by Ger Duany
ME: I hear you, Dad. You know we still need you despite everything that’s happened. We are still your children and your family.
DAD: Go and tell Wunbil and his sisters that bitterness will not resolve anything. I know I killed their mother, but my death from hanging and the hatred the family might feel for me will not solve anything. Tell them I am here carrying my cross, and this should settle the matter. I will carry my own cross. Don’t let my actions in rage break the family apart.
It was hard to gauge whether my father was being remorseful or defiant, since he had always been a hard man to read, never expressive. Nothing had changed. It was as if he still wanted to be in charge, yet was also relinquishing control. Short, with a bushy beard and balding head, he looked like a blood brother to Dr. John Garang. I had now grown much taller than he, but his voice still had an authority about it, a power over me, taking me back to the days of my childhood in Akobo, when I would ask to clean his gun for him as an act of loyalty and responsibility, committing to his way of life as a young boy.
I then asked my father to speak directly to the camera and say something about his life or whatever he felt was important. In that moment, I saw my father become the man I had always known him to be: poised and authoritative, roaring in self-belief. Everyone in the room kept quiet, waiting to hear what the once indomitable Thabach Duany, now a chained-up guest of the state, had to say.
DAD: This land where you see me now imprisoned is a land that I fought for from the time I was nineteen years old. John Garang and I fought the Arabs using bare rocks. That is how long I’ve been fighting for this land with my two bare hands.
We were mesmerized by what he was saying.
DAD: Ger, I want you to listen to me. Go and tell all your mothers—my wives—and all your brothers and sisters that they must go and vote. Tell them to vote for separation. You must all vote for separation so that our people and our land can be free, once and for all.
That moment, now quiet and attentive, felt like my father was speaking to all of southern Sudan, oscillating between the personal and the not personal, using our family as a metaphor for Sudan. My father, in a low-pitched voice, continued:
DAD: I know your heart is heavy and you have carried a lot of burdens for a lot of people for many years. I heard you came in 2008 but couldn’t see us. But now you’re back. All these things you see me going through now, this imprisonment, don’t matter to me. Do you know how few people from my generation are still alive? I am lucky to still be here.
My father was passing the baton to me. He spent a lot of time talking about the future, telling me that whatever he and his generation had faced was nothing, asking that I and my brothers and sisters get ready for an even tougher time ahead.
DAD: We are just turning over a new leaf, which doesn’t come with any guarantees.
My dad’s need for unity within the family seemed to be as important to him as the future of Sudan. To him, unity between Wunbil, myself, and my siblings was nonnegotiable.
DAD: What you and Wunbil and everyone else must be thinking about is the future. The kind of price your generation is going to pay may be higher than what my generation had to pay. I know Wunbil is angry at me because I shot his mother. But do you know how many people we have all killed from the time we started fighting for freedom until now? We have even killed each other as we fought the north. But the time has come to start afresh. Tell that to your brother Wunbil when you go back to America. And remember to vote for separation, son.
I felt a mixture of emotions as our time to leave came. On the one hand, I was angry that my father had brought all this upon himself, and that now the family had to deal with the aftereffects of his rage. But on the other hand, I was just a son looking at his father, meeting him for the first time in ages. Had I stayed on a soldier’s path, this could have been me. I could have taken who knows how many lives of my “enemies” or even my family and friends. Or they might have taken mine in such a chaotic society.
ME: I have heard you, Dad. But I want you to know that no one can put things back together but you. Three years ago, I came here but couldn’t make it home to Akobo. I returned to America and now I’m back. I will go to Akobo and deliver your message. I am happy that I have seen you this time. I know you are a strong man.
That visit would remain an indelible memory, as if I had left a part of me at the prison in Malakal and taken a part of my father out with me.
AT THE TIME, THE ONLY way to Akobo from Malakal was by speedboat down the Nile. I was cautioned that this meant passing through volatile territory, where there was fighting. The fact that Wanuri and Marius were visibly foreign meant that we would become automatic targets for attack and extortion.
I called my mother from Malakal, where I was sitting on the bank of the Nile. I told her I had come as far as Malakal, but getting back to Akobo was proving difficult.
MUM: My son, if this is really your voice that I am hearing, then that’s enough for me. Don’t make the mistake of coming through the Nile. You will be risking the lives of the people you are with. I have heard your voice. That is enough for me for now.
Our only option was to head back to Juba and wait for the plane that flew once a week from there through Bor to the greater Akobo area. We paid for a ride on a humanitarian helicopter from Malakal to Juba, where we stayed in a little makeshift hotel, tents erected next to the Nile. Two days later, we took the thirty-minute flight to Bor before proceeding to Akobo. Throughout the trip, all that was on my mind was my mother, how she was doing, and how she might look after nearly two decades apart.
