As I am here, Obulejo admits, reluctantly. Not because I want to be, or because I created the war, but because it’s where life has brought me. And if I sit and wait for the leaders to bring peace, I am like the old man who waited his whole life before he understood what he needed to do. When I thought harm had come to Malia, my immediate desire was to punish others. And what would that have achieved but more violence? How can I be an educator for peace when what I really wanted was to fight and kill?
As if in answer to Obulejo’s unspoken question, the trainer invites Mrs Gisemba to come out the front and address the group.
‘You all remember the story she told you?’ he says. ‘I too have been informed of it. And now today she will tell you the way it ended.’ Obulejo drags his mind to attention.
‘You will recall there was a problem with two of my students, Olum and Kidega,’ Mrs Gisemba says. ‘This problem quickly escalated to involve their families and clansmen. I became alarmed at how fast things were moving, and went to speak with one family and then the other, but they told me that it was no longer a school matter and it should be left to the clans to deal with. I knew that many people were going to get hurt, maybe even killed, and as I had no authority to talk with these clans, I went to some of my male colleagues and we decided it was time to test out what we have been learning.
‘They went and spoke with the clan leaders,’ she continues, ‘and asked them to remember that the fighting at home was what they had fled from and that perpetuating the old quarrels would not help; there had to be another way. They were there for many hours; meanwhile I spoke to Kidega and Olum separately. Remember, Kidega had denied taking Olum’s pencil. But now, alarmed at the trouble he had caused, he was willing to admit to the theft.
‘“I did not want to give it back to Olum,” he told me, “and I thought I could keep him from telling on me by slapping him – he is much smaller than me.”
‘“Are you brave enough to tell your parents this is what happened?” I asked him then, and he said yes.
‘Kidega’s parents were shocked when they heard the truth. So were the clans. They realised that a small incident between two boys was not something that should lead people to fight each other. Kidega’s parents apologised for their son’s actions and Olum’s parents responded by saying they would not demand blood money. So the fight did not take place.’
Mrs Gisemba pauses. Obulejo glances from her to the trainer. The trainer’s face is glowing.
‘There is one final part to this story,’ Mrs Gisemba adds. ‘Soon afterwards I was walking home from school when I caught sight of Kidega’s father.
‘“Let’s walk together,” I said to him, “I am going to visit friends.”
‘We walked to the neighbouring sector and there coincidentally we came upon Olum’s father, who bade us both come in and made us welcome, as traditional courtesy requires. We went in and were served food by the women and girls. Kidega’s father seemed very uncomfortable to find himself the guest of a former enemy, but, bound by the rules of hospitality, he conducted himself with dignity and politeness and by the end of the meal conversation was flowing easily.
‘When we rose to leave, Kidega’s father invited Olum’s father to come and have a meal with his family the following week.
‘“I will gladly come,” Olum’s father replied, and the two men parted friends.’
Spontaneous applause greets Mrs Gisemba’s account. She resumes her seat, a little flustered.
‘Our colleague has presented us with an excellent example of the effective way peace education can work,’ the trainer says.
Obulejo, like his fellow trainees, is silent as he ponders the story he has just heard.
26
OBULEJO WAITS ANXIOUSLY for news of Malia, and when Mondua at last returns to the group, a little shaky and a whole lot thinner, Obulejo approaches her shyly.
‘Are you fully recovered?’ he asks.
‘I am, thank you,’ Mondua replies. ‘And my sister is getting better too. She is very weak, but gradually she is coming back to us.’
A great burden rolls off Obulejo’s shoulders.
‘Thanks to God!’ he exclaims.
Mondua smiles. ‘My uncle is aware of your service to us both and says he is in your debt.’
Obulejo blushes hotly and waves away the compliment.
‘Malia is very precious to him,’ Mondua continues. ‘His own daughters were lost in the fighting and we are the only family he has left.’
No wonder her uncle guards the sisters so closely! Obulejo thinks.
‘You may find that Uncle will have fewer objections to your friendship with my sister,’ Mondua says. Then she smiles broadly. ‘Within limits of course.’
‘Of course.’ Obulejo knows how a good Ma’di boy should behave. His blush deepens but his heart sings. Malia will recover! When he thinks what might have happened – no, it is too awful to imagine. He will treat her like a precious gem; he will take great care not to displease her family, and one day maybe . . .
But he must not think too far ahead. It is enough that Malia will soon be standing beside him in the choir. That she will sing and dance again. And that he is allowed to be her friend. Life has so many twists and turns. And in time they may be more than friends. That is his hope. But friendship is a good start.
The mamas will love Malia, he thinks. He imagines Malia in his family compound, Mama Josephina and Mama Natalina fussing over her, the aunties and uncles congratulating them both, and himself a proud and happy bridegroom. Such feasting and dancing there will be . . .
He pulls himself up abruptly. In spite of his resolve, he has raced far ahead into a future he can only dream about, for now. But he can tell his secret dream to his friends Ochan and Maku; they will rejoice with him.
And they do. Maku shakes his hand warmly and bids him proceed with care, but Ochan claps his friend on the shoulder and shouts aloud for joy.
