by Minot, Susan
In Sudan we stayed in a riverbed. A trickling stream ran through it, enough for doing washing. One day I was draping bedclothes on a bush when a rebel came to me. He had on a brown wool hat covering a puff of hair and wore a blue shirt with white stripes on the shoulders. He was not so tall, only a little taller than me. He did not carry with him a gun, there were other rebels nearby with guns.
There are thorns on this bush, he said. You will make holes.
My mother uses this bush at home, I said quietly. The points are not so sharp but keep the washing from blowing away.
Even so, I began to take the sheet off. Speaking of my mother brought her near me then made me feel how far from me she was.
This rebel had eyes wide apart and a round forehead. He looked at me. All right, you leave it there. He kept looking. You are thinking of your mother now, he said.
You are never certain if it is okay to answer. I lifted my shoulders a little.
He shook his head, smiling as if I know nothing. But she is not your mother anymore.
I looked to see how he was meaning it. His forehead slanted to his hair. You have a new family now, he said. Kony’s family. Your mother does not want you. He said this as if this were good news. She no longer wants a daughter who has been with the rebels. But Kony will always take you into his family. He will always forgive you.
I knew my mother loved me, but it is true she did not know what I had done. What if he was right?
Do you know Kony? the rebel said.
I have not seen him.
Kony is very wise. He crossed himself on each shoulder and waited for me to say something.
I have heard it, I said. We heard many things, that Kony had three spirits in him, that he could not die. That he had eighteen wives. Perhaps my face did not look convinced.
You do not believe in Kony?
I said I did.
Kony is very handsome, he said. Kony will lead us to heaven.
He told me to go back to washing, and when he left I had that dizzy feeling. I knew my mother loved me. Even when we might fight, even when she did not understand me, I knew there was love. I did not believe this rebel in the striped shirt, but he was making me think of my mother turned against me. Even not believing something can make small rips in you. With the rebels I thought there was not more to be ripped in me, but there was. There always is more if you are living. That my mother would not want me was a new worry I had not imagined I would ever have.
We were told Kony wanted to meet the girls from St. Mary’s so we were gathered together. By now not all of us were together. We had been separated a few times and now some had come together again, but not all were in Sudan. Janet was not with us, and for a long time we had no news. Theresa was not there or Beatrice. We learned they had escaped but were never certain if they were alive. We found Judith again. She wore a dark T-shirt with a torn collar, and around her waist I saw she now had Sister Giulia’s sweater. The scar in her neck was healed, but now there was a bandage on her hand. We laughed how she always had a bandage. So this is what we would laugh at—bandages and being hurt. Charlotte, however, was not laughing. She had new unhappy eyes.
They took us to Kony. His compound was in a place with trees of soft thin shadows. Guards in camouflage pants stood by the doorway of the biggest house, with new thatch on the roof. We stood outside for a while, then a few of us at a time were taken inside.
I went in with Agnes, Judith, Charlotte and Lily. Our eyes adjusted to the dimness and we saw a man in a white cowboy hat sitting on a canvas folding chair. Women sat on the ground nearby and rebels stood behind with guns and machetes in leather holders. The man in the chair I recognized, he was the one in the striped shirt who had spoken to me by the river, the one who said Kony is very handsome. This was Kony, this small man not at all big. His hair this time was to his shoulders with many thin braids and over the wide-set eyes were yellow aviator sunglasses. Come in, he said.
More girls entered till we were all there. Louise was behind us.
Come near, he said. We moved. So these are the girls of St. Mary’s, he said, tipping back his head to observe us through those yellow glasses. Do you know the Pope is talking about you?
We had heard this, but did not answer. The rebels did not really want you to speak.
What would make you so special for the Pope to know of you? Kony looked at the guards and the women near him. He had a sort of bulge above his eyes. They shook their heads. Special treatment was bad according to the rebels.
Do we treat you badly? he said to us.
