Walk Toward the Rising Sun

by Ger Duany

  One day, at the basketball court, I had an argument with an African American player, Rob, with whom I’d never enjoyed a cordial relationship. He had referred to me as a “motherfucking African” before, but for the sake of peace, I had ignored his insults. On this particular day, we had rammed into each other during practice, and for some reason, he blamed me for the accidental contact that had left both of us in pain. He stood in front of me, running his mouth, once again calling me a “motherfucking African.”

  ROB: Are you stupid or something? I will not pass you the rock because you motherfuckas can’t handle it with your butterfingers.

  ME: Fuck, you too stupid.

  ROB: I will beat you and drag you around this basketball court. Say something again, say something, nigga!!!!

  I had no issues with being called an African, but at the same time my African pride wouldn’t let me allow another man to talk down to me right to my face. I’d had enough of it and pushed him away from me, and that’s when all hell broke loose.

  In that split second, the raw rage of the warrior in me shot from zero to a hundred. I went at him with blows that he never could’ve imagined me capable of, beating him up and employing a tactic only a Sudanese boy growing up where I did would: biting him and ripping his skin off with my teeth. Where I came from, biting was a legitimate tactic during a physical fight, but this must have been savagery to the Americans. Bleeding heavily from my bites and in shock that I had done the unimaginable, the guy ran off the court.

  ROB: I’ma teach your African behind a lesson!

  He was soon out of sight.

  ANOTHER PLAYER: That means he’s coming back with a gun.

  WHITE PLAYER: Thomas, get him off the court! He’s not joking. He’ll be back with a gun!

  Still caught up in my rage, I couldn’t leave. Thomas had never seen me fight before, and he too must have been stunned by how his quiet friend had become a completely different creature. An older white man came over and took me by the arm, leading me off the court. He spoke to Thomas.

  OLDER WHITE MAN: Hey, please get your friend out of here. For all our sakes.

  Thomas got me home but didn’t have much to say to me the rest of the night. He did hear some things through the whisper network, though.

  THOMAS: Turns out, dude came back with what was probably a gun. He’s been looking for you for days. Good thing we ain’t go to the same school.

  Somehow, this little brush with death didn’t stop us from doing the Loop. And our constant presence there put us on the radar of a group of white boys from our school, who seemed to be waiting for the opportunity to initiate a confrontation with us. One evening after school, Thomas, being the fast and cocky driver that he was—what some would call reckless—suddenly overtook the truck belonging to the ringleader of the group of white boys, catching him off guard and causing him to almost swerve.

  WHITE DRIVER: Fucking nigger! Who taught you how to drive?

  THOMAS: Your mother!

  Thomas laughed as we drove off.

  WHITE DRIVER: I will see you tomorrow, motherfucker!

  The next day, we were back at school, and everything went well until lunch break. Thomas and I had become close friends with two Iraqi brothers, Ahmed and Abdalla, with whom we spoke Arabic. Ahmed and Abdalla were some of the kindest people I had met in my new life in America. Ahmed was a senior, Abdalla was a junior. They had immigrated to America as young kids and become as American as was possible, speaking slang like they were African Americans.

  That day, we ate lunch together. As we were leaving the cafeteria, the heavily built and hairy white boy from the previous evening approached us, walking straight at Thomas, and starting with the insults.

  WHITE DRIVER: Hey, motherfucker! You were talking trash yesterday. I could fuck you up right now. Who taught you how to drive?

  THOMAS: Man, I want no trouble with you.

  Thomas kept walking. A group of white boys surrounded us, blocking our way. Before we knew it, the white-boy driver hit Thomas so hard on the back of his head, he almost fell down. Seeing where things were going, I pretended to back off, pulling myself away from the group, as though allowing Thomas to pay for his sins by himself. But as the white boys relaxed, thinking they had Thomas all for themselves, I randomly picked one of them and kicked him so hard in the stomach, he started throwing up. Thomas was yet again surprised at my reckless yet necessary move.

  Ahmed and Abdalla joined in, backing Thomas and me up. Before we knew it, the entire cafeteria was in chaos. Seats, food trays, and anything else that could be thrown flew around as more Sudanese and white students joined the fight, each group taking a side without knowing the origin of the brawl. School security quickly rushed in and broke it up. Thomas, a couple of the white boys, and I were given a week’s suspension from school. We spent the week hanging around shopping malls.

  In May 1995, five months after I arrived in Sioux Falls, I was staying in the East Rice Apartments when James Tot Miak took me aside.

  JAMES MIAK: I have received reports from your school that you have been falling asleep in class. I have also spoken with Paul, who assures me you have a good mind and could excel in school if you applied yourself.

  The way we’re living here is not conducive to your education and overall well-being. I blame myself somewhat for this laissez-faire lifestyle.

  ME: Come on, please? I promise to do better.

  JAMES MIAK: Even so, I think you should contact your father’s brother, Dr. Wal Duany, in Bloomington, Indiana. Ask him if you can live with him and his family and get a decent education, away from me and these terrible influences.

