by Cola Bilkuei
Thonager was running alongside, crying out, ‘I want to go with you, let me go!’
I kept yelling in return, ‘I’ll be back, I’ll be back!’
My mother was going to walk all the way to the camp with me, so I would not have to say goodbye to her yet. Monyleck was going to escort us for the first week of our march, and he had told my mother that she could come as far as he was going, and then he would bring her back.
As we got further along the track, the voices from the village thinned out. I didn’t feel as though I had said goodbye to anyone properly along the way. I was losing friends and family in the crowd, I was struggling to keep up, it had all happened too fast.
The time came to say goodbye to my father, when he and Thonager stopped on the track. I remembered the conversation I had had with him when I was younger, when he told me that no man was born at the same time as his father, so therefore no man should rely on his father always being there. I felt proud that I was strong enough to leave and become my own man, even though it wasn’t by choice.
I don’t remember us saying anything to each other. With one last wave, I walked around a corner and they were gone.
As we left the village environs, my confidence wavered. It was growing dark fast. Walking along beside me, my mother started to talk to me, telling me that I was her favourite son.
‘When I grow old you’ll look after me,’ she said.
I smiled and thought about the countless times when I’d been hungry and she had joked that I was not her son at all, so she didn’t have to feed me. Then she’d give in. It had been her favourite joke with me and always made me laugh. As we walked my mind started to drift. I thought about all the things I could have been doing – hunting, fishing, swimming. I pushed these thoughts to the back of my mind and tried to concentrate on seeing Monyleck. For all the harsh things that had been said between us, he was still my brother. He would be my anchor, at least for the first stage. Monyleck’s role was in recruiting us, not training us, so he would help guide us towards Ethiopia before turning around and coming to serve closer to home.
As we drew close to Biu I could see other groups of children who had been drawn from different areas marching into the village. I had relatives who lived there, so it wasn’t too strange to me: it had been the home of my great-uncle, Makuei Bilkuei. As we entered, we passed some village huts on the outskirts and the ruins of an old schoolhouse that had been built by the British. Now it had been stripped of its red bricks and all that was standing was the frame.
We passed a line of wells, and then came to the centre of Biu – a wooded plateau where the Makuei family lived. I could see the lights of cooking fires dotted around the huts. I heard Monyleck barking orders, telling people where to stand. As our group was shuffled into position at the rear of the camp he started to call our names, then directed us where to go next.
I was the last person he looked at. There was no smile, no warmth. He was like a different person, as if he didn’t want anyone to know that we were related, even though our mother was standing right by me.
He called my name with the same cold efficiency as he’d called everyone else’s. I looked up at my mother’s face. She gestured for me to go; she didn’t hug me. I didn’t want her to hug me. I thought if she had, I would have cried, and right now I needed to be a man. I needed all the other kids in the camp to respect me. I moved towards Monyleck who pointed me sharply in the direction of a group of about thirty children, who would be my basic unit, or basila. As I looked around, I was struck by how many others there were: about five hundred all up. I held my head high and tried my best to look confident but I couldn’t help noticing how different Monyleck was, with his gun slung over his shoulder, shouting orders. I realised that having my brother with me wouldn’t make my journey any easier. If anything, I thought, it might make it harder.
The evening parade was already finished, and we weren’t going to form up again until the morning. So the group dispersed to sleep the night. I went with my mother to the hut of one of my Malkuei uncles, where we slept.
In the morning I rejoined my basila and we were introduced to each other and formed into ranks for the first parade of the day. All of a sudden the panan, the music leader, started a chorus: ‘We are now with you.’
Everyone sang back: ‘We are now with you.’
It wasn’t like the singing in the village. This was much more for show, mainly to display our loyalty. There would be a lot of singing to come – it was designed to create a sense of normality and it would be one way in which our group would bond.
Our first song together was short and followed immediately by a speech.
Monyleck started: ‘Here there are no children. Put your childish ways behind you. You are men, you are army men. You are soldiers.’
I could tell that some of the kids were scared, as they didn’t have their mothers with them. I was lucky. My mother was standing right behind me.
After the speech we began to move out – our journey to Ethiopia was underway. We had been told it would take two or three months. Instantly it hit me: how would we walk all that way? What would we do for food? How safe were we going to be? My mind flooded with questions and doubts.
We left Biu as the morning mist was lifting. We followed a winding dirt path through open, flat grasslands. Although the terrain was easy, the walk was slow, as each village we passed through wanted to contribute some gift to the group. Our village had given a cow which Monyleck had bought to camp with him, and now we had fifteen cows all up. Some villages donated maize, beans and other vegetables to cook along the way. At least that answered one of my questions.
At first we marched in our basila but after a few hours we had broken into fragments: the strongest walkers at the front, the tired ones drifting to the back. My mother walked at the side of the track and tried her best to keep up with me. As the day dragged on I started thinking about stories I had heard of people being killed in the war, not just Mijok but others. I had never been more than two days’ walk from my village, when we’d escaped to the Nile. Now we were venturing further and further into the unknown. I became paranoid as the sounds of the bush grew more and more unfamiliar. Bats cried out during the day and night, and there were animal sounds I’d never heard before. We saw a lot of vultures circling in the sky, a sure sign that there were lions and other predators about. I tried my best to hold faith with the blessings that my ancestors had given me, and told myself that I would return home soon enough.