This we did not answer either.
No, he said. We treat you well. We have brought you here because it is the will of God. I am only following the will of God. Who would hear God’s words and not follow them?
Kony told us we were not captives here. No, we belonged here because we had sin in us. God sent his sinners to Kony and his mission was to cleanse us. He told us how he would save us, told us about the will of God. The women near him dipped their heads.
Then he said, Those who escape are like women with two vaginas, one in front and one in back. From the back, the wife of one man. From the front, the wife of another.
My eyes got used to the darkness and I could make out the shapes of cages against the walls. They had animals in them. I saw chameleons and snakes. Other animals hung on the walls, dead. I saw a couple of turtles on the floor but could not tell if they were alive or not.
You must listen to what Kony says to you and remember it. You are to be my ministers. He changed to speaking in Lor.
How old are you? He pointed to Charlotte in front of him.
Fourteen, she said, keeping her head down. She had a gap in her teeth which made her lisp.
How are you treated? he said. His voice louder.
Charlotte’s eyes shifted side to side. I am treated well.
Kony nodded and stood up from his low chair. And you? He stepped near Judith. How are you treated? He pointed to the bandage on her hand as if to show she was looked after.
I am treated well, Judith said in a hoarse voice.
Kony walked along the line of us. He stopped at me.
Kony has seen this one before, he said. What is your name?
I told him it was Marie.
I felt the girls beside me flinch, hearing the lie, but they knew not to show anything.
One of the guards said, They call her Esther.
Which is your name? Kony did smile.
Esther Marie, I said. Marie was never my name, but it helped to have a lie against Kony.
Kony remembers your face, he said, proud, but he did not remember from when. Do you know Kony?
I know you are Kony.
Perhaps it was in another life, he said. He looked at Agnes beside me. You are?
Agnes.
He looked at Agnes a longer time. He looked to her feet and again to her face. Agnes had nice legs and nice skin.
This one, he said, pointing to her and turning around to the soldiers. Bring tonight, he said. He sat down again. Agnes’s face did not move, but I saw the fear in her tight mouth. Her gaze slid in my direction.
This is my friend, I said. Somehow I dared to speak.
Kony turned around. Did you say something, Esther Marie? He showed us he remembered my name, even though it was not my real one.
In another life we were sisters, I said. Maybe you knew us then. We would stay with you.
His look was of interest. No one comes except when invited by Kony, he said with a warning voice. This is a rule. Perhaps you did not know this rule.
I shook my head a small bit.
But maybe you will come too. He set his hands on the arms of his chair. You will come if I wish it.
Two soldiers came for Agnes. I saw them make her stand up. They were looking around. I waited. When they spotted me they indicated that I also was to come as well.
It was a different hut that we were brought to then that night, a smaller one. Kerosene lamps sat on the fl
oor on polished dirt of the first room and in the next room Kony was sitting on a mattress on the ground. There was a mirror on the wall, and a flashlight sat on a stump. Kony did not have a hat on and his head looked big on a small body like Howdy Doody. I cannot say I was not scared, but I was there for Agnes and it is easier to be brave when you are doing it for someone besides yourself.
Come this way, he said. Out of the past life into this one. Soon when we are dead we will be in another life. I know I will die. If I don’t die I am not the son of God. God created me just as he created death.
So it was how Kony spoke.
Sit here. Do you know that when you are chosen by Kony you are lucky. Kony sees women because women are the bearers of his children.
I thought how luck was the same thing as being special and how no one was supposed to be special, but I did not argue this.
Women are also the portals of the devil, he said. He put his hands on the chest of Agnes. They are one way facing this direction—he felt her chest on one side—and another way facing another. He moved her that way. Agnes looked not at him. For this reason we must watch the women as they move among us, he said, staring all over her body.
He kept one hand on Agnes, then looked at me. He touched my arm and made a circle with his fingers and ran it down to my wrist. I see you have a bracelet, he said.