  I knew of Uncle Wal Duany, though I had never met him. I’d never thought to contact him before because he was famous in the Sudanese community, a fact that made me feel he was out of my league and reach. He and his wife were both university professors and very active in the Sudanese diaspora. Everybody knew who they were, and there I was, a random son to one of his brother’s five wives. Such an important man couldn’t be expected to help out every distant relative who contacted him. Nonetheless, Miak took the bold initiative and dialed Uncle Wal’s number.

  Making what must have been a huge leap of faith and showing an incredible generosity of spirit, Uncle Wal invited me to live with him and his family. I was once again being uprooted from the familiar, being sent to a supposedly better unknown.

  Before I left for Uncle Wal’s, I ran into my childhood friend Peter Gatkuoth. He had made the trek to Walda not long after I left Akobo. Being nineteen at the time, he had managed to travel to America on his own.

  PETER: You’ve got a new life and new experiences, indeed. I am so excited that you speak perfect English.

  ME: And I am excited to see you, Peter. What’s the word?

  PETER: Did I ever tell you what really happened to that journalist Simon’s camera?

  ME: What do you mean? That soldier took it. Whatever happened to him? Did he die in the battle at Baliet?

  PETER: No one knows his fate for sure, Ger. Except that all Nube soldiers drowned in the Nile. So if man didn’t get him, nature surely did. But I know mine and Airborne’s fate for sure….It was us, Ger. Airborne Boy and I took the camera and lenses because we wanted them. We hid the equipment in the bush. We didn’t even know how to use it; we just were annoyed that Simon had it.

  ME: And you never told anyone.

  PETER: Only his girlfriend, Nyankor. And now there’s only me who even could. Maybe it was karma. It left Airborne Boy and Nyankor dead and me alive, suffering inside, unable to unburden myself, with their deaths and that of the soldier crushing my conscience. Eating me alive.

  ME: Why didn’t you tell me?

  PETER: You always had a big mouth. What would you have done?

  ME: You’re right. Probably told. Peter Gatkuoth, we all did bad things, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not. What
matters is that every day into the future, we do better.

  PETER: You are right. Our generation has been devastated by events no human should ever have to face. We didn’t know better. Life in Akobo remains ugly!

  ME: It was our turn to fight the battles, but those who are in a position to kill today will be killed tomorrow. This is a vicious cycle.

  PETER: Nigeeri, you were always a gifted kid with some sense. Look at you now, so mature. Maybe one day things will be normal again. And maybe one day we will recognize what normal is. Nothing is impossible, brother.

  I sensed something was a little off with Peter. He didn’t care much for school, preferring to chase the freedom that America offered—both a blessing and a curse. But now that I knew he was here, it helped me feel like I was not alone. We said good-bye, and once again I dove into the unfamiliar. I wondered what would happen to my friends who continued living an amped-up version of the thug life we’d led in refugee camps. I too felt the strong pull of that life, as it was familiar, but I was off on yet another journey, given yet another opportunity to make something of myself. I hoped I deserved it.

  AFTER A LONG BUS RIDE, I hopped in a cab, which took me to the Tulip Tree Apartments in Bloomington, Indiana. They called my uncle down to settle the cab fare, but instead of doing so, he got into a verbal altercation with the driver.

  UNCLE WAL: What do you mean, a hundred dollars? You are trying to take advantage. You should have told him to take the train, which would’ve been much cheaper. I will pay you sixty dollars and that’s it!

  The moment I walked through the door into the spacious three-bedroom apartment, I felt a sense of redemption. I was being given a chance to start life over with my uncle and his wife, both doctorate degree holders, and their sons Bil and Kueth and daughters, Nyagon and Nok. Their eldest son, my cousin Duany, was away at the University of Wisconsin. So much smarts in one place.

  UNCLE WAL: Everyone, please meet Ger. He’s the cousin from Sudan about whom I’ve been telling you guys.

  AUNTIE JULIA: Let me show you to your room.

  ME: Yes, Auntie Julia.

  AUNTIE JULIA: You will be sharing it with your cousins Bil and Kueth. But please feel welcome. That’s the shower over there. You can have a quick one before dinner is served.

  My cousins came to me with warm smiles and outstretched arms, the Sudanese way, giving me a long group embrace that made me feel like we had known each other all along. I hadn’t felt such love and warmth for a long time.

  Kueth was away at basketball practice and came back just after I’d had a shower and changed my clothes. I heard someone opening the bedroom door and saw a tall, dark young man about my age walking in. He could have passed for one of my Sudanese friends I’d grown up with, were it not for his heavy American accent.

  KUETH: Hey, Dad. This is Ger?

  UNCLE WAL: Yes, that’s your cousin.

  KUETH: He looks more like Duany.

  Kueth’s brother Duany was a basketball legend, so I took that as a compliment. I stood up and went to greet him the Sudanese way, by patting him on both shoulders before embracing him, but Kueth had no idea what I was up to. He stood there beaming.

