable but also deeply disturbing chapter, and Ibrahim Khidir’s enslaved ancestor Bakheet makes for an extremely compelling protagonist in “Liberty,” in what contrasts with Tayeb Salih’s much more romantic portrayals of Sudanese slavery. The vignettes on the Messiah of Darfur are, as previously detailed, deeply fascinating for their blend of esoteric mysticism, magical realism, Islamic and Christian allusions, bizarre utopianism, and quotable moments. There is also the tale of Khurbatti, which depicts the government’s role in the deterioration of Arab-non-Arab relations in Darfur.
Ironically, however, I find a lot of the narratives around the ostensibly main characters much more lacking. Ibrahim Khidir receives a lot of focus in the beginning, but by the end it feels like his arc really goes nowhere; it’s not clear what he’s learned over the course of the book’s events. Sheykiri is hilariously one-dimensional; his marriage to Abdarrahman is so random and he is so simple-minded and politically apathetic it’s easy to be entertained by him, but tough to identify with him. Abdarrahman is an extremely interesting character, mainly because she is so incredibly zealous in her hatred of the Janjaweed (and honestly, good for her), but, again, her arc doesn’t really go anywhere.
Then there’s Charon, who I suppose is meant to represent Khalil Ibrahim, and who has a bunch of really nice dreams of liberation, I suppose, but lacks inner depth.
Overall, despite there being some really strong chapters in the Messiah of Darfur, I can’t help but feel underwhelmed by the character progression. The book ultimately ends in a dream that the bulk of the main characters aren’t even involved in, a dream itself that robs us of a concrete conclusion to everybody’s storyline. I can appreciate the intent, but I don’t know that it has the impact it should to justify the ambiguity.
Dry Prose
I’m no expert in Arabic prose — I only have Ghassan Kanafani, Hammour Ziada, and Tayeb Salih as a reference — but I honestly found a lot of The Messiah of Darfur’s writing is kind of stilted. First of all: there’s very little dialogue in the book. What little there is tends to feel pretty basic, but much more frequently you have Sakin describing what someone said than just having them say it, which tends to feel pretty dry to me, like you’re having somebody summarize the story to you.
The descriptive writing, I think, is also not much to write home about, at least it didn’t stand out to me the way it did with the work of Tayeb Salih. There are some winning similes, however, some really memorable graphic images, but no passages that pop to mind in terms of real beauty, even though there are attempts to describe the natural wonders of Darfur.
Overall, the book kind of reminds me of something Tayeb Salih was saying in an interview: that newer generations of Arabic authors were more focused with content over form. That’s my first impression of Sakin’s writing, personally, making it comparable with Hammour Ziada’s in that regard. Combined with the scattered character vignettes but ultimately underwhelming conclusion, it creates some real structural issues that I think make The Messiah of Darfur a bit of a chore to read, again, despite the book’s brevity. It’s hardly longer than The Wedding of Zein, but for me, it read much less smoothly, with much less memorable moments of prose compared to memorable story moments.
Conclusion
The Messiah of Darfur is a one-of-a-kind reading experience: a creative, almost magical lens through which to analyze one of the most destructive events in Sudanese history. It is a painful read, but dense in political commentary, honest and brash in its portrayal of Janjaweed violence, mindbending in its esoteric Messianism, with some really standout examples of contemporary Sudanese storytelling. At the same time, however, it’s a book with real structural issues, at times too caught up in its politics and religious allusions to resolve and connect character plotlines, or even convey clear messages.
Regardless of its uneven quality, however, it’s a book I hope to reread in the future and heartily recommend. Reading it now makes me extremely curious how an adaptation would be handled; it’s an incredibly challenging piece of material, but also one that can be the ground for some extremely insightful discussions.
How about you, what did you think? A book this bold can’t go undiscussed.