Generosity

The year 1991 will live in the memory of many Sudanese refugees. That’s the year we were forced out of the Ethiopian refugee camps after the collapse of the communist regime in that country and went back to our native Sudan. For thousands of us who re-entered the Sudan through Pacholla, a border town on the Sudan-Ethiopia border, our challenges were immense as soon as we set foot in the town.

A garrison town, Pochalla was heavily mined by the Sudanese army before it was sent packing by the Sudan People’s Liberation Army, the SPLA. It made moving around extremely dangerous. Adding to our discomfort was that we arrived along with seasonal floods.

These two phenomena curtailed the options of many relief agencies which had established their presence in the area as soon as we arrived. The threat of mines, for instance, prevented the expansion of a small airstrip which could have allowed bigger relief planes to land. The flood, on the other hand, made the relief agencies cautious of sending in a relief convoy via dilapidated seasonal roads, which were the trademarks of south Sudan then.

In the face of these formidable challenges, the presence of the International Committee of the Red Cross could not erase the ominous shadow of starvation hanging over us. We wore gloomy faces as we talked with nostalgia about the food we enjoyed in Pinyudo refugee camp in Ethiopia. Food was the preoccupation in every discussion we held every evening. It crept into every sentence uttered in every conversation. Despite the danger, we didn’t even contemplate our safety in Pochalla. Indeed, there was an air raid one week after we arrived and we didn’t speculate about the likelihood of the Sudanese army repeating the raid. All this was relegated to the bottom of any discussion. Any faint spark of energy left in our bodies was devoted to the next morsel of food we could scrounge and would it ever be enough.

Some of us who contemplated returning to Ethiopia were held back by the thought of being repatriated to the Sudan by the new government. At least that was the message that was rammed into our feeble minds: the new government in Ethiopia was formed by a Sudanese-based rebel group which would not hesitate to deport us to Sudan given their long held ties with the Sudanese government. The accuracy of the statement on outright deportation to Sudan by Ethiopian authorities is still debatable to this day, but that is not the point of this story, dear reader. The point of the story is how our desperation was met with generosity, although it would take us awhile to recognize it.

As in most times of hardship, the quest for survival tends to weaken the ties of friendship between boys in a big group. We started to dread larger gatherings for the obvious reason that such association makes it hard to share whatever minimal food we had beyond the rationed common share. The comradeship developed among us boys who crossed to Pochalla from Ethiopia was replaced by a tighter, smaller group of friends who shared the little that was available. These small groups also discussed survival strategies in low tones. There were four of us in our group. Majong Lual, Tong Aleu, Tang Nyuot and myself. Majong, who was a little bit older than us, was the natural leader and often took the lead in the inevitable discussion of what we could do to survive starvation. Again and again, we toyed with the idea of returning to Ethiopia. But each time we talked about it, the fear of being repatriated to the Sudan held us back from executing our plan.

Majong told us one day that the only option left for us was to go to the neighbouring Anyuak villages to sell our labour. The Anyuak are a Nilotic-speaking people who are found both in Sudan and Ethiopia and whose economic activity revolves around crop production, game hunting and fishing. They grow corn-maize at the start of the rainy season which they harvest in July and then immediately plant sorghum. Since it was a harvest time in the Anyuak villages, Majong correctly envisaged the Anyuak might need extra hands. On the other hand, there were reports of theft of Anyuak maize by some boys who preceded us to the village. This created strained relationships between villagers and those who were there to sell their labour. We heard reports that the Anyuak were killing boys like us.

Was it worth going? We met inside Majong’s makeshift shelter to thrash out our plan.
“You know as I do why the dire situation we are facing at the moment demands action,” said Majong, as we sat knee-to-knee on the ground. “We are responding to this predicament the way we are, because the result of inaction is certain death from starvation.”

“Do not use exaggerations to block candid debate on a crucial topic like this,” Tong Aleu interrupted. “There are other boys in this settlement who are stoically withstanding the pangs of hunger rather than risk going to the Anyuak villages.”

“If you are not willing to take risks in order to assure your survival, then you are in the wrong place, my friend,” Majong retorted. “It seems you have learned nothing from all we have been through,” he added. “For some of us in this room, taking risks is part of our survival strategy.”

He pauses to let his last sentence sink in. “Of course, we are not throwing caution out to the wind,” Majong continued, “but in a mindless fashion.” He seemed to have been affected by Tong’s statement. “What I wanted to say is that the risk we are taking must be guided by caution. Our quest for survival must be linked with our conduct in our daily interactions with the villagers. To ensure compliance in our conduct towards villagers, I want to make it clear to all of you that from now till we return to this settlement, I will have a final say in all matters affecting us while in the village. Without exception, anyone who wants to remain in this group must adhere to this rule.”