I did not speak. My nonni had given it to me, the last thing I owned. It was a silver band with a space for putting on and taking off.
See, we do not take your bracelet from you. He moved my hand, smiling at how kind he was and put it onto his lap. He looked at Agnes. Take off your skirt.
I floated up. I hardly knew I was being laid down. I didn’t feel anything touching my mouth, I didn’t feel hands pushing. Agnes and I looked at each other’s eyes just one time, not to see what was happening, but to say, I am here. Do not worry. Then we looked away to be respectful.
Sometimes we heard jackals in the night and now and then saw a wild boar traveling by with his family, all their tails up at an angle. But there were not many animals among us. We would find a rabbit sometimes, a few birds hiding in the trees. There were more animals in Kony’s house than in the bush.
It turned out I could shoot. We were given guns for practice and I would hit that can in the middle many times. One time before practice we saw a dik-dik darting through the trees. We did not see them often, small gazelle-like animals with pale fur and pale spots. The rebels said if I could shoot that dik-dik I would go free. I did not believe it, but I would try anyway. I like all animals and do not like to see them die. I do not kill spiders. Maybe I would not care about a grub worm, but that is all. I shot and missed and then I shot and hit that dik-dik. The rebels laughed, everyone was surprised. They said, Maybe this girl is useful.
Girls are not often given guns to carry but after that I was taken back into Uganda when they went on raids. I thought about not shooting so well, so they would not take me, then I had the idea that it might offer me the chance to escape. So I kept shooting.
One raid brought us again near the village of Gwere. This was the village of my grandmother, my father’s family. We were walking, getting closer and closer to this area I knew from visiting. My family was nearby. My grandparents were there, my two aunts, my cousins. Please, I prayed, don’t let us find the village. Protect my family. I thought of my cousin Caleb, who would sit with piles of chips growing between his feet carving wooden spoons and animals which he sold in the market.
We crossed the main road and all was quiet there. Everyone must be hiding, I hoped. At the bus stop by a concrete slab there was no one. Good, they have heard we are coming. I did not show I knew this place. I asked a guard, Where are we going? Would I have said such a thing at another time? No. He hit my shoulder with his gun. That blow made me feel safe.
We crossed the field where I played with my cousins. On one side are three rocks where we used to make a house and shred flowers for petal soup. I saw Caleb kiss a girl there. We came near huts out of sight belonging to neighbors where I had spent days and nights. My aunt Anastasia’s hut was farther along after the village. The rebels would go on and off the path and soon they turned off again, walking through thick growth to another footpath where they chose to stay walking. This narrow path was the one to my aunt’s.
I saw objects littered in the grass. A plastic bracelet snapped open, the bottom rubber of a sneaker, a cardboard cereal box dotted with gray mold. Then came burnt things: a blackened soda can, a plastic fork with melted prongs, a pink towel singed with a hard foamy edge. I walked by eggshells full of ashes. A magazine was fanned open and stiff, as if dipped in black cement. The rebels at the front of the line must have come to the clearing because the walking stopped. Ahead were shouts and clapping. This meant we were about to raid. Would I see my family killed? Would I have to kill them?
We moved forward and I saw why there were no people anywhere. The huts were no longer. In their places were shallow burnt pits with all the ground black and straw like black wire.
My aunt’s hut was farther on, not in sight. We turned away from that place and the rebels led us the other way, so I did not see if her house was still there. I supposed it was not. The rebels would burn dwellings when they were angry to find people gone. Maybe this had happened. Later I learned that my family had escaped and were safe, even if others had not been so fortunate.
Did God see where we were?
I wondered.
Did God see into Sudan? Louise said there was too much evil in the camps so God would not look at us anymore. What kind of God is that? I would wonder. Then I stopped wondering.
I tried instead to stay alive. I am alive now and can breathe and that is as much as I know. Why one person should die this day and another be permitted to live, who knows it? If I ask the questions now, I still do not have an answer.