Out in the dusty school compound under a glaring sun, Obulejo and the other peace education trainees are engaged in yet another exercise.
A group of them are instructed to join hands in a circle and tangle themselves into a knot, keeping their hands tightly linked the whole time. Soon the group becomes a laughing, sweaty mass, tightly coiled together. Everyone is pressed up against one another, arms over and under each other’s. What now? they ask. The trainer introduces an outsider, and gives her the task of untangling the knot of people without breaking the links.
‘This person was not present when the tangle was created,’ the trainer says, ‘and now it is her task to restore the circle to order.’
Obulejo watches closely as the outsider tries to work out where to start. Untangling the knot takes her several minutes of strenuous effort. When the circle is at last restored the group is instructed to get itself into a tangle a second time, but this time everyone is asked to take notice of the way they create the knot. In no time at all they become hopelessly twisted together once again.
‘This time,’ the trainer announces, after calling the helplessly laughing trainees to order, ‘your task is to untangle yourselves on your own, without outside help.’
Everyone is amazed and delighted at how quickly and easily the task is accomplished the second time around, so much more simply and efficiently than when an outsider had tried to do it for them. It is the practical proof of what Obulejo had said in his interview: people hold the solution in their own hands and need to work together to find it. He looks forward to doing this exercise with his students.
Next comes the exclusion game. The trainees are reminded that it’s just a game, and warned not to hold on to any feelings that come up, but to learn from these feelings and then let them go.
Obulejo and some of the other participants stand in a circle, hands linked, so that they form a tightly knit and unified group. One trainer then takes a smaller group aside, out of earshot of the main group.
Meanwhile a second trainer tells Obulejo’s group, ‘Your role i
s to refuse entry to anyone who asks to be let in to the group. Keep them on the outside. Do not allow them in. Keep your hands tightly linked and do not make a space for them. Don’t let them become part of your circle.’
One after another the outsiders seek, by pleas and gestures, to be allowed to join the circle. Those in the circle refuse. Some of the outsiders plead piteously, others threaten. Some give up easily, accepting the refusal; others persist and try several times, pulling at the hands of those who will not let them in. The atmosphere changes. This is no longer a game.
A quiet young Somali woman, clad in veil and long gown, approaches the place in the circle where Obulejo is standing, hands linked with a fellow Ma’di on one side and a tall Dinka lad on the other. The Somali girl politely but strongly requests permission to be let in. Her eyes plead but her manner is dignified and contained. Obulejo finds it almost impossible to deny her, but his partners grip his hands more firmly and refuse to allow Obulejo to let the girl in. She moves on. Others refuse her entrance as well.
For a moment Obulejo is ashamed of his weakness, for being tempted to break the rules of the game and give in to the Somali girl, instead of standing strong. Then, he feels a mental shift, like the old man in the story who picked up the crying child.
Suddenly light-headed, he wonders if he is going to faint. Then the fog clears and he knows what he must do. The braveness he has sought all his life is not to be found in fighting wars or facing baboons or in intimidating others. It is something stronger, less visible, deeply private.
This time, when the Somali girl approaches, Obulejo tugs his hand loose from his partner’s and holds it out to the girl. She takes it, flashing thanks with her eyes, and he quickly draws her into the circle. He nods to his partner to take the girl’s other hand. The rangy young Dinka is unwilling. He scowls at Obulejo. Obulejo looks back steadily.
‘It was your countryman who saved my life,’ he says quietly. ‘You are my brother.’
The Somali girl’s eyes are brimming with unshed tears.
‘Our sister,’ Obulejo mouths to the Dinka lad and nods to the girl.
The exchange takes only a few seconds, but to Obulejo it seems that an eternity passes before a broad grin breaks over his partner’s face and he snatches up the girl’s other hand. They have not followed the rules of the exercise, but this way everyone wins. No one need be left out. Together Obulejo and his Dinka partner closed the gap.
The circle is once again unbroken.
EPILOGUE
OBULEJO WAKES WITH a start, rubs his eyes and gazes about him. He cannot make sense of where he is. Everything is unfamiliar.
Through the window comes the braying sound of vehicles and a cacophony of voices chattering in Swahili. The air is thick with the scent of diesel and crumbling concrete.
The old feeling of dread begins to clutch Obulejo’s stomach. What has happened? Where is he?
He springs out of bed, ready to flee.
Then he remembers. This is not Kakuma. It’s Nairobi. He’s in the holding centre, with his wife and baby son, waiting for a flight. It’s his last day in Africa. His last day as a refugee. Tomorrow they will begin the journey to Australia and a new life. It hardly seems real. And yet the maroon folder on the floor beside the striped carry bag of belongings for the journey shows that it is. The folder contains their exit visas and travel documents.
For another journey into the unknown, but this time with a happier outcome.
A new home in a new country with no war.
Obulejo glances back to where his young wife lies, still sleeping, oblivious to her husband’s wakefulness, her arm curled protectively around their young son. The last few weeks have been exhausting for her. Since their application to migrate to Australia was approved there has been a flurry of last-minute medicals, endless paperwork and frantic preparations for the journey ahead. Obulejo is anxious to get underway, but also feels torn about leaving Africa and giving up any possibility of ever finding his parents and brothers and sisters. Malia will be his family now, and his little boy, Ambayo.
