by Ger Duany
PAUL: Once we get to Gambella, we will pay truck drivers to smuggle us through Ethiopia into Kenya. It will take days, and means switching from one truck to another.
ME: I’ve smuggled myself on trucks many times. This will be a piece of cake.
PAUL: If only it were that easy. We won’t have food or water for many hours at a time. Maybe days. And armed military personnel could discover us at any of the checkpoints along the way. Now is the time to speak up if this is not for you.
We all stood there in silence. Paul looked out of the corner of his eye to see if anyone was wavering. But despite his firm warnings, we all decided to forge ahead.
Regardless of the rough terrain and inadequate rest, the fact that we were on the move toward someplace hopeful invigorated us. Once at Gambella, I saw light-skinned men with curly hair and rusty front teeth chewing khat—the color of their teeth a side effect of drinking excessively strong coffee. Paul spoke Amharic to a number of truck drivers, negotiating a fee for us to get to Gore, our next stop. He came back bearing sad news.
PAUL: They want more money than we have. We can only afford the trip if I send one or two of you back to Sudan.
He addressed each one of us separately, giving reasons why we were or weren’t eligible to continue with the journey.
PAUL: Ger, your mother sacrificed a cow for you to come on this journey. We’ve sold the cow and that money will be useful to us. For this reason, you will come with us.
After Paul was done reassuring me, I stayed quiet and still, maintaining sympathetic eye contact with him, lest he change his mind. I wanted to exclaim in relief but didn’t, knowing that someone, at least one of us, had to go back. I held my peace so I wouldn’t appear to be gloating.
PAUL: Jangjuol, we can’t send your sisters Nyangile and Nyakume back. So, for that reason, you will have to go home. But one day we will find a way to get you out of Sudan.
Everyone turned around to look at Jangjuol’s crestfallen face. He tried not to show his anguish.
PAUL: If you get back home, please tell everyone we have made it this far.
If.
That was the first time I had ever seen my usually animated friend speechless. I will never forget the deflated look on Jangjuol’s face as we boarded the cargo truck the next morning. I imagined him making the journey back to Sudan alone and wanted to tell him it wasn’t my fault that he hadn’t made the cut, that I would opt out and let him take my place. But it wasn’t true.
We were all silent during the journey across the mountainous Ethiopian countryside, with its narrow roads meandering to and fro, its steep slopes and sloppy terrain. We got to Gore late at night, and the chilly weather was unbearable to people coming from hot Sudan. Paul got us some Ethiopian food: injera, with a tasty sauce, which was our only meal for the day. He then rented a room for the night. The entire group crowded inside, some squeezing on the bed, others spreading themselves on a mat on the floor. What mattered was that we had a roof over our heads and that we were moving away from Sudan.
The weather remained torturous the following morning, and we hadn’t brought along any heavy clothing. Every one of us was shivering. Paul got us some tea, sold on the streets, after which we made our way to the main bus park in Gore.
BYSTANDERS: Chinkila! Chinkila! Chinkila!
Different groups of Ethiopians heckled us as we walked by, calling us a degrading term that meant “dark-skinned.” We were all as dark-skinned as a Sudanese could get, and I was quietly fuming. Paul, knowing I had once been an AK-47-carrying young man who had both shot and been shot at, quickly intervened. He spoke to the group of us, but looked at me specifically.
PAUL: Don’t mind them. We still have a long journey ahead of us. Don’t get distracted.
Paul knew as well as I did that to a Nuer man, nothing mattered more than his sense of self-worth, his dignity and that of his family. In this case, the people I was traveling with were my family. Though I was still in my teens, I was already acting like a man—leaving home and going on long treks in search of a livelihood, always ready to defend my honor. After Paul’s intervention, I swallowed my anger and kept moving.