The day grew hotter and the track more narrow. We ended up walking in single file, taking a break every couple of hours. We tried not to make too much noise. Every time we were to rest, the signal would be given by a tap on the shoulder. As each new person was tapped they sat down – we were like dominoes. Each rest was short. With another tap on the shoulder we were up and moving again.
By late afternoon we came to a stream, about a hundred metres wide, which would be our camp for the night. We were split into two groups: one would cross the river now and the other would follow the next morning. The river had a strong current and was infested with crocodiles. We saw snakes around the edges of the water. Before entering the river Monyleck aimed his gun towards where we would cross and shot into the water numerous times. Satisfied that he had scared off the crocodiles, he ushered the first group across. This was my group.
My mother was not allowed to cross the river that afternoon. She would spend the night on this side and follow me across the next morning.
There was a raft waiting by the bank, made from branches bound together by rope, but it was too small to take us all. One of the leaders said, ‘If you can swim, swim.’ Some of the older boys swam bravely across, a few of them almost carrying friends with them. I couldn’t swim across a river like that, and I was afraid of the crocodiles, so I waited for my turn on the raft. Of my cousins, Wour was the only one big and strong and brave enough to swim. The others came on the raft with me.
After I got to the f
ar bank, groups on both sides were given jobs to do before nightfall. Soldiers patrolled the fringes, to make sure nobody ran away. I had to collect firewood, while others made a clearing for a night-time shelter. As the evening meal was cooked, I sat looking towards the other side of the river and wondered if being separated from my mother would always feel this bad.
The next morning, when everyone had crossed the river, my mother included, the journey continued. We walked for two more days, stopping at different villages. Each village would be asked to contribute by supplying us with food and extra supplies. Some were happy to help, but others were unimpressed at having to share what little food they had. None, however, refused us. They were intimidated. They knew it would be taken by force anyway. We were moving into Shilluk land – a different people from the Dinka. They marked their foreheads with small incisions rather than long straight scars. The adults wore sheets knotted at their shoulders and hanging down low to their knees. They didn’t keep as many cattle as we did, and being riverside people they lived by their fishing. As they spoke Shilluk rather than Dinka, we had to communicate by sign language. It was a new world for me, and mostly I was scared. There were many armed bands about, and we were not a strong group. Other army groups were known to attack each other, and I was afraid that these people who spoke different languages could be our enemies. They might have hidden guns. We could be attacked at any time. I was constantly insecure.
My mother and Monyleck were about to end their part of the journey. I was grateful that they had at least come this far, but was scared about the prospect of being on my own.
The night before she left, my mother cooked some meat in soup for my six cousins, Monyleck and me. Her meals were always better than the bean stews the army cooked, of course, but this one was the best meal I’d ever eaten. She told us we would all be safe and reminded me of the protection the ancestors had granted me. Monyleck added to her words of comfort, but just as he’d done with me back in the village, he told us all that if we decided to run away after he left, he would track us down and shoot us. With that thought we tried to go to sleep. I stayed awake for a very long time, wondering what it would be like to continue on to Ethiopia alone.
Early the next morning, Monyleck and my mother turned back towards home, and our group started moving onwards. It was a strange parting. There were no tearful farewells. My mother simply said, ‘Go well.’ Then she called me ‘Chol-dit’, which made me feel special. Attaching ‘dit’ to my name meant a respect usually reserved for grown-ups. I could feel my shoulders straighten and I raised my head high. To have the respect of my mother was all I needed to continue my journey as a true adult, capable of looking after myself.
My mother didn’t hug me or kiss me goodbye; she just walked off into the distance. I didn’t want to hug or kiss her, as I felt I had to control myself to appear manly. To give way to my emotions might have let loose an unstoppable flood. If I had cried, she would have cried, and that would set me crying even more. The other boys would then start teasing me or otherwise make my life hard. So I distanced myself and watched her walk away. I felt strongly that it would be the last time I would see her, and it was. Later that night, when I was lying down and meant to be sleeping, I let some of my thoughts come through. But I grew so sad, I forced myself not to think about her. I tried to pretend that nothing significant was happening. I would practise this repression of my feelings for many years, and it was nearly a decade later, when I was in South Africa and began watching a lot of TV and seeing kids with families, that I began to understand truly how I was missing my own family. For most of my journey I would be similar to the others around me, who had also lost their mothers, so I wouldn’t feel too sorry for myself. But in South Africa, when I saw boys my age with families, what had happened to me so many years before would hit me with full force.
CHAPTER 2
Ethiopia
FOR THE REST OF OUR JOURNEY TO ETHIOPIA, my closest companion would be my older cousin, Thomas Wour Kuol, the biggest of the six and the strongest. Often we smaller boys were picked on to do the hardest jobs, such as carrying the cooking pots or a big bag of maize, or the endless routine of collecting water and firewood, but Wour would step in and shoulder the load for us, even though he didn’t have to. He was about fourteen, a few years older than me. He hated the name Thomas and insisted that everyone call him Wour. When we were growing up he was one of my few cousins who would let me go with him when he hunted. The others all pushed me away, but he never did. Just as he had done then, he would look out for me now.