By the time we arrived, the landing strip was filled with people waiting to see the long-gone Ger. There was jubilation, and the area’s government representative sent an armed guard to keep watch over my friends and me for as long as we stayed in Akobo. As I traveled through the countryside—where every tree, hut, and field of grass seemed hauntingly familiar—I saw deep creases of long-held rage on the faces of my countrymen and women. Generations of war had changed our culture forever, but not, I hoped, beyond repair. Despite all the suffering, there was optimism that a new nation would rise from the chaos and bloodshed.
After much wandering across the world, searching, I’d finally gotten back to Akobo. It didn’t look so different. I couldn’t exactly recall the direction of my home, but the people who had received me at the landing strip were already leading the way.
It was a homecoming like I’d never imagined. We arrived at a homestead, which brought back a torrent of memories, and that was when I knew I was home. Women and children were all over us, and I couldn’t tell who was who.
ME: Where’s my mother. Does anyone know?
I sat under a familiar tree in front of my mother’s grass-thatched hut, not believing I had finally set foot in Akobo after so many years. A gentle breeze swept through the dusty town, and suddenly there she was—my tall, proud mother. To my delight, when she saw me, her face held nothing but joy. She was slender in body, but her alignment was not the same. It had been about eighteen years since we’d last seen each other.
MUM: Are you really Ger, who came out of my womb? Should I scream? Should I sing? Tell me what to do!
At first, my mother wouldn’t even touch me. She walked around the compound as though she were possessed by some invisible powers, chanting something inaudible, sneaking glances at me, and wondering aloud whether it was really me. In the end, she went into her hut and brought out a gourd of water, which she sprinkled all around me, and on my head, as she chanted a traditional prayer.
MUM: In God’s name, blessings to you all. Blessings to my son and his guests.
She then washed my hands. It was only after performing these rituals that she finally touched me, her hands trembling, tears dancing in her eyes, her face creased with a mixture of joy and sadness. I remained still and surrendered myself to my mother, who studied the physical presence of a son she�
�d spent countless sleepless nights worrying about, a son who had gone into the unknown and emerged as though back from the dead, safe and sound.
I kept smiling, though I was overcome by sadness at having been away from my mother and my siblings for too many years. I felt deep down that maybe I could have been protecting them, fending for them. Yet, at the same time, I felt a sense of relief, as if this was exactly how everything was supposed to have turned out. More importantly, my dominant emotion was gratitude, for everything. I had come from this village, this homestead, I had traveled the world, and I was lucky enough to have found my way back home, right into my mother’s arms, even as she had grown frail. I felt whole, joyful, and safe again.
I watched my mother the entire time before I moved my hands and touched her back, standing up to embrace her. I had not felt her warmth in nearly twenty years, and this was easily the most emotional moment of my adult life. I was weak but strong, certain but confused, and I knew I wanted to be nowhere else but right there in her arms, as though I were once again a little boy needing her guidance and protection.
Once the initial excitement subsided, my mother started in with the questions.
MUM: Where have you been and what have you been up to all these years you’ve been away?
I proudly told her all about my life—being a refugee, moving to America, going to school, modeling—and everything I had accomplished. She didn’t understand the notion of getting paid to wear clothes, but all that mattered to her was that she was looking at her grown-up son.
My mother then walked me to her hut. I had once sent her two photos of me in America, and there they were, in her simple mud hut, proudly displayed, eaten slightly with age. She took them down, saying all she recognized from them was my teeth and eyes, that my body had changed.
MUM: I used to tell people that I really don’t know if this is my son. And maybe he had become a runaway renegade like his long-lost uncle Machiel Duany.
We burst out laughing.
Two bulls were slaughtered that day, one from my father’s side of the family, and another from my mother’s side, in line with tradition. My uncle Reat was almost assuming the role of my father now, seeing that there was no other male figure in the home to take care of the traditional rites of welcoming me.
I then brought up the story of my father.
ME: How do you all think he is doing? Or his other wives and their children?
That’s when my mother’s smile faded, her face turning sad. Not knowing that I had already seen him, Mum spoke up.
MUM: If you want to see your father, you have to put in a request at the prison in Malakal, where he is being held.
ME: I’ve actually been there to see him.
Seeing my mother’s sadness brought a surge of anger in me, and my heart broke once again, thinking of Mama Nyantek’s death. Here I was, witnessing the consequences of his actions, a torn and haunted family that had a heavy, dark cloud hanging over it.
Seated there with the family, I decided to relay my father’s message to them. I had recorded his words using my cell phone, and after telling my mothers and siblings that he wanted them to vote for separation, I asked them to sit still before I played my father’s prison speech.
When I turned on the recording, the whole room erupted into wild cheers of surprise, few able to believe they were once again hearing my father speak right in front of them. In that moment of chaos, my mother took away the phone, running into an inner room with my second auntie Nyagieng so they could have a moment with their husband. It was a hilarious sight.
MUM: Is Thabach really speaking?
NYAGIENG: Yes, that’s really his voice!
As my mothers took their turns listening to the recording in private, those left behind in the room with me were awestruck, with all conversation dominated by Nuer exclamations. I now understood how much clout my father still had in the family.
