African Arabs continue racial discrimination of Christian Blacks in Sudan. Sexual abuse, war crimes and genocide coexist with holiday cheer south of the capital Khartoum

• ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and all through Darfur,

The violence was spreading among the most poor.

The women were given the clothes of the region;

And hope the militia would bring not their legion.

The children had nothing, not even a bed;

Forget about sugar-plums, they’re not in one head.

• A man in kandura, his wife in abaya;

Were strolling the street of Muha- jiraya.

When out on the corner there arose such a clatter;

They froze where they were, it made little matter.

The sand and the wind had just given way;

To the sound of a bomb that lay near their stay.

Away from the street they ran like a flash;

Back to their home to ride out the clash.

“When what to [their] wondering eyes should appear,”

A tank or a truck - it was loud that was clear!

• With a very young driver, so lively and quick;

They knew in a moment he is a Malik.

The leader, the strongest, the man’s inhumane;

They called him Ali – this man is insane.

• He whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

Now Toba! now, Nasir! now, Musa Jarel!

On Haran! on Salim! on Yahya Adel!

To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!

Now blow away! Blow away! Blow away all!

• So up to the front of the house the tank drew;

With a truck full of bombs, and the Janjaweed too.

And then, in a twinkling, they heard on the roof;

The cracking and smacking of fire aloof.

As he drew in his hand, and was turning around;

The man saw the roof, fall onto the ground.

He ran to his children all huddled together;

Grabbing three in one arm, they’re light as a feather.

Through a crack in the wall, he ran with his wife;

Run baby, run baby, run for your life!

• But just as she passed through that hole in their house,

He saw his poor wife had a tear in her blouse.

Three men were outside all laughing with glee;

And not before long he was knocked to a knee.

A look to Ali – his eyes full of anguish;

Was meet with sharp steel and pain that would languish.

Blood poured from his head;

Drip! Drip! Drip!

His three children were dead!

• A wink of the eye and a twist of the head;

Soon let it be known he had so much to dread.

They spoke not a word, but went to their work,

They killed more, then raped more; then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

Ali gave a nod – from the dirt the man rose.

“He sprang to his truck, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all drove like the down of a thistle.”

• It was heard they explained, as they drove out of sight.

Death to the Slaves and the UN a good night!

Related Article:

Cultural Racism in Darfur