Our march took us through unvarying flat land, with loamy soil that was not being cultivated because it was the dry season. This country was not much different from where I had grown up. Everybody was tired. On a typical day, we walked in the late afternoon and early evening, stopped at around 11pm, cooked and slept a while, then started again at dawn, resting in the middle of the day for a couple of hours. A lot of the boys didn’t have shoes, and would fall behind. While those of us at the front rested, the slower ones caught up. A lot of them got sick, and all I could do to help was to share their load and rest with them. They suffered from weakness, stomach problems, coughing, mosquito-borne illnesses, and diarrhoea. Our group became very slow and sometimes weaker boys got too sick to go on. They would be left behind in villages, either alone or with a friend.
We continued to stop at villages along the way to Ethiopia, asking for food and shelter where we could. Our main source of food was the cattle we brought with us. Every few days we slaughtered and butchered a cow. At one village, where we stopped overnight, there was an uneasy feeling: we weren’t sure of how welcome we really were. In the morning we woke to find that our cattle had all been stolen. Everyone panicked. We had planned to use the remaining cows for milk, to eat, or to sell along the way to buy other things such as goats or grain.
No one in the village was telling us what had happened overnight. We’d all been so tired from walking that no one had stayed awake to protect the cattle from theft. Now someone would have to pay. The boys whose job it was to stay awake were humiliated and beaten, while the leaders interrogated the villagers. The argument went on but the villagers were silent and eventually we had to continue our journey without our food supply. Before long we were close to starvation. What villages we did come across were now obliged to feed us.
When the cattle were stolen, Mayer said we should run back the way we’d come. He talked about how we could fish and dance and play, how good life was back home in our village. Bol and some of the younger boys began crying. We were already weak and upset from losing the cattle, and now Mayer was pulling on our heartstrings. ‘If we go fast for four days,’ he said, ‘we can catch up with Monyleck and go home with him.’
Wour wasn’t enthusiastic about this. Being the oldest and biggest, he would receive the brunt of the punishment if we were caught deserting. He looked at me suspiciously, seeing which way I would go.
I reminded my cousins of what Monyleck had said: if he caught us deserting, he would kill us or return us to the army. We had no choice, I said; better to take the pain all at once than to try to escape and have to go through it all again. Also, I said, our families would not be very happy to see us if we’d deserted. We might be bringing them all kinds of trouble.
Wour was pleased to see I’d taken his side. Mayer was just as big as Wour, but had a weaker heart. I was showing Wour that I was as brave as he was.
As time went on the days all seemed the same. Wake, walk, rest, continue, eat, sleep. My cowskin slippers lasted two months. I kept trying to tie them together, but eventually copied the idea some boys had had of tying old T-shirts around their feet. The ground was sharp with hard mud, cut up by cattle hoofprints and then dried, very rough. There were not many rocks, but sticks and roots poked through, and thorns. My feet cracked in parallel lines across my soles. They blistered and bled. There was no water to wash the cuts, so they got infected. Soon I would be limping along on my heels or toes,
trying to find a part of my foot that wasn’t hurting. Like most of the boys, I walked with a long staff to support myself, bent like an old man.
We were afraid of being attacked by government soldiers or militia, so we began to sit in the shade and doze for most of the day, and then do our walking at night. We had no light but what was cast by the moon and the stars. The tactic worked, at least. No one attacked us along the way.
Food was our incentive. Normally our meal consisted of some maize mixed with beans in a gruel. We scooped it out of bullet boxes, which were our bowls. We ate twice a day, a little bit early in the morning and then more in the evening. If we arrived very late, sometimes we were too tired to eat. If you could stay awake, you’d cook. As long as we were getting something, we didn’t think of the better food we’d had back home or what we were missing out on. But sometimes we went twenty-four hours without food, and it was every boy for himself, selling clothes or anything of value that you had for some scrap of food. When we had nothing, some boys would start talking about what people at home would be eating or drinking at this time of day. They did this to see if they could make other boys cry. It was a kind of bullying and also a way of spreading discontent, because the boys who were doing the taunting wanted to run away but feared doing it alone. Their objective in causing unrest was to goad the others into running away in a group. It never worked. Our leaders kept telling us that if we went a little bit further, there would be good food waiting for us. They always lied to us about how far we had to go, they always let us down, but we had no choice but to keep going.
One day we stopped at a local elder’s hut in the area of Dong Jol. Locally this man was considered an ayong dit, a magician with psychic powers. We heard he had predicted that two bombs would fall in the area, but no one would be hurt and the bombs would be wasted. The leaders of our group asked him to perform a ceremony to help us on our way. He ordered swathes of grass to be parted to form a path and a rope-like material stretched at waist height for us to jump over. We would all have to jump the rope without touching it in order to receive his blessing to continue our journey safely. All but one of us jumped successfully. A boy called Miakol Deng failed.