Obulejo thinks back to when he met Malia, five years ago. It had been hard to break down Uncle’s resolve to protect his niece from the advances of young men, but little by little Obulejo had accomplished it, by always showing great respect to Uncle, not singling Malia out for special attention and not pressing his suit too forcefully. What had probably convinced Uncle that Obulejo could take good care of his niece was that a few months after completing the peace education training, Obulejo was chosen to become a trainer of peace educators, a position as a UNHCR employee that carried a great deal of respect, and also a regular salary. Finally, after much negotiation, a bride price had been agreed upon – a percentage of Obulejo’s salary – and the nuptials were completed.
Obulejo had then broached the subject of applying for resettlement overseas. Uncle was in favour. They would all travel together.
‘Should you and Malia be blessed with children,’ Uncle said, ‘it is best that they grow up far from war.’
Obulejo had applied three times and three times his application had failed. Then Ambayo arrived, whose name meant ‘growing up without elders’, a sorrowful fate for a Sudanese child, but God willing the child would grow up in a peaceful land, far away from Sudan’s troubles, and Obulejo redoubled his efforts till at last he was rewarded with success. He and Malia and Ambayo, along with Malia’s uncle and sister, were accepted by Australia for resettlement in Tasmania.
The first thing Obulejo notices when he steps off the plane in Hobart is the taste and texture of the air. Cold and salty, it prickles his nose hairs and makes his eyes water. So different from South Sudan. The sky is lower, too, a duller blue than at home, and the light is different. Everything is different. As am I, he thinks with a mixture of excitement and dismay, a married man and a father, arriving in a new country in new warm clothes and brand-new boots which will carry him and his small family into a different future. Even his name is different. Printed in his passport is his new name, Joseph Moini. Joseph, the name the missionaries had given him at his baptism, meaning ‘he will add’ – then his father’s name – Moini. That’s one of the new things he’s learned, that in Australia you need two names, your own and your father’s. He rolls the new name on his tongue. Its taste is so different from ‘Obulejo’. Perhaps no one will ever call him Obulejo again, now his family are lost to him.
I must not think about my family, he tells himself sternly. I must not think about home. I must think only about my new life in a new country. He takes Malia’s arm, and they start across the windy tarmac to the terminal.
If only it were not so cold, Obulejo thinks, as a spiteful breeze caresses his close-cropped head, the wind’s icy fingers brushing his chilled nose and aching ears. He wraps his son more closely in his jacket and presses onwards.
A sea of white faces greets the new arrivals. Then Obulejo spots a cluster of black ones, towards the rear of the crowd. A hand waves. Obulejo waves back. White faces surround them and everywhere is the barely intelligible jabber of English; nowhere the familiar sound of Arabic, Ma’di or Swahili. The Sudanese arrivals peer out of startled eyes. White people stare back, covertly, wondering who these shivering, bewildered-looking people are. The Sudanese travellers are tired, chilled and anxious, but they smile resolutely and shuffle forward.
A few of the older people hesitate. Their faces are stricken. They’re grieving for home, for the dead they’ve left unburied, for children scattered across countries and continents, family that no longer exists. They’re not ready for a new life; they want the familiar one back, but without the danger, even though they know the old life is gone as surely as unguarded gardens are stripped bare by baboons and the raiding weaver birds. They carry their grief quietly and with dignity, ready to make the best of things in this new country, although their sorrowful demeanour suggests their expectations are stained with doubt.
Most of the local Sudanese community is here to meet the new arr
ivals. They now press forward with extended hands. Greetings are exchanged and people hover and wait for their baggage. Children are fretful and tired and the mothers’ faces are strained and anxious. Obulejo too is anxious. He will need to find a way to support his family and quickly. But hasn’t he faced much harder challenges than this and overcome them? Everything will be all right: he knows it will. And who knows, maybe one day he will be reunited with those he has left behind.
Glancing at the apprehensive faces around him, Obulejo feels a stab of guilt for the burst of joy that suddenly explodes inside him. What is it in the air that is making his chest ache and his head reel? Not the cold, not the smell of the nearby salty ocean, not the long flight and the plummeting to earth – it is the scent of freedom. He inhales it with zest.
THE HISTORY OF THE SUDANESE CIVIL WAR
THE EXTENSIVE region once referred to as the Sudan extends some five thousand kilometres in a band several hundred kilometres wide across north-east and central Africa. Its name derives from the Arabic bilād as-sūdān (السودان بلاد), or ‘land of the black peoples’.
Invasion, colonisation, slave trading and war are all part of the tumultuous history of Sudan.
When the British governed Sudan as a colony they administered the northern and southern provinces separately. The population of southern Sudan is primarily Christian and animist and considers itself culturally sub-Saharan, while most of the north is inhabited by Muslims who are culturally Arabic.
The south was therefore held to be similar to the other East African colonies – Kenya, Tanganyika (now Tanzania) and Uganda – while northern Sudan was more akin to Arabic-speaking Egypt.
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