When violence erupts in a Sudanese wrestling ring, Rachel Rouge discovers the true meaning of hospitality.
Listen to the story as it was told at The Watercooler, or read on.
In 2006 and 2007, I worked as a volunteer English teacher in Khartoum University in North Sudan.
I loved Sudan, and the reason I loved it was the people. They are the most generous, open hearted, kindest, and welcoming people I have ever met. As an obvious foreigner - blatantly and visually foreign, with my freckled skin and giant blue eyes - they clearly saw me as a guest. So it wouldn’t take much; people would just see me and invite me to their house to share a meal, have a cup of tea, meet their family, or simply hang out. My entire experience of Sudan was a cushion of kindness and generosity.
One Friday, myself and another volunteer, Liam, decided to go to the Nubian wrestling. Nubian wrestling was a bit of an event on a Friday evening in Khartoum, and it involved wrestlers from South Sudan. South Sudan is very different from North Sudan - in culture, language and religion. These men would wrestle in the dirt topless. Which is pretty amazing for such a conservative Muslim nation; to have topless men in a public spectacle.
On this day I was wearing my standard backpacker uniform of Kathmandu cargo pants, a dress that hid my hips and bottom, a long sleeved shirt, and a headscarf. It sounds fairly conservative, but it was actually breaking the law; women wearing trousers can be charged for indecency and whipped. In fact, women can receive a penalty of 40 lashings for wearing trousers. This happens a lot, it happened just last July. In theory I was subject to the same law; in reality no one bothered me with what I wore.
We got to the wrestling stadium, but when I say stadium, don’t think of a building – it was more like a circus tent without a top. It was made of canvas sheets that were attached to metal framing that was about two metres high. Each frame was about three metres wide, which created a circle about 30 metres in diameter, and it sat on a large, flat, empty space of dry dirt on the outskirts of the city. We found the opening, bought our tickets and entered.
I was the only female inside this wrestling stadium. This was very normal for me and normal for my experience of travelling in Africa and the Middle East. I mostly travelled alone. As a single female traveller, I would be treated as a honourary man in many situations because I was visually, blatantly foreign. I got a free pass because they could see I was a western woman and they could see I came from a different world. It’s strange, I got to go where both local men and local women couldn’t.
Inside the stadium, there was a circle of dirt in the middle, and then there was a ring of people sitting down on the ground. Then behind that ring was another ring of people either kneeling or squatting comfortably. Then behind that ring there were about two more rows of people sitting in chairs that they had brought themselves. Then behind that there were another couple of rows of people standing.
That was really exciting and I realised that getting to see those 10 centimetres of flesh, just for a few seconds, meant I had definitely been in the Muslim world too long and I was turning into a total perv.
The stadium was full, and the wrestling had begun. There were about 300 people there. Of course as soon as Liam and I entered, we were greeted warmly and welcomed as guests. We were given a beautiful spot right near the Khartoum wrestling team, the local team, and they had just won four out of five matches as well so the atmosphere was wonderful on our side of the stadium. Everyone around us was joyous.
In the western world, we seem to focus on Muslim women’s clothing, but everyone in these conservative Muslim countries dresses modestly. And it’s amazing how you can acclimatise to that. A couple of weeks before we went to the wrestling, I saw one of my colleagues reaching for something on a high shelf - as he did so, his shirt crept up, revealing that really lovely bit of hip, that indent where his belly meets his leg. That was really exciting and I realised that getting to see those 10 centimetres of flesh, just for a few seconds, meant I had definitely been in the Muslim world too long and I was turning into a total perv.
In the wrestling ring, I was right next to topless men wearing shorts. These were the South Sudanese wrestlers. Their very exposed flesh was so toned and rippled and taunt and covered in beaded sweat and the dry dust of the wrestling ring. I was definitely checking out these wrestlers, and trying not to act like a pervy western woman.
The wrestling was incredible. I didn’t understand the rules, but I don’t understand the rules of most sports. Two men went into the centre of the circle, topless and wearing shorts, and then they threw dirt into each other’s eyes. I’m not 100% sure why. There’s was little bit of touching, a wee bit of slapping, and I’m not too sure if they are trying to push each other out or pin each other to the ground. But they were topless.
Then something happened on the other side of the circle. A referee must have made a call or something, but it disgruntled people on the other team, and a few of those people stood up and came into the wrestling ring. There was an altercation, some shouting, a bit of shoving. Things escalated quite fast, then three police officers came into the ring with batons and they started beating an elderly man. Clearly the police didn’t know that if there is three of them, they shouldn’t beat up one old dude in front of about 300 men who are pretty rarked up at a wrestling match. So soon more people stood up and joined in the kerfuffle. We also stood up to get a better view.