From Gore, we took another cargo truck to Jimma, the most advanced and picturesque urban space I had ever seen. It was much bigger than Malakal, with wider, more populous streets. I tried counting the number of trucks I came across and quickly lost track. There were endless shops, and I could manage to store only a fraction of all this in my mind. I took that as my cue to surrender to a new reality. Maybe these were the sorts of places I would encounter from now on, places with a vibrant street life, where everyone seemed to mind their own business.
To me, this looked like how proper human beings should live, with shops well stocked with supplies. Back home, no matter how much food there was in a town or an SPLA camp, you knew war would break out and it would be back to square one: starvation. If anything were to happen to me at this point in our journey, I could at least say that I saw Jimma with my own two eyes and felt like I had made it in life. I kept repeating this to myself, powering myself further. No turning back, no matter what.
That night, we slept in a rented room much smaller than the one we shared in Gore.
PAUL: From here on, things are going to get expensive. City life is very costly, and so we’ll make do with only what we can afford.
Paul had bought us flip-flops and a few clothes in Gambella, but it was going to take more than some new clothing to make us look like anything resembling urban dwellers.
I stayed up through the night imagining what the bus ride from Jimma to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia’s capital, would feel like; wondering whether I would be allowed to sit on the soft seats that I guessed were reserved for adults who cleaned up nicely; worrying that Paul would have to turn more of us back if we couldn’t afford the cost of the ride for the entire group. I tossed and turned the whole night.
The following morning, Paul told us his strategy for the trip.
PAUL: I have timed the duration of the trip from here to Addis Ababa. We must travel after midnight so that we get to Addis in the morning. That way, we won’t need to pay for accommodation. We’ll proceed to the Kenyan border right away.
Late that night, he took us to the bus station, where we boarded the most comfortable means of transport I had ever taken. The bus had plush seats and traditional Ethiopian music, which sounded like Arabic music from Khartoum, playing from little speakers mounted on the ceiling. All these things were a spectacle to me, and much as I presented a calm exterior, I remained tense and restless, trying to take everything in.
I chose a window seat so I could look out and experience the Ethiopian countryside, even in the dead of night. To my pleasant surprise, everyone, young and old, had their own seat on the bus. I tried to stay awake throughout the journey, despite my overwhelming exhaustion, and only knew I’d lost that battle when I woke upon arrival in Addis Ababa the following morning.
AS SOON AS WE DISEMBARKED, Paul pulled me aside.
PAUL: I can take you to see your cousin Gasim Gam.
ME: That would be great.
After Oder had left for the SPLA front line, Gasim had moved to the Ethiopian capital, avoiding SPLA fighting duty, possibly taking the same advice Oder had given me: get an education, do not let being a soldier be your highest aspiration in life. Once in Addis Ababa, Gasim had enrolled in school and was now struggling through college.
We found Gasim living in pretty deplorable conditions, even by Sudanese village standards. It was a tiny, congested, unkempt house with poor ventilation. Back in Akobo, the huts were clean and spacious, at least, well ventilated with adequate distance between them, complete with open fields used as playgrounds for children. Where Gasim lived was a congregation of little rooms with limited natural lighting, the general surroundings reeking of poor sanitation.
Upon seeing us at his door that early in th
e morning, Gasim started oscillating between excitement and despair: happy to see us but regretting that he had nothing to offer us, like breakfast.
I understood how difficult things must have been for him, having had no relatives in Addis Ababa and being dependent on handouts from generous well-wishers. A tiny bed with a worn-out mattress and a reading table were all he had, but whatever Gasim lacked in material things, he made up for in good cheer and a resilient spirit. He never wallowed in self-pity, no matter how dire his circumstances. He was a true southern Sudanese.
PAUL: Gasim, sorry to ambush you so early in the morning. I have brought you guests.
In African culture, receiving guests, including (and especially) unannounced ones, is considered a blessing, a sign that the ancestors have appointed you to be host of your relatives with pride and kindness. From that, more good tidings are to come your way.
GASIM: Oh, my people. You are very much welcome. Look at Ger, all grown up. Ger, how is everyone back home?
ME: Everyone is fine, Gasim, but things are still dire. I’ve left to try to get an education.
