By Patricia Lee Sharpe
Nelson Mandela understood.
Acted upon, the all-too-natural hunger for revenge invites retaliation which, in turn, activates an endless cycle. Since the lex talionis is such a ghastly trap, truth and reconciliation councils were created to allow South Africans to wipe the political slate clean and participate, under new rules, in a post-apartheid society. It looked, for awhile, as if the revenge cycle had been stopped almost before it started. Unfortunately, Mandela’s successor Thabo Mbeke hasn’t been so adept at handling the very different challenges of his presidential tenure, with the result that immigrants from poorer African countries are now being scapegoated, even murdered, for economic difficulties they certainly did not cause. The townships, still poor, are erupting in violence again, and other South Africans are in a state of disbelief as they cope with electricity shortages. One hopes that Mbeke’s successor will not stoop to the thuggery and demagoguery by which Robert Mugabe has controlled an economically-devastated Zimbabwe, where Mugabe’s high level henchmen obviously intend to perpetuate their grip on government even after the once-respected octogenarian can no longer serve as a front man for their ambitions.
Mugabe rose to power by decimating his post-independence opposition. Not the whites. A political faction dominated by another tribe. Then, for fear of retribution, he had to keep sitting on them. One hopes that when Mugabe and those he has nurtured are, eventually, inevitably, replaced, the new regime will take a wiser course. One hopes against hope that the upcoming rerun of presidential elections in Zimbabwe will be overseen by outside electoral experts so that the Zimbabwe workers being driven out of South Africa will be able to participate, without fear, in the rehabilitation of their ruined country. For that to happen in a post-Mugabe Zimbabwe there will have to be a lot of forgiveness and political restraint.
This is a long introduction to a fine film made in Chad, but it’s an appropriate introduction because the film indicates that Nelson Mandela is far from the only African dedicated to promoting an end to ugly cycles of murder and revenge. Forgiveness is difficult, but possible.
Here’s where the story in Daratt, the Dry Season begins: the civil war in Chad is over, but young Nassara’s blind grandfather is outraged by the news that all participants in the bloodbath will be granted amnesty. He tells the young man that he must go to the capital Ndjemena, find his father’s killer and avenge the family by doing away with him. The old man gives his grandson a hand gun for the job and says that he will be waiting for a report of success under a certain tree in the desert some distance from their village. The boy sets off to do his duty. We don’t realize it at the time, but the symbolism is clear: a blind old anachronism anchors himself to a barely surviving, solitary tree in the desert.
Nassara discovers that Atim, his father’s killer, has become a baker who, like a good Muslim, distributes alms in the form of bread (the staff of life) to the poor every evening. This is disconcerting. His father’s killer is supposed to be a bad man. Although Nassara can’t conceal the sullen hatred and disdain that animates him at this point, Atim has no idea that the negativity is directed at him. He hires the orphan as an apprentice, another good deed. Pretty soon Nassara is cutting blobs of dough for rolls and pulling baguettes out of the oven. His surliness diminishes. His skill increases. One day, when Atim’s back lays him low, Nassara does the day’s work all by himself: mixing, shaping, baking, and when the bread comes out of the oven, he picks up a hot fresh baguette and beholds it with pride and joy. It’s a heart warming moment, beautifully acted. (Um, dare I mention burgeoning manhood and baguettes in the same sentence?)
Occasionally there are quarrels between man and boy, but Atim has a young wife who also takes a liking to Nassara. She soothes. She acts as go between. Since she is pregnant with Atim’s first child, there is no question of hankypanky, though we are allowed moments of suspicion, since the wife is young and the marriage was arranged, against her wishes, by the families.
Atim is fond of Nassara and impressed by his adeptness. He offers a partnership in the bakery. Nassara declines. Next, after his wife has sadly lost her baby, Atim tells Nassara he would like to adopt him. At last the moment for revenge has come, and yet Nassara does not easily embrace it. Atim is (or has become) a good man, and it is clear that Nassara has developed some respect and affection for him. Still duty is duty. Nassara tells Atim that they must drive to the village in the desert to seek permission from his grandfather.
The old man sits under the tree. Trudging through the sand just behind Atim, Nassara pulls out the revolver. Atim recognizes the grandfather and vice versa. Nassara aims the gun. The old man orders him to fire. He does.
But he fires into the air, while pushing Atim into the sand, to create all the right sounds for the man who cannot see. The old man orders Nassara to finish the job. A troubled Nassara brings the barrel of the gun close to Atim’s head. After am agonizing pause, he fires again. Into the air again.
The young man takes his blind grandfather’s hand and leads him back to the village. Atim returns to his car.
Obviously there is a heavy message here, but the acting so appealing that the story is not overwhelmed by the message. All we feel is relief, relief that Atim will live, relief that Nassara will not bear the lifelong burden of having killed a man who befriended him and gave him a good profession, a man who loved him. Meanwhile, Atim has been punished by life itself. He will have no children. Not even an adopted son.
Now, if only the politicians would watch Daratt and take it seriously!