I’m a short woman and once everyone else stood up there was only a few things that I could see above the heads and shoulders. I could see more and more people entering the centre of the ring, the white woven hats on top of their heads, and I could see them holding up their canes. I could see a few of the canes being swiftly moved up and down and I could also see people entering and holding their chairs above their heads as well. My side of the wrestling ring was still pretty calm. We were all just watching. Then I could see the top of a police riot van entering the circle.
And suddenly, Bang! Bang! Bang! Three really loud shots. Then the people around me cried “Bomban! Bomban!” And it was like being caught up in a herd of gazelle where suddenly everyone changed direction at the same time.
Later I learned that the word ‘bomban’ meant ‘teargas’. Everyone pushed out from the centre of the ring where the teargas canisters had been deployed.
This was my first experience with tear gas, but since then I have spent a few months in the Occupied West Bank in Palestine. At the Friday non-violent protests there’s always tear gas, so I have learnt that you should always run into the wind, and a good way to clear out tear gas is by carrying an onion that you just break open and inhale. It’s the lesser of the two evils and it sometimes can neutralise the effects. I also know how to put a headscarf to good use to cover my face. In Palestine, protesters will run up to the tear gas canisters, put them into their slingshots, and fire them straight back. But this wasn’t Palestine, this wasn’t a protest, and no one had slingshots. I had no idea what was going on.
That’s when the mist of the tear gas then started to take me. I first saw it, then felt it. It was like being suffocated. It felt so incredibly toxic like I was being poisoned by my own breath.
My friend Liam was a few metres away from me and he got pushed up against the two metre canvas barriers. With the surge of the crowd piled up against him, the canvas walls finally gave way under the force of the people trying to flee. I too got pushed over in the rush to escape and I landed with my face down in the dirt. I may have mentioned Sudanese people are the most thoughtful, polite, welcoming, considerate and generous people that I have ever encountered. One man arched over me, to protect me from the oncoming crowd, and grabbed me by hand, pulling me to my feet, being incredibly careful not to touch me anywhere but my hand. Then he kind of half-apologised for touching me without permission.
In only a few minutes, the wrestling stadium had become a pile of fallen canvas, chairs, and poles. It was covered with a swarm of people surging outwards and scattering in all directions.
I was in a civilised polite jog, just kind of catching up with Liam, and that’s when the mist of the tear gas then started to take me. I first saw it, then felt it. It was like being suffocated. It felt so incredibly toxic like I was being poisoned by my own breath. Just breathing in and out was what was hurting me.
My face started to sting, my eyes swelled up and I stopped being able to see clearly. I couldn’t run, but I couldn’t move fast enough away from this horrible infection. So we walked. We had to just keep walking. We probably would have walked only 100 or 150 metres, but it felt like an uphill trek, it was so difficult. We started walking past the residential homes in the area. Some of the families had come out to watch the people running from the tear gas, laughing as we staggered past. As soon as they saw us they of course invited us in to sit down, have a cup of tea, and recover.
We stayed there for about an hour, just waiting to be able to breathe again. Liam could speak Arabic quite well, but I only knew a few words. The family were lovely. The mother of the house greatly admired my grubby dirt covered cargo pants and she kept touching them. They plied us with cookies and tea, and we smoked apple shisha and laughed. Because some things you just don’t need language for. They warned us not to touch our faces, or to put water on our skin, we just had to leave it, let it sting, let it itch, let the tear gas slowly leave us naturally. But it was really hard not to rub my eyes. It hurt.
For a first experience, I thought the tear gas was wonderful. But it was horrific to be caught up in it and my experience of it was incredibly privileged. I was not that guy being beaten up by three police officers, I was not on the side of the stadium where the altercation was happening, and I was given a very clear way out in which no one pushed me, no one trampled over me, and in everyone’s quest for self-preservation, they still put their responsibilities as a host to a foreigner above their desire to run and get away from the tear gas.
I saw first-hand how good tear gas was. There were about 300 people in that small enclosure. The fight was violent and would have resulted in casualties, possibly fatalities. By deploying the gas, we had no choice but to flee, there was no chance of a riot after that, and no one was killed. If the tear gas wasn’t deployed, that might not have been the case.
A couple of weeks later I returned to the family. I brought them some cakes and I also gave the mum my clean, laundered pair of trousers for her to keep and wear in the privacy of her own home.
This story was originally told at The Watercooler, a monthly storytelling night held at The Basement Theatre. If you have a story to tell email thewatercoolernz@gmail.com or hit them up on Twitter or Facebook.
Illustration: Sarah Larnach
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