When Elephants Fight

by Majok Tulba

  I need no more encouragement. I sprint out to join them and am quickly one of the group. There are about twenty-five or so of us, not in teams, just a frenzy of kicking and pushing and giggling and raucous shouting.

  ‘Don’t let him get it!’ one boy yells, but in a good-natured way. The group changes direction as one and we run to the opposite end of the field, laughing helplessly at how uncontrollable the ball of plastic bags is. I forget my hunger. My sadness and frustration drop away. And going by the faces of the others, they feel the same. I can’t believe no one thought of this before.

  We play until the light has gone, and next day we’re all back on the field to play again. And then again the next day. I’m not sure who notices him first, but one day we realise that a man is watching us. He’s standing at the edge of our game, a tall and lanky white man with light flowing hair. He looks like he’s in his twenties but it’s hard to tell.

  It’s Majok who eventually stops the game and goes over to ask the man if he wants to join in. We all follow.

  ‘No, no,’ he says, ‘I’m just enjoying watching. Even if you guys are doing it all wrong.’ He laughs when he says this, so no one will be offended.

  ‘Well, it’s not like we’re professional footballers,’ Chieng says. ‘We’re just having fun.’

  We did play a kind of football back in Pacong, those of us from that village, but we don’t know the proper techniques of the game. None of the other boys in this group seem to either. I wonder how we’d be able to play properly anyway, with our ball of plastic bags.

  ‘And it’s great that you’re having fun,’ the man says. ‘But would you like to learn how to play properly? Rather than chasing around a . . . What is that thing, anyway?’ He nods to our makeshift ball.

  ‘It’s plastic bags,’ someone says.

  ‘Who are you?’ another boy asks. ‘Why don’t you leave us alone if you’re only going to criticise what we’re doing?’

  ‘I’m not criticising,’ the guy says, holding up his hands. ‘I admire you boys for doing something like this here. But if you’d like, I could give you a few pointers. I happen to know a thing or two about football.’

  It seems too good to be true. We all look at each other. That an adult, a white man, is showing interest in us is surprising enough, and that he wants to help us is even more surprising. But we’ve all silently agreed we want his help.

  At last Majok says, ‘Okay,’ and the man extends his hand.

  ‘My name’s Philip,’ he says.

  ‘Did you used to play for a team?’ I ask.

  ‘I did, before I became a volunteer. My main position was attacking midfielder, although I was also a pretty good centre forward, which is the most celebrated position in football. But I loved playing as a midfielder best.’ He tells us that the organisation he’s with runs recreation programs for refugees. He’s only just come to our camp after working in others, and hasn’t found people interested in football until now.

  We’re all silently impressed by his experience, and a bit shy. Then he asks us for our names, and whether any of us have ever played a proper game of football, with two full teams. None of us have.

  ‘Well,’ says Philip, ‘we can change that. I’ll give you some training drills and later we can make up teams.’ He casts an eye over the group of us. ‘There are enough of you to make two teams. Then eventually you can have a real game.’ He chuckles. ‘We’ve sure got the time.’

  ‘Great,’ says Chieng. ‘What do we do first?’

  ‘First you’re going to need a better ball,’ Philip says. ‘A real ball would be ideal but . . .’ His voice trails off but we don’t need to be told what the chances of a real ball are.

  ‘Where are we going to find something better?’ asks one of the boys. ‘Can you make us something?’

  Philip looks amused. ‘How about you go for a bit of a hunt and see what you can find,’ he says. ‘Hopefully something a little more solid than plastic bags.’

  We all scatter, eager to be the one to come across the makings of a good football. As I search for something that might work, I think about how much Deng would like being among this group. Maybe if I learn to play properly I can teach him too, when I finally see him again. Maybe we can teach everyone from our village. And for a moment, the refugee camp transforms into Pacong and I imagine that all my friends and family, all our neighbours, are together the way we used to be.

