by Cola Bilkuei
The next day, we heard planes flying in the distance. We were told they were Antonov bombers sent by the government. We never actually saw them, because they were so high. Just as the magician had predicted, they dropped two bombs. Neither hit the village and as far as I know no one died. The following week Miakol Deng went missing and we never saw him again.
At the time Miakol disappeared, we were closer to Ethiopia than to our villages. We were all getting very tired. As we were sometimes tempted by villagers’ offers to take us in, most of us thought Miakol might have run off to be employed or exploited by a local villager to do their work for them. Others thought he had been killed by villagers, and robbed, or taken by wildlife. If he’d run into the forest, a lion or hyena might have attacked him. Later in life, I met a lot of people who had known Miakol, but I never heard anyone say they had any knowledge of what had happened to him. He had disappeared into thin air.
It was in a village called Wutlang that an old woman made an offer to my cousin Chol and me. When we entered strange villages, we usually spread out to the huts to ask for food. This old woman looked after us very well, giving us lots to eat. After one meal, she said: ‘Come and stay with me, you two can be my sons. You can look after my cattle and I will find wives for you.’
We made agreeable sounds, because she was feeding us so well. But when it came time to form up again in our basila, there was no question of staying. Why would we walk all this way just to stay in a village like Wutlang, where we didn’t know anybody, to look after an old lady? As nice as she had been, we had no intention of becoming her sons. As we gathered to march out, I noticed Chol was burying his face in his T-shirt. I looked to the side of the path and saw the old woman, searching for her ‘sons’. I left Wutlang with my face hidden behind my hand.
Later, Chol and I talked about the woman. I found her very strange, and not credible. Chol was tempted to believe her. As I ran the scenario around and around in my mind, I was thinking: ‘I already have all these things, cattle and land, back at home, so why would I want to set up a life here?’ It scared me – like she was asking me to abandon my own family. But as we were so afraid of something going wrong, and as we wanted the food she was offering, we had played along to keep the peace and now we were out of the village, we were relieved most of all that we had escaped without causing any big problems.
Another month would roll on before we reached Nasir, a small town on the Sudanese side of the Ethiopian border. Before we arrived, we were warned that the government army had tried to seize the town, but failed. We were about to see just how devastating war could be.
The SPLA were now patrolling Nasir’s borders. What little remained of the town was a mess. All the buildings, whether they were made of brick, mud or thatch, had been burnt down. A few were left in ruins. As we entered Nasir the overwhelming smell of death hit us. There were trenches everywhere, many lined with dead bodies rotting in the heat of the sun. As we marched through the town many of us were physically sick, not only from the stench but from the terror of not knowing what we were walking into. The town was eerily quiet at first, but every now and then we would come across someone weeping over a dead soldier or civilian. As I looked at the bodies I wondered if I, too, would end up in a trench with my friends. I tried not to look at the faces of the dead but I couldn’t help noticing one boy who seemed to be around my age. His face was calm. To an extent it gave me comfort: at least in death he had managed to find peace. As I moved on I chose to look up at the cloudless blue sky, the only thing that seemed clean and untouched.
We didn’t know it then, but along with the trenches that had been dug through the town there were also underground dugouts in which Arab soldiers from the government army were still hiding, waiting for the SPLA to move out. We never saw them. The fighting seemed to be over and for the duration of our stay we didn’t see any further bloodshed. It wasn’t until we had long gone that we heard that the fighting had resumed when these Arab soldiers emerged. I wondered how the surviving people of the town could cope with even one more loss. I didn’t want to think about how many more people were killed after we left.
It took us a day to walk through Nasir, the trip made slower by the care needed to avoid the landmines that riddled the town. The government had planted mines inside Nasir, while the SPLA had planted mines outside. They were each trying to trap the other.
We went through in single file, with an SPLA officer in front who had already been in the town and established a safe path for us to follow. He gave us strict orders to stay in line, and we snaked through the town. Half a metre either side could mean death.
By nightfall, safely on the other side of Nasir, I felt exhausted. With the image of so many dead burnt into my memory and the smell still lingering, I thought of my family back home. I thought mainly of how my father had been so tough on us and why it now made sense. I couldn’t imagine having seen the images I saw that day without the preparation I’d been given. As we readied to sleep, I could see others who were still shaking. We had all seen the carnage, but no one wanted to talk about it. In Dinka culture, it was considered bad luck for young people to talk about death. Looking back on it, I think we were also traumatised by what we had seen. The SPLA showed us no concern. There was certainly no counselling! Among ourselves, we might go so far as to say, ‘Did you see that body?’, but for a lot of us, it was the first time we had seen dead people. The SPLA had told us from the beginning that we were on our own – no mum or dad; we were army and we’d be treated as army. An experience like Nasir was treated as part of our induction, as if we were going to have to get used to this. I felt very alone. As I lay down to sleep that night, I wondered how the others in my basila had grown up and what their fathers had done to prepare them. I thought about the ceremony I had undergone, with my father and the stick, and how I had passed the test. I felt safe enough to sleep for the night.