Gasim knew that Nyandit had passed away, but we did not dwell on that or on the death of his uncle Keep due to famine. We Sudanese do not dwell on death. If we did, we’d be in a perpetual state of mourning. Instead, we move on with life.
GASIM: As you can see from my example, it’s not going to be easy. But that’s the right decision.
I found the cold in Ethiopia unbearable, and so I asked Gasim for an extra item of clothing.
GASIM: I’m sorry, Ger, but I haven’t received any money lately and have no extra clothing. The only thing I can offer you is that blue T-shirt over there. You can have it if you like it.
The T-shirt was dirty and sticky with lice, but I had no choice. I glanced at Paul before picking it up, then smiled appreciatively at my cousin.
Later that evening, we headed by bus to the Kenyan border. We got off on the Ethiopian side at a small shopping center, where we joined a group of Ethiopians trying to sneak into Kenya. We couldn’t go through the official border point and face the Kenyan and Ethiopian immigration officials since none of us had proper travel documents. The alternate route was through a heavily forested mountainous terrain, but we couldn’t be seen heading through there as a group, because that would make it obvious we were sneaking in. Paul devised another plan.
PAUL: We are going to walk toward the forest one by one. The most we can risk is two people moving together. Once you get there, just keep walking.
We started trickling into the trees at around two p.m. After walking for almost half an hour, we assembled at the foot of a mountain for a quick head count to ensure everyone had made it that far. We had now formed a joint climbing party with the Ethiopians, our fates intertwined. There were no clear footpaths up the mountain, yet it seemed like those leading the pack, Paul and others, had a general sense of the direction we were going. Throughout the climb, monkeys residing in the mountain kept making noises, as if to alert us to their presence.
There was talk within the group that Ethiopian and Somali rebels sometimes took cover in the mountains, and for this reason we tried to walk as quietly as we could. If anyone wanted to pass along a message within the group, they would gesture for everyone to gather around. No shouting was permitted. The Ethiopians journeying with us told us a group of Sudanese escapees had been ambushed and killed in the forest a fortnight earlier.
We got to the mountaintop after dark and rested briefly before starting downhill. I kept looking at Nyangile and Nyakume, wondering how taxing this must be for them. I was tired and thirsty, but this type of journey had become a kind of adventure for me. I had learned never to dwell on the difficulties but always to keep my mind focused on the destination. In that way, immediate suffering faded.
By the time the sun came out, after a number of stopovers and quick naps, we found ourselves on the Kenyan side of the border. I once again felt like I was moving toward my future against all odds. Our first human contact was with Turkana men and women, tall, skinny, and dark, just like the Sudanese. We came to a traditional homestead at the bottom of the mountain, where a man was lying down next to a cattle kraal, resting his head on a tiny three-legged stool. He rose to his feet upon seeing us. Instead of questioning us, he ushered us into his homestead, possibly aware we’d had a long night trekking through the forest.
Paul whispered to us as we went.
PAUL: They are good people. Don’t panic or show any resistance.
There was a language barrier, but somehow the Ethiopians managed to ask the man if he could get us some drinking water. The man shouted something, and a woman came from farther inside the house. She shook our hands, after which she took a traditional pot and vanished for ten or so minutes, returning with water. She then got a plastic jar from one of the mud houses for us to use as a drinking vessel. We each gulped down water before passing the jar on to the next person. Paul made what looked like an attempt to ask for directions. The man spoke and gestured, and Paul seemed to understand. We bid the man and woman farewell and headed toward Walda.
It took us another six hours to get to the refugee camp. That year, drought had killed a lot of livestock—camels, cows, and goats. In Walda there were hundreds of southern Sudanese but also hundreds of thousands of refugees from the Ethiopian civil war. This new life in the camp consisted of us sitting around, scrounging, and squabbling over food or perceived slights. I met Paul’s friend Gatluak Riek, who was, I sensed immediately, someone I could learn from—not only had he received a proper education in Nairobi, but all the girls in the camp said he had the nicest smile they had ever seen. Gatluak Riek further convinced me that I needed to go to America.