  KUETH: Hey, Ger, how are you doing, man? It’s really great to finally meet you. Dad’s been talking about you a lot. How was your journey here?

  ME: I’m doing great, Kueth. It’s really nice to meet you too. The trip was eventful but nothing unusual.

  I don’t know why I couldn’t speak the truth about my journey and the atrocities I’d witnessed or the trials I’d faced. Maybe I thought it just wasn’t the right time. Maybe I thought there’d never be a right time to relive all that.

  KUETH: I’m glad that you made it. This is home. I think you’ll like it here. If there’s anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to let me know.

  From our first meeting, I knew my cousin Kueth and I would have a special friendship. He seemed genuine and unpretentious, and we bonded over our love of basketball.

  My uncle did more formal introductions at the dinner table later that evening, telling my cousins part of my story and saying that his first priority was to get me an education.

  UNCLE WAL: Ger is your brother. We all have to find ways of supporting him so he can get a proper education and make something of himself.

  One of the first things I noticed in my uncle’s household was that everyone had a right to speak and share their opinion at the dinner table, including Bil, the youngest in the family. It was completely opposite to life in Sudan, where my father’s word was law. I was now part of a world that was not restricted by the culture and traditions from back home. I found it difficult to fit in at first, accustomed to the carefree life on the streets of Sioux Falls. My first obstacle was language. My cousins, uncle, and auntie spoke proper English, while mine was heavily littered with street slang. I had to check myself every time I spoke to make sure I didn’t use any expletives, which was the norm in my previous life.

  I spent the summer with Kueth, working on a few people’s lawns during our spare time, and made some pocket change while developing a work ethic, which my uncle insisted I do. Then, during dinner one evening, he brought up my returning to Sioux Falls and the topic of my education.

  UNCLE WAL: Getting an education is what Ger needs most at this point in his life. I think he should head back to South Dakota before the school year starts up again.

  I think he felt his family was big enough and also knew I had a reputation for fighting. Everyone seemed to think it wasn’t a good idea, however. My cousin Duany, who was home from the University of Wisconsin, piped up first.

  DUANY: Dad, look at Ger. He has the physique to play basketball. Let him stay and have Kueth teach him how to play better. He can take my spot in the bedroom while I’m away at school.

  With all my cousins rooting for me to stay, my uncle was outnumbered.

  UNCLE WAL: Ger, if you are to start school here, I have a little test for you. I want you to write a composition. Your auntie and I will look at it, then decide if you can be a sophomore.

  I was a little older than Kueth, but due to my late schooling, I would now be a sophomore with him—if everything went according to plan. I did my level best.

  To my uncle and Aunt Julia,

  I am writing this letter to beg you that I like to stay here in Bloomington Indiana. It is good chance to get your guidance in this strange land. I will be a good family members in this house. I left Sudan because there was no school but my mother and father did not believe that I could be here with you in the USA. I will complete my education, with hope that I will return to serve our family in Dengjock Village.

  In Itang camp, my level of education is primary school but when I arrive in Ifo camp in 1993, we did not get any schooling. I know how to write in Nuer language. I know how to speak Arabic very well. If I can spend time here in Bloomington, I believe I can succeed as a junior in high school instead of sophomore. I am so embarrassed to attend classes with children in which are two to three years younger then I am.

  I held my breath as I handed it to my aunt.

  AUNTIE JULIA: Hey, Ger, you sure have good handwriting.

  Auntie passed the paper around the house for everyone to see. At that point in time, I knew I couldn’t express myself that well in prose, but the one thing I had going for me was exceptional handwriting. The upside to having to sit and write this composition was that I was allowed to stay with this new crop of relatives and start school!

  As low as my grades were, my uncle took me to school and insisted I be made a sophomore. I had other ideas.

  ME: Uncle, why not let me be a junior in high school?

  UNCLE WAL: Ger, things don’t work like that here. Let me tell you my story. When colonizers had control over Sudan, they cultivated an education system based on the white man’s knowledge and culture. They actually asked chiefs o
f our villages to give up their children to go to school. But my father, Duany, refused to give us kids up while your father, Thabach, was still young. Later, he did allow me and the Honorable Peter Gual Kuiny to attend their schools. I arrived in America in the sixties, with tribal marks across my forehead, and was sent to school as an older child. And due to this educational opportunity, the Honorable Peter Gual became the leader of South Sudan. And I served as minister of finance in South Sudan until Sharia law was introduced. It doesn’t matter how old you are, education is lifelong learning. Even if I had been forty years old, I would have had to start at the beginning, until I reached higher learning.

  It was important to me not to be socially behind my peers, even if academically I needed extra help. I thought it would help my emotional growth and self-esteem. Concepts and mathematical laws will come to you in time, whereas shame can leave you back decades. But I lost my argument with my uncle, so sophomore it was.

  I knew I could play basketball, run track, and play soccer, and said as much during the admission process. I scored four goals in my first soccer scrimmage, making me an instant star on the field. But when I went to the basketball court, the first thing the coach told me was that I was too skinny.