by Ger Duany
We kept driving all the way to Nasir, where we traded our shirts for jars of forest-harvested honey, the only source of food. At that point, I decided to go back home to Akobo, and I lived off the honey for a week as I searched for my mother—both for solace and to care for her. As it turned out, Mum and the kids were already back in Akobo with my father. Once again, my mother gave me one of those tight embraces, which had now become a ritual of ours, what with my risky goings and comings. Sudan was making this sort of life normal, that a child and his mother had to live in perpetual fear of a time when one would leave home, never to come back, and that each time a child returned, it was something to celebrate.
Jangjuol, my old friend from Itang, was in Akobo as well, and he was the same as ever, his body still petite.
JANGJUOL: Ger, where were you for a year?
ME: I was in Baliet in the military barracks with Peter Gatkuoth.
JANGJUOL: Peter Gatkuoth told me you almost got killed there.
ME: It is true, my brother, our Dinka cousins almost finished me off.
JANGJUOL: I am thinking about going back to Ethiopia this year.
ME: Me too! I miss learning in Itang.
JANGJUOL: Want to go swimming?
ME: Let’s see if your little body can keep up with me….
To my relief and shock, Peter Gatkuoth showed up in Akobo as well, but he did not look the same. He was bloated, like a fermenting blueberry on the precipice of bursting.
PETER: Everybody is dead.
He passed out right on the spot.
Later, after we’d repeatedly touched sweet honey to his tongue to reinvigorate him and wrapped him in cloth to keep him from getting the chills, even though it was maybe eighty degrees out, through swollen lips and aching limbs he told us the story of how he’d managed to escape.
PETER: I leaped into the water and stayed submerged in the Nile until the shooting subsided. For hours and hours. When I gathered enough strength, I jumped out and started running. But the enemy soldiers pursued and shot at me from their jeep. By some stroke of luck, I outran them.
ME: If it were anyone else, I would have said that was impossible.
PETER: I disappeared into the bushes and walked all the way here, ducking at any sight or sound of people and vehicles. I could never trust anything or anyone.
Senior SPLA officers in Akobo were incensed by Peter’s proclamation that everyone was dead. They rumbled as they waited for him to recover, after which they heavily reprimanded him.
SENIOR SPLA OFFICER: What kind of soldier are you? You never say everyone has been killed!
Ah, yes. That good old unwritten rule. The one that allows a messenger to say one day that your brother is alive and well, then the next day, from the other side of his mouth, tell you that he’s in fact dead. Always prizing soldier morale over the truth.
But Peter didn’t care. In his head, his journey as a soldier was done. They could yell as much as they wanted, but his mind was made up.
By now it was the rainy season. Food was plentiful and the Nile was full with a steady supply of fish. I found myself quickly moving on with life, consoled by a change of circumstance, from hardship to abundance, and surrounded by the love and care of my family. I enjoyed the moment, not knowing what lay ahead. Sudan taught you not to get complacent, not to assume stability. It always had a way of shaking things up and snapping you back to reality.
I BELIEVE IT WAS LATE 1992 when a group of aid workers arrived in my village of Dengjok, located on the bank of the Pibor River, which meandered into the Nile. They came from Akobo Town, our local administrative center, with a mission to administer vaccinations to children. They arrived on a speedboat, which was exciting since we were more accustomed to seeing slow-moving canoes. The workers quickly addressed a public gathering of villagers, informing us of their mission, and everyone brought their age-appropriate children forward. My father’s newest wife, Nyachak, and I took my mother’s six-year-old twins, Both and Nyandit, to join the rest of the kids. I left my gun at home, as was customary whenever aid workers came around. The workers loaded all the children into the speedboat and prepared to take them across the quickly flowing river. The speedboat was visibly overloaded, yet there was excitement among the villagers, especially the kids, some of whom were riding on a speedboat for the first time.
My stepmother Nyachak and I stood on the bank with our eyes trained on the twins as they rode off with thirty or so other children. I rolled my pants up to my knees and waved happily, glad that they were going to receive life-saving vaccines, hoping that they would enjoy the ride.
As they rode farther out, Gatwech, whom we knew from back in Itang Camp, where he’d been a driver for the chief of staff and now newly minted SPLA commander William Nyuon Bany Machar, started doing funky moves with the speedboat to impress his audience. Those of us on the riverbank began cheering excitedly, and the kids, whether afraid or ecstatic, kept making similar loud noises. Then, in a split second, while everyone was cheering his antics, the speedboat capsized in the middle of the river, dumping everyone overboard.
From the time the twins were born, I had sworn that I would be like a father to them. As such, I had been present when they started to stand and walk. I had helped teach them how to speak and had even tried to make them swim. In that moment of excitement and confusion as the kids boarded the speedboat, it slipped my mind that Nyandit had always been afraid of water, and that her vehement protestations whenever I put her in a large body of it had made me stop bringing her along with me to the river. It slipped my mind that I should have been on the boat with Nyandit to reassure her.
