by Ger Duany
Within three days, we were relocated to a camp in Ruiru for our medical checks. I couldn’t sleep at night with all the adrenaline pulsing through my body, penetrating my soul. I would finally step foot on American soil. And then the guilt and sadness set in. What would happen to my family? How could I be happy when I’d be leaving them behind—the people who loved me and fought for me. Even died for me. Would I see them again in this lifetime if I crossed the Mediterranean Sea, if I traversed the Atlantic? Was I ungrateful in wanting to leave?
As I drifted off, Oder appeared in my mind, insisting that I make something of myself. I whispered aloud, “Why not risk it all? What’s the worst thing that could happen if I go? I already know what will happen if I stay.” And then I thought about what Nyakuar told me as we parted ways and said our good-byes: There’s nowhere in this world where people don’t die. Words to live by. She told me, Go find yourself some opportunity in a strange land. That advice keeps me going to this day.
The night before we left for the States, Lual came by with a package.
LUAL: This is for you, so you can fit in as soon as you arrive. That is, if your dark skin and eight-foot-tall height don’t give you away first.
I unwrapped the stiff brown paper and found a pair of blue jeans inside! They were his old but still good-looking Levi’s, with a sewed-on patch of the American flag. I pulled off my shorts and tried them on right away. Instantly I was filled with excitement. I decided to sleep in my new jeans for two reasons: one, so I would be certain not to forget them, and two, so I’d arrive in America already looking the part.
Once at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, we went through immigration and proceeded to join other passengers in the waiting area. When it was time to board, we walked toward a plane that appeared big enough to transport an entire village of hundreds of people. I never imagined airplanes, which looked like small birds as they passed over our heads, could be this enormous. We ascended the metal stairs, and the moment we got inside, I started shivering, my skin bubbling up with goose pimples from the steep drop in temperature. The entire interior was smooth, and the flight attendants showed us to our seats. None of us had any idea what to do with the little screens in front of us.
I tried to keep my composure and didn’t dare touch a thing. I didn’t want to risk messing things up and getting thrown off our flight. America now seemed like a real place, both so close I could feel its energy in my bones and so far away: one slipup or tap on the shoulder from a soldier could end my dream—my life—in an instant.
Our plane was bursting with Sudanese, Somalis, and Ethiopians, each one of whom looked as lost as we were. Most likely refugees like ourselves.
ANNOUNCEMENT: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Lufthansa flight 598, with service from Nairobi to Frankfurt. We ask that you fasten your seat belts at this time and secure your baggage underneath your seat or in the overhead compartment. Thank you for choosing Lufthansa German Airlines. Enjoy your flight!
Men and women dressed in uniforms walked the aisle, checking that everyone had belted up and that the luggage compartment was locked. After a few more announcements from the faceless voice, the plane started moving, and I felt a mixture of joy and sadness.
ME: Oh, God, may we travel to this new foreign land peacefully, and may our friends in camps follow us in peace. Amen-Rah.
I thought of my mother, brothers, and sisters in Akobo. I promised myself I would never forget where I came from, and that once I made it in America, I would come back home and uplift my family.
In a bit, the wheels of the mammoth bird moved across the tarmac, and as it gained momentum, it catapulted us through time and space to another world, our fate no longer in our own hands.
I looked around and saw other passengers relaxed into their seats, and decided to do just as they did. I stretched my legs, laid my head back, and tried to enjoy the ride, though the adrenaline rush, mixed with nervousness, was not cooperating. I saw clouds in close proximity and wondered whether this was what they meant in our Bible school classes when they said a cloud took Jesus up out of sight, toward heaven. I wondered if maybe America was closer to heaven, given that Sudan, with all the hunger and suffering, would logically have to be much farther away.
FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Hello, sir. We are serving curried beef for dinner tonight.
The thought of being served a meal by a white person blew my mind. At Ifo, they had been demigods in our eyes, working for the United Nations and having the power to change our lives with a mere stroke of the pen. I imagined these hostesses either owned this airplane or were highly paid employees of the United Nations, tasked with transporting us to America.
The food, packaged in tiny portions, looked strange. I slowly opened each pack, and the only two things that looked familiar were milk and meat, but I couldn’t understand why it was packed in such tiny quantities. Everyone around me was busy eating, and so I followed suit. Then, with help, I made my seat recline, and I closed my eyes to enjoy an unusually unburdened slumber.
First stop: Frankfurt.
We were all commanded to get off the plane. I was used to the fits and starts, detours and zigzags that came with travel and, more specifically, fleeing to safety. So we created yet another kind of caravan of people and trekked from one side of the airport to the other in order to get to our next gate. It was on this excursion that I witnessed one of the most astonishing sights I had ever seen in my life: the escalator. It scared virtually every last one of us.
PAUL: Stay calm. Calm down. Put one foot on the flat surface and get your other foot on it right after. Watch. Like this.
He rode up the escalator, then came back down again, to show us how it was done and to give the first child the courage to take the leap of faith. Then came my turn.
PAUL: Do not panic, Ger. It is easier than it appears. You will enjoy it once you’re on it.
