Walk Toward the Rising Sun

by Ger Duany

  I noticed early on some complexities of racial identity in America, including with colorism within the black community. African Americans looked down on Africans—we knew nothing about America—and expressed mild disdain for or curiosity about people from the Caribbean. Caribbean people looked down on African Americans—they considered them uncivilized—and admired Africans because we were from the motherland. And then we Africans just tried to fit in, although, of course, we had our different ethnicities and nationalities that kept us apart (Nuer versus Dinka, Sudanese versus Somali). Outside of all this were the white people. Then, as now, in Des Moines as well as in Sudan, lighter complexions signaled easier times.

  What often happened in the boys’ locker room before phys ed, or while on the basketball court, was that some African American kid, who clearly had no idea where I came from or what I’d been through, would shout a slur at me.

  One time, they decided they were going to fight me at three p.m. in the locker room.

  KID: African booty scratcher!

  I was silent. He came up behind me and brushed against me, trying to get me to react. So I did. I stood up and pushed him hard. And then a different kid started punching me from the back. It was a rumble in the locker room.

  In truth, these kids were really pushing it. I’d been to war and survived it. Sometimes war still raged in my mind. I was not looking to make enemies, but they were making enemies of me, something I would not have advised.

  These fights at school further drove a wedge between Paul and me, since to him I was a reckless former child soldier who was refusing to reform to his ways. I was still a boy with no idea how to operate with the self-control and decorum required in America, but racism permeated my life in Des Moines much more than ever before. I struggled to learn how to confront it without tearing my opponents apart, which, unbeknownst to them, I knew how to do—though perhaps not without ruining my own life in the process.

  I also had a problem following the school schedule, and a girl named Kimberly, who seemed to like me a lot, helped me understand when I needed to be where. My other big battle was algebra, which I totally couldn’t comprehend. Ms. Johnson, a blond woman who taught us math and had developed a liking for me, went out of her way to try to help me improve my grades. It was not just that I was learning a new language, lifestyle, and worldview. I was also suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, like so many refugees do. So few, including me, knew what that was or how to deal with it, so we suffered inside our own heads and hearts in silence, without the words or a universal language to describe our torment.

  Those nights that first year were bad: often sleepless, my eyes dry from too much blinking or wet from too much quiet crying. When my lids would finally close and I’d slip into sleep, it wasn’t dreams that came but chaotic nightmares without end. I shouted in Nuer, thrashed about, feeling that I was back on the front lines, my finger on the trigger, ready for a snapping twig to mean my death or someone else’s. America felt lonely. I felt trapped, a prisoner, and unable to fully come to grips with its expectations, with working for grades in school when all I’d ever wanted was to know how to read and write. It seemed like too much pressure.

  I worried about Mum too, and hoped she would hear, through that reliable refugee grapevine—the same whisper network that passed along my father’s instructions as well as news of my brother Oder’s death—that I had safely made it to America. The idea that she might think me dead, not that long after Nyandit had been killed, also haunted me. However, money was of little use in Akobo (as opposed to other places and refugee camps), and so for the time being there really wasn’t anything I could aspire to do in order to help or contact her. I imagined her rising with the sun, hearing the cock’s crow, and feeling Akobo beginning to hum. During that first year in America, once I was under the covers, I hoped my dreams would carry me back to my beloved mother and Akobo, rather than replay bloodshed and terror—but they rarely did.

  Paul and I were butting heads. I was forever grateful that he had played a huge role in getting me to America, but I didn’t want him to use that as an excuse to have me under his thumb forever. We ate rice day in and day out, as if we were still receiving food rations from the UN. I let this go, since I didn’t have much of an appetite anymore, and instead spent my time riding a bicycle with a Sudanese friend named Gai, who had introduced me to Coke and Sprite, which became my favorite drinks. Once I’d had a taste of soda, I refused to eat at home. I grew thinner and fragile.

  I wanted my independence—the freedom America boasted about. And I thought one way to go about gaining it was by earning my own way. So I went to a local Burger King and lied about my age to score a job. I was assigned to work under a short, talkative, energetic African American teenager who spoke so fast I couldn’t understand a word he said. My duties included picking up trash from the parking lot and getting supplies from the freezer. I slowly started to learn slang from this kid.

  SHAWN: Hey, dawg. Where you from?

  ME: Sudan.

  SHAWN: Did you see lions there?

  ME: Yes.

  SHAWN: Did you live with tigers and shit like in the movie Coming to America?

  ME: No. We had a lot of cows.

  I was hoping to save money to send back home to help people with medical bills. However, after two weeks I got fired for always arriving late to work. I didn’t understand the concept of punctuality yet. Where I was from, we set our own clocks.

  We lived near the YMCA, where there was a basketball court. Both and I would hang out there after school. My height made the African American kids at the court assume that I was good at basketball, and so they always asked me to join their games. This is what sparked my love for basketball. I wanted to assimilate into American culture as quickly as possible, and basketball seemed like a surefire way of doing so.

  However, Paul discouraged me from all sports.

  PAUL: Only academics will lead to success. Stop this nonsense and come home right after school. You must concentrate on your studies.