As fate would have it, I spotted Lual Nyang, my English-speaking friend from Itang, who’d kept an eye out for me there since I tended to get into fights. Lual had grown a big Afro with a perfect hairline, like the comedian Steve Harvey’s in the 1990s.
* * *
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As 1993 turned to 1994, we all moved camp to Ifo, in Garissa County, Kenya. This was the first time I’d ever seen so many white people: they were donors or “high-profile” supporters of the UN. Later on, I learned that their mission was to assess the camp in order to build a school and also a treatment center for children, since so many lacked health care and proper diets. We didn’t have any intimate interaction with them because there was tight security, but we just found them fascinating.
Lual and I would venture off into the bushes to squat and pee. That was when we had this exchange:
LUAL: Man, we gotta stick together in this camp. Because any day we could be in America, Canada, or a Scandinavian country like Denmark or Norway.
ME: Maybe we’d grow old there. Sometimes I wonder if that means we won’t ever be able to come home again. If we’ll be stranded in some European country. I’m already homesick. I miss my family.
LUAL: We are going to be okay, Ger.
ME: Nyajuri!
LUAL: Nyajuri!!!
“Nyajuri” means “togetherness under one roof” and signified our brotherhood.
We waited for our destinies to be handed to us, since it seemed all we could do as refugees was wait. We met a boy, Thomas Kutey, who had a huge family and resided in Kenya’s capital, Nairobi, because his father was an educator and a politician. That’s where and how he had learned to speak proper English and Swahili. He had never lived in a refugee camp, but when he came to Ifo for a visit, we somehow clicked and became friends.
Most of the time, Lual and I hung out with a boy named Nhial, whom we called Mini Leg because he was so short, and Mai, a kinky-haired and angry boy who bore the traditional Nuer warrior scars on his face. We played soccer in the dusty field by ourselves, collected firewood, and tried to keep one another laughing while standing in line to receive our UN food rations.
Things got tense when Nhial got
a girl pregnant. The girl’s brothers stormed through camp, threatening to beat up anyone who was a friend of Nhial’s. That put a target directly on my back. Not just from them, but also from Paul!
PAUL: YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS, GER? HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN? YOU ARE A BAD INFLUENCE!
I clearly had nothing to do with Nhial and the girl’s actions, but Paul wouldn’t hear it. This created a lot of tension between me and Paul, which we eventually settled as a family, but it left a bad taste in my mouth—one that would build up, like bile, and come roaring back years later.
Despite all that drama, my friends and I continued to meet, play, and speak of America—the dream of having our choice of different pants and shirts to dress in, and speaking English perfectly without any African accents. The word “America” itself became imbued with so many meanings and possibilities, most of them vague, like the remnants of a dream, but all infused with hope. Every week, we hoped to see our names printed on the UNHCR chalkboard, which would signify that we were finally scheduled to leave the camp. And so we waited.
EACH MORNING, I WOULD CHECK the chalkboard outside the UNHCR building in Ifo. It would sometimes take me half an hour to get there, but all I could think about was the prospect of making it to America. Up the stairs, through the corridors, I’d stop in front of the board and read the name of every person on the list to make certain I didn’t miss mine. On March 7, 1994, I headed up those steps and scanned that board like any other day, poring over dozens of names, when my heart leaped into my throat. There it was: GABRIEL GER THABACH DUANY. My name. Typed up on an old-school typewriter. I spelled it out in my head again and again, making sure I’d read it right. But I had. It felt, I imagine, like winning a Mega Millions lottery. I’m not sure when I started breathing or walking again, but I somehow made it home, dazed and dreaming of how my life would change. How everything would now be better. How there would be food, and money, and education, and opportunity there for the taking. How I could put war behind me. How the battles I fought, inside and out, would end, and I would have peace. Finally, there would be peace.