  When we regroup we discover that someone has found old cardboard. We compact this and then take apart our ball of plastic bags and remake it with the cardboard inside. It’s still nothing like a real ball but it has more weight than the bags alone, and there’s more chance of it going where you intend it to when you kick it. Philip shows us the correct techniques for kicking and gives us some drills and we spend the rest of the afternoon practising.

  Majok, unused to the new technique, goes to kick the ball and misses it entirely. His foot lands on another boy’s knee, causing him to fall. The boy immediately gets up and charges at Majok. Once Philip has broken them up he warns us all that fighting is not allowed on the football field.

  When Chieng asks about forming teams, Philip says, ‘We’re not ready for that yet. For now, you still need to practise, so you really understand the techniques and the game. But I can see that you’re all fast learners, you’ve made a lot of progress today already. You should be proud of yourselves.’

  ‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ Majok asks.

  ‘Yes, but even if I’m not out here, you can still practise. Practise whenever you can, and in no time you’ll be able to play your first match.’

  When I tell Mama and Nyanbuot about Philip and how we’ll be learning to play football properly, it makes Mama nearly as happy as it’s made me.

  ‘It’s so wonderful you boys have that to do,’ she says.

  ‘Can we come and watch?’ Nyanbuot asks.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, ‘when we play a real match.’

  I have no idea when that might be. And what if Philip never shows up again? But for now I feel happy. Here in this place it’s important to be reminded that you still know how to be happy.

  I needn’t have worried about Philip not showing up, because he’s there the next day. All the boys from yesterday are here, as well as others who’ve heard about it. We make extra balls out of the cardboard and plastic bags, and Philip breaks us up into groups to do drills. Then he explains all the rules of the game in great detail, and has to answer a lot of questions about them. After that he asks who’s interested in being goalkeeper and he shows those boys how to block the ball and how to anticipate where a player will try to get a shot in.

  We play in peace, even if we sometimes unintentionally kick each other instead of the ball. I am not the best player, not by a long way, but no one is keeping track of who’s better. Except maybe Chieng, who’s always competitive. Chieng always wants to be the best.

  ‘Is that as far as you can kick the ball, Juba?’ he taunts. ‘Watch this.’

  He takes an elaborate run-up and kicks, but the ball doesn’t even go as far as the one I’ve just kicked. I try not to smile.

  ‘The wind knocked it down,’ he says. ‘Let me try that again.’

  Bol is among the boys who joined us today and he strolls over and stands next to me. Even though he’s remained friendly since I arrived at the camp, I still can’t help feeling wary. Maybe he has some plan to lull me into letting my guard down.

  ‘It’s funny,’ he says, ‘I was remembering that conversation we had back in Pacong, when I told you to pick any game and I’d beat you at it. That feels like a long time ago now, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. It’s hard to tell whether he’s feeling happy or aggressive.

  ‘Well, I think Majok is the only player here better than me at football,’ he declares.

  It’s true, Majok plays well, as if it’s something he’s always done. Even Philip is impressed, and I overhear him telling Majok that he’ll make a good footballer
.

  Majok beams. ‘Maybe I can play on your team when we finally get out of here.’

  ‘I think you’d have a strong chance at something like that,’ Philip says.

  ‘If we ever get out of here,’ another boy adds.

  I’m happy for Majok but I’m bothered by that last comment. Surely we won’t be staying here forever. This isn’t home, it’s a temporary resting place, where we’ll wait out the conflict. We might not be able to go back to Pacong, but there’ll be somewhere new to start over. This camp is not our new beginning.

  A week goes by before Philip announces it’s time to pick the teams. Majok is made captain of one team and Chieng is captain of the other. Everyone can see that Majok should be a captain because he’s naturally good at the game, but I’m not sure why Philip has chosen Chieng. He’s not bad at football but he’s not as good as someone like Bol, and he doesn’t need the ego boost.

  With the two captains decided on, Philip has the rest of us stand in a group and then splits us in half.