  But because of my imperfect English, I felt I could excel at physical activities more readily than at academic pursuits. Playing sports was also a great way of making friends—which seemed crucial to surviving American high school—but Paul, with his rigid mindset, refused to recognize that such a thing as play could be important for my future.

  But I was not a boy, even if I was not yet a man. I was a hybrid—a boy in age and maybe appearance, but a man in life experience, responsibilities, and, yes, trauma. Basketball gave me a way to express my warrior nature without hurting anyone, and I instinctively understood the importance of channeling my energies in this way. Paul had never been a soldier, so he couldn’t comprehend this. I would come back from playing basketball every evening and find Paul at the apartment. Wanting to avoid conflict, I would walk straight to the bedroom Both and I shared, lock myself in there, and cry quietly, thinking about home and my mother.

  I was harboring and suppressing a lot of anger, and Both was always underfoot. Paul was on my case, accusing me of leading Both astray, so tensions at home were boiling over. Then one night, as was bound to happen, Both and I had a terrible fight.

  ME: I told you not to follow me to the YMCA! You know Paul thinks I’m a “bad influence.” You’ll get us both in trouble!

  BOTH: I don’t give a shit about following you around. I’ll go where I wanna go and do what I want.

  ME: Are you cursing at me?

  BOTH: I’m so tired of you complaining, Ger!

  Being the older and stronger one, I beat Both up badly, to a point that the neighbors called the police. When they arrived, they reprimanded us and left. After everything cooled off, I left and went to play basketball at the YMCA. I got back and found Paul at home.

  PAUL: You are a hopeless child soldier. You refuse to contain your anger. You cannot go on this way. We cannot. You are
not walking in the footsteps of the Lord.

  My relationship with Paul had deteriorated beyond repair. This, along with his Christian proselytizing, was too much. He had tried micromanaging our so-called family, but Both and I had been soldiers already and had done too much, seen too much, built too much angst and independence to put up with being treated like little children. That fight was the last straw. It was time to flee, to become a wanderer once more.

  IN DECEMBER 1994, I GOT in touch with a group of refugees I had known at the Walda and Ifo refugee camps in Kenya. Shortly after I’d come to the United States, they had immigrated to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, some having taken longer routes to America, including through Lebanon. Mostly young adults, they were now living in several apartments in the same building at East Rice Apartments, located right by the main highway. Everyone in the Sudanese refugee community knew that if you wanted a place to hang out and have conversations with fellow countrymen, then South Dakota was the place, and East Rice Apartments was one of the spots.

  One of these individuals, James Tot Miak, who was a decade or so older than me, had taken a lot of young refugees under his guardianship. So I approached Paul with a plan in my head.

  ME: May I have your permission to visit a group of old friends from Sudan in South Dakota?

  PAUL: I think it is a good idea; go during Christmas break.

  Once I got to Sioux Falls, I reached out to James Tot Miak using a term of endearment.

  ME: Garmiak, I’d like to attend school at Washington High. I was wondering if you could be my guardian while I’m here?

  UNCLE JAMES TOT: Did you discuss this with Mr. Paul Ruot?

  ME: No, I will call him once I have your answer.

  UNCLE JAMES TOT: Well, I am okay with it, Ger. I’ll be your guardian if Paul agrees to it.

  What I didn’t say to either man was that I had been in touch with Thomas Kutey, the boy from the prominent Nairobi family I had befriended when I was at Ifo. He had come to America much earlier than me to seek educational opportunities and was attending high school in Sioux Falls. We had luckily reconnected through the refugee grapevine, and I’d learned he had a driver’s license and access to a vehicle almost twenty-four hours a day. This sounded just like the living situation I wanted.

  Thomas resided with an older Sudanese refugee, Will, who had spent many years working in Khartoum, Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon as a military specialist. Will owned the car, which he always left with Thomas. All Thomas had to do was drop Will off at work in the morning, then pick him up in the evening, and, over the weekend, run errands for him, never forgetting to stock his favorite beer. The rest of the time, Thomas and I could drive around, buying chicken and hip-hop radio cassettes whenever we had change left over from Will’s errands. Thomas was a fast driver and the music was always loud in the car. The freedom felt good.

  It was nice living with other young people in Sioux Falls, including Thomas’s younger brother. But there were many Sudanese who, after settling in America, struggled in one way or another. Some had alcohol problems or mental health issues, or couldn’t keep a job. We didn’t judge them, however. Because of the spirit of brotherhood espoused throughout the community, they always found a place to eat and sleep, no matter how bad things got. This, in a way, allowed them to hide their problems and their shame. The refugee community had its own safety net, guaranteeing them at least the minimum for survival.

  Over the break, I started settling into the lifestyle of my refugee friends in South Dakota, spending days and nights talking about old times, joking around, watching American movies, and listening to hip-hop. But because most of us were former child soldiers, we almost always gravitated toward the violent aspects of American pop culture. After seeing gang warfare glorified in films and music videos, we began to fancy ourselves members of either the Bloods or the Crips, and dressed accordingly in their respective gang colors, red and blue.