Once my mothers brought back the phone, I was asked to replay my father’s voice again, with everyone present forming a tight circle around me. I took the opportunity to be my father’s emissary once again, relaying his thoughts to the family. This time around, anyone who attempted to interrupt the listening party was asked to keep quiet. When it concluded, it was back to exclamations. Some were shouting, some sat still, while my mothers gave me a longing look, as if they wanted me to play the recording once more. I told everyone I would preserve the recording, and that they could listen to it for as long as I was around. My father’s message seemed to have hit home.
My mother had given my filmmaker friends a warm welcome, ensuring that her son’s guests had the best that Akobo had to offer, treating them like they were her own children. An unfamiliar young child ran into the hut and into my mum’s embrace, renewing her joy. All these kids, my mother explained, were my sister Nyakuar’s! She was in a distant village, where she was staying with her inherited husband. Her first husband had been killed during the war, and for the time being, Mum was taking care of her seven children. I was amazed to think that my little sister, who had escorted me on my last journey out of Akobo, was now a mother, and such a fertile one at that. My mother told me my little brother Both was now an SPLA soldier, and even though the cease-fire with Khartoum was holding, he was on standby, just in case. I never got to see him or Nyakuar on that visit, but Mum encouraged me to go to Juba, where my only remaining older brother, Duany, was in the hospital, dying of pneumonia. I knew I would be back in Juba in under a week and would at least have a moment to check on him and see if there was anything I could do to save him.
Three days later, on January 9, 2011, I took all my surviving mothers and siblings to cast their vote in Akobo, a final gesture to honor my father’s legacy. We felt like one large family once again, walking together, me holding my mother’s hand.
My mother had never voted before, and she stared at her ballot for a long time—not because she didn’t know what to do, but because the weight of being able to vote and have a say in her future had finally landed on her. As she dropped her ballot in the box, I could swear she stood a little taller, her hands got a little stronger. Something had lifted and changed her. Pride? Hope? Power? I think so. Like she was the mother of a new nation.
* * *
—
I spent an extra day with my mother in Akobo, just thankful to be able to be in her presence. We reminisced about the long treks we made during my childhood, and my mother couldn’t express how grateful she was that I had managed to survive all those years and make something of myself. She was the one person who could give me the strength to carry on for the next phase of my life. The moments we shared before I left Akobo, eating the food she prepared and talking late into the night, would sustain me. And coming back home had changed me once again: something inside me had settled or lit up, as though I had just remembered how to be alive, and how to live life.
I had arrived in Juba on the last day of voting, and was the last person to vote (my voting station was next to Dr. Garang’s mausoleum). I was there to witness the historic occasion and celebrate alongside my countrymen. Finally, out of the years of war and suffering for my people had arisen a new republic. But as my father had warned me when I visited him in prison, the price my generation would have to pay might be higher than that paid by his. South Sudan became an independent nation on July 9, 2011. And judging by what would unfold in South Sudan not even half a decade after independence, it seems my father’s words were prophetic.
But this was a moment of victory. Seeing that my presence had brought everyone together, and that the palpable, genuine camaraderie among all my father’s wives was spilling over to us, the siblings, gave me hope for the future. I knew that I had a role to play not only in bringing my family together (after some internal talks, my family resolved the murder case against my father and he was released in 2012—he currently lives in Akobo and is still deeply invested in the civil war th
ere), but in midwifing peaceful coexistence among my countrymen, wherever I was.
I still don’t have answers about why some of my family, my friends, or my countrymen survived while others didn’t. I certainly cannot say why I ended up leading this life when so many others just as deserving (maybe more), just as smart (maybe more), just as brave (maybe more), just as determined (maybe more) had theirs extinguished in a hail of bullets or by indifferent destitution. All I can offer is that I could not allow my childhood traumas to defeat me in adulthood. And that I permitted myself to accept my past, after at first fleeing from it, and to build upon it, after at first denying it. It freed me from demons, both real and imagined, that can be found in any country, rich or poor. It has allowed me to be a source of inspiration and strength for others and given my life purpose and my suffering meaning. I look toward the future with happiness, hope, and excitement, because having climbed my way out of and faced all that is my past, I know I can face and surmount any obstacle life tosses me.
IN JUBA, I‘D VISITED MY elder brother in the hospital and learned he could be cured were he in a more advanced institution like the one in Nairobi. I flew him there, where he received lifesaving treatment. I felt incredibly grateful that the weird worlds of fashion, acting, and clubbing had afforded me the means to do so. It was one of my first acts of putting my money where my mouth was. I’d gotten a taste of it and now I wanted to do more.
The fashion industry was instrumental in helping me raise an additional twenty-nine thousand dollars through Kickstarter right off the bat. CNN’s Inside Africa program did a feature on me, which compelled even more South Sudanese nationals to pay attention to whatever I was involved in, most notably my initiatives toward peace in Sudan. And I continued to raise money for my documentary.