  ‘This side, you’re on Majok’s team,’ he says. ‘And this, you’re on Chieng’s.’

  I’m standing right in the middle, which means I can easily slip onto either team. I choose Majok’s. Bol, I see, is on Chieng’s. There are enough of us for each team to have substitutes as well.

  ‘I’ve told you guys before how impressed I am with the effort you’ve put into this,’ Philip says, ‘and you’ve all improved enormously, much quicker than I’d have thought. You’ve been working hard. So now that we have our teams we can play a practice game.’

  ‘How will we know who’s on which team?’ Chieng asks. ‘We don’t have jerseys.’

  ‘Not yet you don’t,’ Philip says, in such a way that it’s easy to imagine there are jerseys on their way to us, from somewhere. We know that can’t be true but it’s fun to think of. ‘In the meantime, your team, Chieng, will play without shirts, and be the Skins. Majok’s team will keep their shirts on and be the Shirts.’

  The boys on Chieng’s team eagerly pull off their shirts and toss them in a careless pile, not bothered about how they will sort them out later. For the rest of the afternoon we play a scrappy game without keeping score. Philip umpires minimally, just enough to keep things flowing.

  ‘Great,’ he says at the end of the day. ‘You’ve all shown that you can play as a team member and you understand the game. I think we can have a real game in a few weeks. Do you guys feel up for that challenge? Do you want to play a game for your families and friends to watch?’

  There’s a resounding yes and a noticeable buzz of excitement. But for now, it’s still practice, practice and more practice.

  That night, my muscles ache as I lie on my mat but I’m feeling grateful and happy. Sleep must have come quickly because I don’t remember closing my eyes and then suddenly I’m jolted awake. There’s a noise outside, one that seems familiar. People are stirring around me, whispering.

  ‘Why would they be dropping food now?’ I hear someone say, and I realise the noise is a plane.

  ‘Who cares?’ another responds. ‘They can drop food any time they like!’

  A murmur of agreement runs through the tent. People get up and move out into the night. I follow with Mama and Nyanbuot. The rain of the early evening has let up and the air is fresh and clean.

  ‘There it is!’ someone shouts. Others have come from neighbouring tents to see what’s happening.

  People cheer. But underneath that I can hear yelling, and it doesn’t sound happy or excited. Someone is yelling, ‘That isn’t a UN plane!’

  The plane is so close now I can hear nothing else. And then things are falling from it.

  Not food.

  Oh no, please, not again.

  People scream and peel away or drop to the ground. I grab Mama and Nyanbuot and pull them back to our tent, even though a tent will be no protection against bombs. For some reason I’m remembering the time Nathan paid for us to watch Oprah at the TV shop in Pacong. I wonder if the bombers watch the Oprah show, and if there’s a way she can tell them how to behave so they’ll leave us alone. So they’ll stop bombing us.

  There’s an explosion nearby but it’s only a small one. The plane careens low over us. Then just as suddenly it disappears.

  No one is sure what has just happened.

  ‘The rain kept the bombs from exploding,’ someone says.

  ‘We’re all very lucky!’

  ‘That was only a warning,’ says someone else. ‘They’ll be coming back. They’re going to bomb this whole camp into the ground. We’re not safe here.’

  Mama pulls me and Nyanbuot close. ‘Don’t listen to what anyone else is saying. Right now, here is our safest option.’

  ‘But why do they want to bomb us?’ Nyanbuot asks, and I hate hearing the fear in her voice.

  Mama squeezes us both. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I just don’t know.’

  I wonder if anyone knows the answer to that.

  Chieng wakes me before sunrise and tells me he dreamt of his family. No new groups of refugees arrived in the night, after the plane flew over, and it seems pointless to go in search, but I go with him anyway, to the edge of the camp where no tents have been set up as yet and the people are still in shelters. Once, we were at the edge of the camp, but it’s continued to grow so quickly that the edge is now some distance from us.