If God was watching Sudan, then he was allowing for these things to be so. In that case, I say, God let us down. He forgot the children of the north. He forgot Tabitha, the girl from Arum, in the red ruffled shirt. She was even looking at the rebels without hate, you saw no hate in her eyes. And what happened to her? She was tied to a tree till the rope sank into her skin.
You see these things, and it is hard to think God is good.
Still I prayed. You get into the habit of praying. It comes when things are hard, so what can I tell you? At first I prayed to God, then soon I was praying not even to God, just to no one. It was just prayers going out to the air. I prayed for us girls to escape. I prayed to see my mother again, prayed to be able to fight again with my sisters, prayed to greet my father. I thought I would be happier this time when I saw him. I prayed to be with my Philip. I would think, please please please. That was a prayer.
And I had to start praying for Agnes. She was not always well and I worried she would become more sick. After a while I saw my prayers were not helping and I said to myself, I must do something. Then I remembered this man Chunga. And I had an idea of a thing I might do, more than just pray.
Chunga looked as mean as he was which is not always the case. Kony for instance did not appear mean in his looks, he appeared maybe he would be kind. But this Chunga had a face like a bulldog and short legs of muscles and dangerous red eyes. He carried anger in his shaking cheeks. He was with us sometimes, then would go with another group, but when he was there, he liked to stand over us with a bad look in his red eyes. He carried a gun wrapped around the handle with silver duct tape. You are not the type for me, he said, and kicked me a little with his dirty sneaker. But you I like, he said, and touched Lily’s cheek. The commander Lily was wife to was not there at the time. Chunga pulled her to him. We looked to Louise, and when Louise made no sign we knew there was nothing to be done. So he took Lily off.
At these times you are relieved not to be picked. I say this because I know it is not right, even if you cannot help the feeling. You are glad it is not you. You are not proud of this, but so it is.
We think it w
as Chunga who gave Lily the AIDS. But who knows it. Chunga kept two rebels near him, one in a purple windbreaker with a fat nose, the other with a bony face and yellow beads around his neck. He would talk to them and we would listen to his big talk. He did not care if we were hearing. Who were we?
He said, If I have not seen blood in a while I get a headache. He grinned at us, with shining eyes. Maybe he was drunk. Even with the rule of no drinking, the rebels would be drunk in the day. Chunga said he was a better fighter than Kony. One day he said, Kony’s time is over.
I was not the only one hearing him, others of us were listening also. You must not say anything against Kony, but Chunga did not believe any of us would repeat it. How would we have the chance to do it?
He said, I had a vision in my dream. Maybe Kony would like to hear how the spirits are now speaking to Chunga. Maybe he would like to hear what they are saying to me. He laughed, meaning it was bad news.
Kony never liked to hear if he was in someone’s dreams. Only what happened in his own dreams he wanted to know. Once, another person gave Kony a prediction and after that, Kony was arrested in Khartoum from the bad luck.
We would hear Chunga speak this way against Kony. If Kony knew of it Chunga would not be alive. I saved the thought, and that thought came back to me when I was looking for it. I thought, I will try.
No one could meet with Kony unless he requested it, but I did not let this prevent me. Why would I want to go to Kony? One reason, for the sake of Agnes. Each time I returned after raids Agnes was more sick. Then this time her hair had become reddish straw, and on her face were scabs like fingerprints.
I am as selfish as anyone. But to think of Agnes I would not be thinking only of myself. Thinking of her I felt better. Thinking of her I had a mission. I went to the rebel named Ricky. He was not rude to the girls of St. Mary’s and would talk with us when no one saw. He had been with the rebels a long time, but was only seventeen. I had asked him, Why do you take us from our families?
Kony wants a big family, he said. If you want your family big you must have many children. On a string around his neck Ricky carried a vial of water. In battles the water would tell you what to do.