Known among us for flaunting rules, Tang protested. “It is inconceivable to consult one person every time we want to do things,” he argued appealing to us. Addressing Majong directly, he asked. “Why are you not allowing people to use their own discretion in certain situations?”

Majong’s rigidity of opinion is common knowledge to us and we didn’t want Tang to scuttle our last hope of doing something to escape our perpetual hunger. To hasten our departure, we sternly reprimanded Tang for trying to foil our plans and marshalled an agreement to all the conditions Majong demanded. No sooner had we agreed then a decision was arrived at that we would go to a village called Oguti, which is 12 miles from Pochalla.

We quickly ran back to our respective shelters to collect our meagre belongings and leave before we our resolve dissipated. We quickened our steps as we left the settlement to make sure that no one saw us and asked us where we were heading to. Each of us carried a long walking stick which doubled as a weapon in case of animal attack. Much of the journey was spent wading in water.

Exhausted and still hungry, we sat under a tree just beside the flood watermark. We did not rest for more than 10 minutes when a tall muscular man with an AK 47 slung on his shoulder appeared from the same direction we came from. He was wearing worn-out military fatigues which exposed his hairy chest. We could see as he approached us with jaunty strides that his eyes were bloodshot. He stepped out of the water and walked straight to us. He stood in our midst and peered at us as if we were not clearly visible. He looked away briefly and from then on avoided any eye contact. He didn’t utter a word or sit down to rest like we were doing. He just stood tapping the barrel of his gun gently.

We could see that the man was in deep thought, but we could not tell what he was thinking about. Was he pondering how to finish us off? Was he waiting for his colleagues who were possibly still behind before he started shooting at us to ensure none of us escaped? All these questions raced through our minds. Our hearts were beating wildly and we were all scanning the surrounding bush in case we needed to escape. Using the experience we gained from repeated violence inflicted on us by war, we feigned composure. Terrified as we were, we knew that any show of panic in a situation like this would hasten our demise. This tense situation dragged on for about 15 minutes until Majong summoned his courage and told us in a measured tone that he was going to stand up and walk towards the footpath and that we must follow him.

No sooner had he stood up and started walking towards the footpath, than we also shakily arose and wobbled in the same direction. I was shaking! We were all certain that our departure would prompt the man to act, but to our surprise he joined our ragtag parade silently. With the man walking towards the village with us, we resigned ourselves to prolonged agony. We couldn’t guess his intentions, but we cherished every minute he was sparing us. We walked for almost an hour when we saw smoke rising from the nearby village.

As we approached the village, the man quickened his steps and passed all of us, then turned around and addressed us in Juba Arabic. “Boys,” he said expressionlessly. “Follow me.”

We obeyed. He led us off the main foot path to a narrower path that led us to the first homestead at the edge of the village. There, we saw a crippled man sitting under a big fig tree and beside him was a rifle. The sight of the man with the rifle confirmed to us that our anxieties were not unfounded. We stood nervously as the two men exchanged pleasantries in the Anyuak language. For the first time, we realized that man was from the Anyuak ethnic group.

After their short conversation, he turned to us and told us to sit down. We sat down obediently, our nerves in complete flux. The next thing we heard was the crippled man shouting instructions to three boys who were playing at the edge of the corn-maize field. The instructions were said in Anyuak, of course, which none of us could understand, but the appearance of those boys 10 minutes later laden with corn-maize cobs suggested to us that perhaps this man was not who he seemed to us. Could he be our saviour? The boys put down their load and went off to find firewood which they would use to roast the corn-maize.

As the boys continued with their work, it dawned on us that the Anyuak whom we suspected as cold blooded murderers were the opposite. They were treating us as guests and displaying the pinnacle of hospitality in South Sudanese society!

Our hunger, which had been pushed down by fear, roared back ferociously at the sight of the corn-maize roasting. Even so, we were still a little bit suspicious. Majong was in the middle of warning us that these people may give as food to distract us and then execute their plan, when the man who brought us to the homestead stood up and addressed us.

“Boys,” he began. “My name is John Obot and I am the SPLA solider from Jamus (buffalo) battalion stationed in Pochalla garrison.”

“I am on my leave and travelling to my village near the Rad Mountains,” he continued. “I believe you have been wondering since I met you at the edge of the flood watermark why I waited for you and walked with you to this village. The reason is simple. I am aware of the starvation that has befallen the population of the displaced persons that moved back to Sudan from Ethiopia. I am also aware this situation has affected you, the unaccompanied minors, more than the general population.”

“So, when I saw you, my heart was saddened. In your faces I saw what I knew, what I expected.” His emotions almost overcame him as he was saying these words. We could see he was fighting back tears as he spoke. “I saw hunger in your faces,” he went on. “And I thought all I can do is to bring you here and get you something to eat before I proceed with my journey.”

“Now that this is done, I will continue with my trip. Please take care of yourselves during your stay at Oguti.” After these remarks, Mr. Obot left without even waiting to eat with us.