We had left Baal, the place of my birth, in December 1987, and had now been walking for more than three months. My feet were sore and covered in cuts and blisters. My shoes had fallen apart and I was walking barefoot. A lot of the time we walked through mud, and some boys got bad infections in their feet like had. We had lived on stews of maize, beans and water, shared among too many to satisfy any of us. By now, a lot of boys were ill. But in the army, if you could still eat, you were not treated as sick. The SPLA didn’t consider malaria or diorrhoea to be a sickness. An infection in your foot, as long as you could walk, was not treated as serious. The only sickness they would recognise was one that stopped you eating. Some boys got into that state, not eating for a day or so, but they would recover and keep stumbling along.
A day after Nasir we arrived at the military barracks in Jokmiir, a logistical centre for the SPLA. I met two of my uncles here, Dau Ngor and Deng Mayer. They were on their way back from Ethiopia where they had been training. Dau Ngor was my father’s brother, while Deng Mayer was my father’s cousin. We only had a few minutes to talk to them, most of which we spent exchanging greetings, but when we said we were going to Ethiopia they grimaced and said, ‘You boys are too young to go there.’ But they could see it was inevitable, and didn’t want to make us feel too scared, so they said in farewell, ‘It’s close, not too far now.’
The barracks in Jokmiir were extensive, and no civilians seemed to live there: it was all SPLA.
Jokmiir had no big buildings, just a scattering of mud houses and big khaki tents where they stored ammunition. I’d never seen a real army camp before, and was curious to see how the SPLA was set up. But this was only an arms dump, with no more than a hundred soldiers staying there.
Here our journey would take a new twist. We were cooking in the barracks area when there was a great machine noise and someone shouted, ‘Come outside!’
We all stood, our eyes wide with excitement. It seemed we wouldn’t have to walk across the border into Ethiopia – we would fly by helicopter! I had seen a helicopter flying in the air before but this was the first ti
me I’d seen one up close. Never had I imagined I would fly in one. The helicopter was painted in khaki camouflage. Its enormous noise made me afraid, and I didn’t dare go anywhere near the blades, which were blowing dust everywhere. The engine remained switched on, and men were running around shouting, as if they were all thrown into chaos by this terrifying machine.
As the base commander told us what was going to happen and who would fly first, some of the other boys surged towards the helicopter. They were beaten back by soldiers who quickly re-established order. The commander continued telling us that we were now on our way to Gambela in Ethiopia, the last stop before reaching our ultimate destination, Pinyudo. He praised us for getting as far as we had, then told us how our new life in Pinyudo would be worth our long journey. Seeing that our energy and morale were flagging, he said Pinyudo was a good place where a lot of other Sudanese boys like us were living and studying. ‘Everything you need is there,’ he said, ‘food, clothing and housing. It will be better than where you have come from.’ Pinyudo was our final destination, he said, and we would make friends there. (He didn’t promise that we’d meet any of our relatives – the SPLA didn’t want us to strengthen our family ties.)
When he finished his speech it was time for us to be split into groups to board the helicopter. Again some of the others let their excitement carry them away, rushing towards the loading zone. My cousin Wour, however, seemed to become afraid and ran towards the back of the group. The blades were in motion and this time I was swept up in the surge of those moving forward. I tripped and stumbled to the ground as others continued to run over the top of me. I was afraid that if they continued someone would end up being shot. The next thing I knew, I was being picked up and thrown into the helicopter. I could hear yelling over the sound of the blades as the soldiers finally got the others to settle.
More children were herded into the helicopter; we were like cargo, there were no seats, it was just an empty shell. As the rest of the group screamed to be let on board, the doors were slammed shut and before I knew it we were lifting off. The petrol smell was overpowering and we couldn’t hear anything but the chopping of the blades and the scream of the engine. I scrambled to a window and looked out. I could feel my heart pound as the earth seemed to drop below us. I could see cows and huts, plains of grass and tracks that went forever. Others, too, were looking, while Bol was immediately sick, throwing up within minutes of taking off.
For most of the flight, I was too scared to look. I’d pop my head up against the window but didn’t look down for more than a few seconds. Like many of the boys, as soon as I took a look I would recoil. It was so far down. The helicopter was also flying erratically, throwing my stomach all over the place.
I have no idea how long we were in the air, but as we descended I knew that we had arrived in Ethiopia.
***
Gambela was different from the flatness of home. Here we were in the mountains and the air smelt of spice. Everyone was in uniform. The soldiers scared me at first – their skin was lighter than mine and at first sight I thought they might have been Arabs. There was a lot of saluting and everything seemed very formal.
No sooner had we landed than the helicopter took off to pick up the next group. It would ferry back and forth throughout the day until most of our group was across the border. Wour, who avoided the helicopter ride, had to walk to reach us. With delays, it would take him two weeks.
Gambela wasn’t a very relaxed atmosphere, with guards watching our every step. The military compound was surrounded by a tall metal fence, parts of which were topped with grass. I would soon learn that the smell of spice came from the food that was cooked on site. For the first time in a long time, we would eat something other than maize and beans.