That escalator ride convinced me we were in the vicinity of heaven, since I couldn’t understand how this could be a part of people’s everyday lives. I couldn’t see dust or dirt anywhere, not a single tree or even a bird, yet I could see my reflection almost everywhere I looked. The idea of heaven was unfolding right in front of my eyes. We got to a waiting area where all kinds of people were moving in and out. Screens with words and images running up and down littered the walls, and my little education at the refugee camps couldn’t come to my aid. In time, we heard it—a name I recognized since Paul had said it’d be our first stop in America.
ANNOUNCEMENT: Now boarding on Delta: Frankfurt to New York.
The airplane was as huge as the one we had boarded from Nairobi, and everything inside looked similar. Now that I had been on an airplane before, I decided that I wouldn’t show my naivete again. I feigned confidence as I went up the stairs to board, and once inside, I acted nonchalant.
On the other hand, Both, Paul’s younger brother, couldn’t hide his fascination. I was waiting for the moment he would touch something and mess it up, but before that happened, I drifted off once more. At the tail end of another extended nap, I sensed the plane descending and opened my eyes as its wheels touched the runway at JFK International Airport. On the other side of the porthole window was a sea of lights a hundred times the candescence of those I’d glimpsed in Nairobi. When we entered the terminal from the Jetway, I stopped in my tracks. Here was the largest number of people I’d ever witnessed in one place, people of different nationalities pulling suitcases every which way. Paul spun in a circle, trying to locate our connecting flight, then did a quick, silent head count of our group.
PAUL: Where is Both? Ger, Nyakume, where is Both?
Paul got anxious and angry. Intent on not losing anyone else, we searched for him as a group for close to half an hour, after which he emerged from the lavatory. Paul yanked him to his side and gave him and us a quick dressing-down.
PAUL: Next time any of you sees fit to run off, keep running.
PAUL: Dess Moh-ee-ness?
The gentleman took one look, checked the airport screens, and spotted our flight.
GENTLEMAN: That one right there. To Des Moines, Iowa.
Paul had been mispronouncing the name, leaving everyone else he’d asked confused.
PAUL: Thank you.
We rushed to the boarding gate, got helped into the plane by airport staffers, and were off on our last leg to our final destination. For now.
TWO OF PAUL‘S SUDANESE FRIENDS, James Bol Both and Koang Toang, who had settled in America in the ’90s and had made plans for us to get here through the sponsorship of the Lutheran Church, received us at the airport. They showed up in their vehicles, a 1993 red Pontiac Grand Am and a white two-door Ford Mustang, which felt surreal, seeing people with my skin color living the American dream. Bol and Koang embraced us, and watching them mingle freely with white people gave me a sense of absolute confidence—that, and my blue jeans from Lual. I felt I could be them if everything went according to plan.
JAMES BOL AND KOANG: Maalę! Maalę! Maalę!
Hearing my native language in this very white world made me light-headed; I wasn’t sure what was real. Bol and Koang were accompanied by Man Mark, an old white Lutheran woman, who was in effect our host. According to Nuer culture, older women are called by their sons’ names. That’s how we came to call her Man Mark, meaning “mother of Mark” in Nuer.
Koang shared an apartment with Bol, Bol’s wife, and their two kids. Bol’s wife had prepared a huge feast for us, which was laid out on the dining room table. Everyone had their own plate—something I had never experienced—and we all served ourselves to our satisfaction. For the first time in my life, I ate as much as I could. I couldn’t believe I was walking away from a table that was still full of food, but I was too stuffed to be able to speak much.
JAMES BOL: Guys, eat. You know, in America you have to eat as much as you want.
ME: I have had enough to eat, Bol. Could I please take a bath?
JAMES BOL: Yes, Ger. You will all take a shower before going to bed.
I got to shower first. Bol gave me a clean towel, which I was afraid to use, thinking I would make it too dirty. He took me to a bathroom inside the house, something else I had never experienced, and showed me the hot- and cold-water taps. I had only ever bathed in rivers, and only used a bathroom at the refugee holding place in Nairobi before making the journey to America. What fascinated me most was that water was running freely from the shower, disappearing into a little hole in the floor.
The moment I opened the taps, having forgotten which was for cold and which was for hot, scalding water came down at me with high pressure, burning my skin. I reached for the tap but couldn’t master how to close it, and the water burned me more.
ME: Koang! Please come help me. Someone please come help me!
I screamed as loud as I could from the shower. Koang ran into the bathroom and found me naked, scared, and burning.
KOANG: Oh, Ger. I’m so sorry. Let me balance out the water for you so that it isn’t too hot.
I kept the water running when I exited the shower so the next person would not suffer the same fate as I.
That was my introduction to America: a scalding. Burned by water, this time literally. It added insult to injury because even here, it seemed, there was no escaping the trauma and reminders of my past.
WHEN EACH OF US WAS clean, Bol and Koang showed us to two bedrooms that Paul, Nyakume, Both, and I would occupy—Both and I in one, Paul and Nyakume in the other. There were two huge beds, and everyone had their own blanket. The floor was carpeted and I felt like lying down there. I had slept on worse surfaces before, and the bed seemed to me like a compact mattress on a giant bed.