Suddenly the cheers of excitement now turned into screams for help and mournful wails. My stepmother and I instantly looked at each other, recognizing that Nyandit didn’t know how to swim, and without thinking twice or saying a word, we both dove into the hippo- and crocodile-infested river on a mission to rescue my siblings and any other kids.
I was the first one to arrive at the speedboat. I flipped over every little body I came across—most had already run out of breath—and each time I did so, I found it wasn’t Nyandit. I dove into the murky waters of the river over and over again, my fingertips reaching for the bottom, feeling for Nyandit. Nyachak and I were both strong swimmers, but with time, the water overpowered us. Nyachak saved my brother Both, who had managed to hold his breath long enough to be rescued.
I searched for Nyandit for what felt like forever, but after a while, I was too exhausted to continue. All I could think was, in this, the most crucial moment of little Nyandit’s life, I had let her down. I had failed to fulfill my deep yearning to care for others, a need—a calling—that would stay with me forever. I started crying and screaming. I jumped right back into the river and spent long minutes underwater, eyes open, looking for her. I decided that if I had to die to find her, then that’s what was going to happen. At some point, I felt myself run out of breath and begin to drown. As I tried reaching the surface, I realized how deep I had gone. When I finally came up, I spat out a lot of water, as if I was vomiting. I had literally used up my physical strength.
The people on the riverbank started screaming for me to get out of the water. Nearly comatose, I swam slowly toward the bank, and when I got closer, people pulled me out and laid me on my back. Tears flowed freely from my eyes, my heart completely broken into a thousand pieces. I would never again feel such a sense of failure and defeat. I had let my little sister die.
Two or three other kids had not been found, and at this point, everyone was baying for the blood of Gatwech and the aid workers, who were being guarded across the river. In that moment of chaos, I saw my mother screaming and rolling on the ground. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran home and picked up my gun. When I got back to the river, I started swimming across, slowly, since I was running on fumes. By this time, the whole village had gathered on the bank. Those who ha
dn’t witnessed the events wanted to know the details. The anger blocking my throat and the tears flooding my eyes wouldn’t allow me to hold a conversation with anyone. I swam on.
Once I made it across the river, I ran toward the group of elders that had formed a shield around Gatwech and the aid workers. I was ready to open fire and shoot indiscriminately. I didn’t care who would die, since the loss of my sister made life not worth living anymore. As I got closer, still crying, a man I respected, Gatluak Ter, came from behind and snatched the gun from me.
GATLUAK TER: Ger, calm down. Ger, it was an accident!
He pinned me down and tried to talk to me, but I wasn’t listening. Then a man holding a spear joined the crowd gathering around me, and I sprang up unexpectedly, snatched the spear from his hand, and charged toward Gatwech and the aid workers. Another group of men pinned me down and took the spear away before I could launch it. I had little strength in me to fight and was easily overpowered. All I felt inside was the need for revenge.
The following morning, a group of men went back to the river with a fishing net, and my sister Nyandit’s body was recovered. I couldn’t go to view it, and when the traditional burial ceremony was being conducted, I stayed away. I was sinking into a deep depression. The one thing I knew was that continuing to stay near the Pibor River made me miserable. The sound of its rushing water was nothing but a constant reminder of my failure to keep Nyandit safe. The next morning, I woke up, packed my few belongings, and headed to the market, where my father was staying. I found him sitting under a tree.
DAD: I have heard.
ME: Gatwech was driving the speedboat. He did it.
By this time, Gatwech had already been confined in a makeshift holding cell. My father, angered, picked up his gun and traced the location. He too wanted to avenge my sister’s death, but he was also stopped by the elders. I felt like the shadow of death was following me. I had experienced the death of my brother Oder, then my friends at Baliet, and after I’d escaped from there to come back to Akobo, death had snatched my little sister from me. I felt as though I had to do something dramatic, something that would take me away from this dark cloud that was following me around. I decided I had to leave Akobo, one way or another.
AS THOUGH THE GODS HAD heard my prayers, an escape route out of Akobo presented itself. A couple of weeks after my sister’s death, an unusual offer came my way, out of the blue. My friend Jangjuol Biel Jangjuol’s first cousin, Paul Jangjuol, was a devout Presbyterian minister, well-known in my town. Paul was twenty-nine and had two prized possessions: an English Bible and a Nuer hymnbook. He told a group of us that he had made it to a refugee camp in Kenya called Walda, where people were being accepted for political-refugee status and sponsorship to immigrate to America, Denmark, and Sweden. He had come all the way back to Akobo to take whichever family members and other local residents wished to make the trip with him. There was no doubt that those who did would risk their lives, because it involved a long trek to Ethiopia: back to Itang, then on to Addis Ababa, with no guarantee of safety.
I told myself I had already done these risky expeditions countless times before. And besides, I did not feel I was truly alive in Akobo, and so I had to go and find something new. What I didn’t realize at fourteen was that I could leave Akobo, but I could never block out the memories of violence—like those of my sister’s death and my life as a soldier. They would forever haunt me, no matter how far away I traveled or how many years I spent without going back.