  For the first time in my life, I felt totally liberated, like I was a completely new person. I was finally becoming just a young man in America, my Sudanese past, I thought, vanishing from my psyche. FUBU, Guess, and Karl Kani became the baggy jeans of choice. I wore red bandannas, and within six months, I had picked up English and would now sing along to Scarface and Wu-Tang Clan lyrics.

  It had never occurred to me in my wildest imagination that a day would come when I would feel more at home in America and less worried about Sudan and my family. But what I experienced in South Dakota—that sense of disconnection from my past and being transplanted into a present that felt like a distant future—simply blew my mind. I let go of my attachments to the motherland, instead deciding to be American and feel American.

  No one knew how to make this happen for me like Thomas Kutey did. And the Sudanese refugee community, which had immersed itself in the gangsta-rap lifestyle of fast cars, nice clothes, and endless partying, created the proper social ecosystem needed for my newfound Americanness to thrive. The lack of a concerned guardian like Paul didn’t help matters. My life was now fully in my hands.

  WHEN THE BREAK WAS OVER, I was supposed to go back to Des Moines, back into Paul’s custody. But I had become a different person—a much rowdier, more insolent version of myself, which I knew Paul couldn’t handle. James Tot Miak had already agreed to enroll me at Washington High School, which my partner in crime, Thomas, attended. James Miak allowed me, like he did all those under his guardianship, to live a somewhat carefree life, where he didn’t expect me to go back to his apartment every evening.

  At this point, I made my case to Paul that I’d be eighteen in two years, and he agreed I could take care of myself. Frankly, I think he was a little relieved I’d be out of his hair, so that solidified it—I was my own man, on my own.

  I spent days hopping from one Sudanese refugee’s apartment to another, hanging out with my age-mates. As long as I updated James Tot Miak about my well-being every once in a while, I was scot-free. Everyone in the community knew how liberal, kind, and generous he was, and so no one ever questioned me about why I had such freedom.

  Thomas and I were inseparable. We played basketball together and became friends with a cool Ethiopian guy named Girma, who braided his hair and looked like a member of the hip-hop group Bone Thugs-n-Harmony. It was around this time that we discovered something called the Loop, a downtown cruising strip where kids from different high schools brought their parents’ cars on weekends. They hung out in parking lots and drove around playing loud music, showing off, and sometimes selling and consuming drugs on the low. Doing the Loop, Thomas told us, was supposed to be a mark of arrival. Whoever stole the show during these sessions became the talk of the town for as long as their fifteen minutes of fame lasted.

  The first time we did the Loop, Thomas Kutey took charge, calling me by my nickname (which my friend Musa had given me early on, meaning “symmetrical face” or “lady-like features”).

  THOMAS: Yo, Nyigeri, this is it! We gotta drive around, play the loudest music with the windows rolled down, and slouch in our seats to show off our brand-new bandannas.

  Teenagers of all races, male and female, showed up looking fresh from head to toe, everyone trying to pose like they were the coolest crew. I was a quick learner, and armed with my Thomas- and Girma-sanctioned Americanness, I too acted like I knew what the Loop was all about.

  I joined in uttering insults whenever anyone, whether white or black, crossed our crew the wrong way.

  THOMAS: Yo, motherfucker, white boy! Pick up the pace, dawg!!!

  If members of one race verbally attacked those of another, the rebuttals were instant and unrestricted. Racial superiority was a mirage during the Loop, it seemed, and for the first time in a long while, I occupied a space where one’s race didn’t mean a thing.

  The Loop became a big part of our lives. We hit on white girls, asking them if they wanted to hang out with us. Thomas and Girma made this seem totally
normal. To me, it was like a totally alien adventure. But I always went with the flow.

  ME: What’s up, girl? You wanna talk?

  This was the standard pickup line we used whenever we came across a group of girls, and whenever they agreed to hang out with us, we would park our cars next to theirs at the gas station, play some hip-hop, and try to chat them up. The good thing was that none of us were into alcohol at the time, and all that Thomas and I indulged in was basketball and hip-hop. Whatever little money we had went toward sneakers, clothes, and the latest hip-hop releases. That was as far as we went.

  But something strange started happening to me after doing the Loop for a long time: I started acting like a roughneck of sorts, and nobody could get through to me, my pent-up fears and anger mounting. Growing up, I had heard stories about my uncle Machiel Duany, who, upon leaving for Khartoum, had cut off all contact with the family, and had never gotten married, which was a big deal in our culture. He only spoke Arabic and was said to have either forgotten how to speak Nuer or simply chosen not to claim it as his language. No one knew what he was up to.

  Different stories circulated about my uncle Machiel. Some said he was a mysterious figure in Khartoum, fighting everyone and living a somewhat criminal lifestyle. Everyone was always warned, almost sarcastically, not to follow in Uncle Machiel’s footsteps. As I got deeper into the Loop, thoughts of becoming a Machiel kept crossing my mind. I started feeling that, sooner rather than later, I should get a grip on myself before it was too late. But in the meantime, my every action pointed toward my becoming a version of my uncle. I cared less about home and the things that were important to my people. Like a drug, the Loop was my life.