The food was stored in what the SPLA called its ‘consulate’ in Gambela. We arrived hungry, but there was almost too much food. We were all warned not to eat too much, but some of us, including me, didn’t listen. Our bellies bloated and the sudden change in diet made me sick. The maize was more finely ground than I’d been having, into a pap, and was served with beans or lentils seasoned with oil and salt. It was clean and well prepared, but our stomachs were not used to it.
While eating, I watched the Ethiopians who were there. They were shorter and more lightly built than us. They were much better equipped and wore cleaner uniforms, and their barracks were bigger and newer. They didn’t speak our language, and shouted all the time instead of just talking.
We stayed in Gambela for two weeks waiting for our orders. During our last few days there, some of the others grew restless. By now everyone just wanted to move on and finish the journey. Many of us were excited to leave this camp for our ultimate destination, Pinyudo. Lots of kids were talking about what they imagined the camp would be like. So far we hadn’t been told anything bad about Pinyudo; if anything, it sounded like a wonderful place. We knew that it was a military camp, and of course our families weren’t there, but by now we were resigned to our status as soldiers and it felt almost as though we were heading to our new home. Having been broken down by the gruelling months of walking out of Sudan, we were willing to put the brightest gloss on anything that seemed even a little bit better.
There was one stop before Pinyudo: a market town called Itang. I was amazed by this place. It was the first time I’d seen anything like it. There was row after row of open-air market stalls. Most were covered in cheap sheets and grey or black blankets supported by wooden poles. The United Nations sign was displayed everywhere, as this was a UN-sponsored distribution centre. But really it was chaos. Everyone was shouting over the top of each other, advertising their products. Everywhere you looked there were people selling all kinds of things – tomatoes, sugar, fish, Sudanese beer (called mou), clothes, shoes. It seemed to me as though you could buy just about anything. I was overwhelmed, not only by the amount of people and the noise and the size, but by the smell. The whole place stank like a giant butcher shop full of rotting meat. The stink was carried on the thick smoke that rose from stoves and fires at what seemed like every second stall.
To make it worse, there were no toilets anywhere. Everyone had to use the bush that surrounded the markets as a huge human waste dump. The resulting stench was at its worst when the sky cleared after fresh rain showers. As the clouds parted and the sun hit, steam would lift the odour of faeces from the ground. Flies were everywhere. The rain also washed the effluent on the ground into the river, making the water dangerous to all those who swam in it, bathed in it and drank from it. Most people got their drinking water from taps that were connected to spear pipes into the ground. They would queue like sheep to get their share, but the water was also the source of terrible disease. It was being carried in from the river, scooped up from the same areas where everyone was washing and going to the toilet.
Despite the smell, Itang’s markets had an atmosphere that I found irresistible. It was the biggest and busiest and most colourful place I had ever seen, and I was rejuvenated by it. It carried a sense of excitement and, to a degree, danger. There were always people running, yelling, screaming. The markets were patrolled by a lot of police, both Sudanese and Ethiopian. Outside the markets there was a prison: a small mud block with a thatched grass roof and a door that was fashioned out of small oil containers that had been flattened and cut and reconstructed as a sheet of metal.
The police’s main problem was controlling the scores of children who had escaped from various army camps and were now alone and running amok. Some had found work bringing water from the river in thirty-litre jerry cans, selling it to survive, but most of them went around robbing and harassing people. Some had guns and would attack and rape girls. They used to sniff glue, smoke weed and drink alcohol.
These kids couldn’t be controlled by anybody – they’d gone feral. They were very scary, because they had had some army training and were skilled in violence, skills they were using to survive. They worked the market and knew how to use money. They’d attack you if t
hey thought you had something they wanted, especially if you were young. But my friends and I, seeing that they could afford good leather soccer balls, would push down our fears and play football games with them. I felt sorry for these children, as they were about my age and were heading for jail. If they were arrested for rape or for stealing, they would have their hands or legs cut off. I saw at least ten boys, sixteen or seventeen years old, walking around with scar tissue over their wrists where their hands had been. If they were stupid enough to commit another crime, there was no mercy: they would lose their other hand. I saw young men with no hands. Nobody pitied them. If both of their hands had been cut off, it was obvious they were thieves, and they would be treated like criminals for the rest of their lives. It would be better for them to move to somewhere where nobody knew them.
I remember one of these young men in particular. He was about eighteen years old, tall, light-skinned, with eyes that were always as red as fire. He was like a tiger, wild and unafraid of anything. The first time I saw him, he was pickpocketing an old woman. He saw me watching and came up and stood right beside me. He stared at me with his angry eyes and I knew that if I said a word I would be in trouble.
A little while later we heard that some of the boys who had been terrorising Itang had been arrested and sent to prison. The next time I saw that wild boy, weeks later, he had become quiet and timid. He looked scared of everything. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Now that he wasn’t a threat, I became almost friendly with him. I felt sorry for him but I knew to still keep my distance.