ME: Mum, I have to leave again. I want to go back to Ethiopia and try to go to school.
I was lying to her because I didn’t want her to worry that I was taking a long, uncertain journey to an unknown place and future. I sensed, however, that she knew my spirit had left this place. She too seemed to have lost her ability to feel, so she understood. Nyandit’s tragic death had snatched something out of every one of us.
MUM: I have no objection, my son. Do what you have to do.
ME: Thank you.
MUM: It’s even better if you go. Staying around here is just going to get you hurt or killed for no reason.
ME: You understand.
MUM: We have a relative who lives along the path you will take toward Ethiopia. He is caring for a family cow. Tell him you have my permission to take it, then sell it. Give the money to Paul to ensure your safe passage to the refugee camp in Kenya and get your education, once and for all.
ME: Thanks, Mum. In case things get difficult, please remember to seek help from Uncle Reat.
I knew my father was not one to be counted on at such times, since he was so often preoccupied by other things. But Uncle Reat was a dependable hand. He had never left Akobo, no matter how dire the security situation had gotten. He always tilled the land and had just enough to feed himself and those around him, no matter how bad the weather was. He wouldn’t let the sister who had raised him starve alongside her kids under his watch. My little brothers Gok and Both and my sister Nyakuar would stay behind with my stepmother Nyachak, who had two children by this time. She would also keep an eye on my mother.
I didn’t want my father to know I was leaving, because he would try to stop me. And I didn’t tell my mother I had no intention of stopping. Mum packed two heavy bags of maize for me.
ME: Nyakuar, would you please help me carry one?
My mother gave me her last blessings, putting her frail hands on my head and whispering traditional prayers. She had aged a thousand years from the gastrointestinal problems for which she could not get treatment.
MUM: May my son travel peacefully. Nothing is going to happen to you as long as I am still in this universe. Go!
With tears flowing down my cheeks, I said good-bye to my mother, not sure when, or if, I would ever see her again. It seemed as though I had spent half my life saying good-bye to her. I made a promise to myself that I would return someday to help her, as she had helped me. I then set forth with Nyakuar, who believed we had been sent to deliver the maize to a relative’s home. I bid farewell to Akobo, feeling this departure had come none too soon.
Nyakuar and I walked side by side, and I knew the route because I had followed it coming from Itang. Paul had not invited me to join the group directly, but since he had made a public call in Akobo, I figured he wouldn’t turn me away. He was a man of God, after all, and I hadn’t come empty-handed. We soon got to the village where Paul’s group was taking a rest, and here I relayed the news to Nyakuar with tears in my eyes.
ME: I must take this maize off you and send you back home. I am not going with you.
Nyakuar, stoic as ever, didn’t blink or lose her cool.
NYAKUAR: There’s nowhere in this world where people don’t die, Ger. If it’s meant for you to go to school, you go. But if you die along the way, like Nyandit just did, know that that’s how everybody dies in this country anyway.
My little sister’s words almost broke me, but seeing her unfazed gave me the strength to carry on with the journey. I was doing this not just for myself, but for all of us, to prove that there was a better tomorrow lying somewhere on the horizon. I bid Nyakuar an emotional good-bye, with a tight embrace. I took the maize and started running after Paul’s group. Nyakuar stood there, her gaze trained on the vista far away, watching me disappear, soaking up one last look at me before the world swallowed me whole. I turned around and waved a final good-bye, still crying, and ran farther into uncertainty. When I caught up with Paul, his first reaction was disbelief.
PAUL: Ger, is that you? I cannot believe Thabach has allowed you to come. Your father is a difficult man.
ME: I came with my mother’s blessings.
I gave Paul all I owned—for pay or barter—and told him I was in. When we got to my relative’s home, he didn’t object to me taking that cow. I had bought myself a one-way ticket out of Sudan.
With Paul were his thirteen-year-old brother, Both; his cousins Nyakume and Nyang
ile, who were sisters; and their brother, my friend Jangjuol. There were about six other boys on the trip. My friend Peter Gatkuoth had come along with us this far, but he wasn’t yet ready to leave Akobo, and so Jangjuol and I hugged him good-bye. This felt like good-bye forever, which pained me greatly. But it was also good riddance to my past. And I needed my past behind me.
As we started moving toward Ethiopia, Jangjuol and I stayed behind the pack and swore that we would make it to America if it was the last thing we did. All we knew about the country was that it was a military power, that Michael Jackson was from there, that my father’s brother, the highly respected professor Wal Duany, lived there, and that we had always thought all airplanes came from there. As one passed overhead, we shouted.
ME AND JANGJUOL: Mericama! Mericama!
WE TOOK THE DANGEROUS WALK west, across southern Sudan, over the Ethiopian border, and finally got back to Itang. The camp looked more or less the same, though sparsely populated following our last mass exodus. There wasn’t any trace of an SPLA presence. The Ethiopians seemed to have been keeping a closer eye on things now, their government granting residence to Sudanese refugees but not to any SPLA members.