The following morning, we had tea, bread, eggs, and meaty strips I later learned were bacon. I supposed this was our meal for the day and was surprised to notice I had suddenly lost my appetite for food. Later that day, we went to the grocery store, where Bol and Koang filled a trolley cart with meats, fruits, vegetables, and other supplies. I was overwhelmed, especially by the amount of meat on display in the store, and what ran through my mind was that the owner of the herd of cattle must have suffered a huge loss.
We pushed the trolley to the cashier, where the bill was paid, but to my surprise, Bol and Koang started walking away, leaving the food behind. I ran after them.
ME: Koang, you guys have forgotten the things you paid for back there!
KOANG: Oh, Ger, don’t worry. Those will be brought to the car.
Koang laughed at my naivete. I realized I had a lot to learn to properly fit into the American way of life. My blue jeans were not cutting it.
A week or so later, Paul, Both, Nyakume, and I moved into a two-bedroom apartment in what looked like an African American neighborhood. Both and I went to North High School with other Sudanese refugees, including Gajaak Gatluak, who spoke Thok Naath, the Nuer language, with an eastern Nuer accent; the coolheaded William Deng; Wu-Chan Toang, who was our host Koang’s brother; and two sisters named Dukan Bel and Char Bel.
Wu-Chan, red-eyed, wore a bandanna, dressed in baggy jeans, and spoke slang to the African American students, showing us that he belonged. William Deng, on the other hand, only ever nodded in recognition whenever he encountered his African American classmates. The two were the closest we came to interacting with actual Americans, and they always joked about us Sudanese refugees and our ways.
WU–CHAN: When homies say, “What’s up?” just make sure you reply by bobbing your head. That’s how we do it around here.
WILLIAM DENG: And please act like you’ve been here before. Don’t embarrass yourself by saying “What?” anytime you don’t know what’s going on.
We would walk to the cafeteria together at lunchtime, and not being well accustomed to what was on offer on the menu, we’d all watch either William Deng or Wu-Chan and see what he did.
WU–CHAN: Yeah, um, gimme a chicken leg and some macaroni.
ME: Chicken leg and macaroni.
BOTH: Chicken leg. Macaroni.
Whatever Wu-Chan or William Deng picked for lunch was what we would all pick. Then, after every meal, we’d tell refugee jokes among ourselves, about how we all moved together like sheep and copied what the first person did.
WILLIAM DENG: Yo, I’m gonna jump off the capitol building. Who’s with me?
ME AND BOTH: I am!
Both made friends with the Americans easily and learned everything at a quicker pace than any of the rest of us. He was likable and outgoing, joining all kinds of groups. In the Sudanese community, word was that Both had no shame in his game. He was the first to know the names in English of all the foods in the cafeteria and came boasting to me.
BOTH: This is a burger. This is lettuce. This is cheese.
ME: How do you know this?
BOTH: My friend over there told me.
On some days, Both would enter our apartment and start naming things.
BOTH: Hey, Ger. This is a refrigerator. This here is a freezer.
I would stand there acting uninterested, pretending that I too knew what he was talking about. I wasn’t and I didn’t.
Twice a week, a group of us new immigrants, most of whom were refugees from across the world—Somalia, Bosnia, Vietnam, Ethiopia, Sudan, Afghanistan—attended evening classes at a facility in downtown Des Moines, where Mr. Anderson, a tall, gentle white man with gray hair, taught us English as a second language. We clustered in groups of students with shared nationalities, almost as though it was safe here not to assimilate or fit in, even though the goal of learning English was to do the opposite. Very confusing!
DURING MY FIRST YEAR IN high school, in the fall of 1994, I experienced extreme
culture shock. I expected to be allowed to work and earn money to send back home, but since I was only sixteen, I had to learn to behave like an American adolescent. Being told what to do and when, and responding to the bell in school like an automaton, made no sense to me. I had been walking the earth independently since I was twelve and had no idea how to become a child again.
Paul was often on my case about attending church and living a pious life. But I’d been through too much—seen and heard of too many people killing in the name of God—to believe that this person had any better understanding of what God wanted from me than I did myself. He had this annoying habit of lecturing me—all of us, actually—and conducting long, boring family interventions to talk about our problems, constantly quoting the Bible, not understanding that I didn’t want to talk. Couldn’t talk. Not to him. Not to anyone.
This new world often defied my comprehension—gleaming glass towers, paved roads filled with sparkling new cars, the distinct absence of AK-47 fire. However, I quickly discovered a new kind of assault, not deadly to the body but destructive to the mind. Some of my classmates were very cruel, and insults and racist comments flew toward me like iron filings to a magnet. Initially, I was ignorant to what was racist and what wasn’t, since I hadn’t imagined that my skin color, much as it was different, would be an issue, especially since the majority of my schoolmates were African Americans, whose skin colors weren’t so different from mine, even though I was darker. As black as ebony.