  But the way the adults are sitting on the ground stops us going to ask them about Chieng’s family. They seem as if their spirit has been killed, and I think it must be because of that plane.

  There are children, though, who are oblivious to their situation. They crowd round a white woman who is chatting with them and laughing, just like people used to do with Nathan. She hoists the smallest child onto her shoulders and the others redouble their cries for attention.

  She heads over to a Landcruiser with a Save the Children logo on the side and they mill about her legs. Three white workers in safety gear are putting up a fence and a warning sign around the bombs that didn’t explode last night. One of the workers is the young blond woman I saw the day of the food drop.

  I turn around at the sound of another vehicle and see a UN Landcruiser roll up. Two men get out and go to talk with the workers. Now the blond woman starts yelling at the men about something, though she’s talking so quickly I can’t make out what she’s saying. People gather to see what the commotion is about.

  I walk a little closer and hear her say, ‘People are dying! Women and children and men who have no relatives. And now they’re being thrown away without a proper burial, like diseased chickens. Carried into the jungle where wild animals can feed on them. We need more help here and it’s just not happening. People will turn on us, they’re going to think we’re the enemy!’

  She hits one of the men in the chest with both fists and I’m afraid of what will happen to her now, but then she collapses into his arms sobbing. The man leans down to say something to her, I can’t hear what, but eventually he calms her and everyone disperses. Chieng and I head back without having asked a soul about his family.

  Later that day, some people are given UN ration cards, but not everyone. My family doesn’t get one. None of my friends get one. I can’t work out how they decide who gets a card and who doesn’t, how it’s decided who will eat and who will not. I’ve discovered from Bol that his father reached the camp just before the big increase in numbers, and that’s why he got a ration card.

  And then at last food trucks arrive. Another thing I don’t know is why it’s trucks and not planes this time, but it’s still only the people with cards who can get food. I wonder if my family and I will ever be able to get anything.

  Mama tries to explain that those in most need are given priority, and some people need to be fed high-energy biscuits. She’s heard of one man who was apparently so weak by the time he got his biscuit that he couldn’t eat it and had to be taken to the clinic. Mama tells me they can’t issue too many cards because there isn’t enough food to go r
ound, and people will only fight for a share if they all have a card.

  This makes no sense to me. We’re here whether they give us cards or not, we’re hungry, and it seems unfair that we have to wait until everyone with a card has food before we get anything.

  ‘More cards will arrive soon,’ one of the UN workers tells us. ‘Those who did not receive one need to be patient and know that more will come. Hang in there!’

  Easier said than done, I think as people swarm the food trucks. Nyanbuot and I can only stand and watch as those with cards walk past with cups of sorghum or corn. No one offers to share.

  My stomach rumbles. When I go to our makeshift football field for practice that afternoon I find it difficult to keep focused on the drills. Today, Chieng has decided he wants to have a go at being goalkeeper, and Philip has us all line up and try to kick a ball past him.

  ‘No way are you going to get that past me, Juba!’ Chieng says when it’s my turn. And he’s probably right. My head feels light from lack of food.

  Chieng is leaning forward, knees slightly bent, a fierce look on his face. He’s been calling taunts to everyone, but I feel like he’s more determined now that I’m up here. I wonder why, seeing we’re friends, but that’s the way it’s always been between him and me. There’s always been an unspoken competitive streak. We’re like brothers in this.

  I give the ball the best kick I can but Chieng blocks it. He beams and punches the air as if he’s the best goalkeeper in the world. I might be more upset if I weren’t still thinking about food.

  The next day, I’m walking with Nyanbuot to the jungle to forage when we see a long table set up near the centre of the camp. On it are several large cooking pots, and when we come closer we learn that it’s porridge.

  Nyanbuot and I turn back and join the end of the line. We wait for a long time and when we finally reach the front, we come before the blond woman who was yelling and sobbing the day before. She smiles and asks to see our ration cards.