Lost Girl Found

by Leah Bassoff

  I wish I had this sharpness again, this relief.

  Instead, all I have is my shame.

  ———

  I CALL KEIJI SEVERAL more times over the following day. Once Keiji is at work, cleaning an Arab woman’s house to earn some money, but the rest of the time she is there caring for Mama. Her voice is always emotionless.

  “Keiji, can you ask Mama about my brothers and sister? Does she know their whereabouts?”

  “Poni, your mama does not answer my questions anymore. She breathes still, but she is no longer bound to the earth.”

  “She can’t speak?” I ask sadly.

  “No,” Keiji replies. “However, I can tell you this. When I first met up with your mother, and we decided to travel to Egypt together with a group of other villagers, she told me that she believed both of your brothers to be dead. Of course she thought you were dead, too. I do know for certain that your little sister died. She died while your mother walked.”

  I try to picture Mama putting Achii’s little body down on the ground, laying her down like a bundle of sticks.

  I ask Keiji to let me sing to Mama. “Please, just put the phone to Mama’s ear once more.” Keiji does this, and I sing every song I can think of, all the songs I used to know when I was a child.

  The following day, Mama is dead. My heart is so heavy with grief that I can barely move. And yet I must. Somehow I must continue my journey.

  — 27 —

  SISTER HANNAH’S COMPOUND manager gives me a lift to the Jomo Kenyatta airport, and I arrive six hours in advance of my flight. Sister has told me that I must be prepared for things that might go wrong at the last minute.

  True to her imaginings, there is an Ethiopian passenger in front of me sobbing to the person at the Kenya Airways ticket counter.

  “Please,” she cries out. “I am scheduled to fly today. Here is my letter of confirmation.” She waves the letter as if doing so will somehow remedy the situation. “Do you need my identification card? I have it.”

  Meanwhile, her husband stands silently next to her, his face trying its best to seem calm, to mask the weight of disappointment.

  The whole time they are talking, I am wondering if my flight will also be canceled. Worse still, I am wondering whether there will be a problem with my paperwork. Sometimes there are land mines where you least suspect them. And maybe I wasn’t really meant to leave the country. Maybe they will send me back.

  When it comes my turn to step up to the counter, though, the agent hands me my ticket. I put the ticket in my pocket but do not stop touching it, even for a moment. Even when I go to use the toilet, I am still touching the ticket with my fingers.

  Then I am boarding an airplane. As the airplane starts to leave the ground, I feel as though I am being pulled away from my stomach. I want to scream out, but I do not. Instead I pray. Please, God, stay with me. I remember how hard it was to slow down enough to pray when I was a child. But now I do. Now I know how.

  The airplane continues to rise into the sky. I think back to the night when I fled from my village. I was sure I was flying. And now here I am, once again rising.

  As we enter into the sky, I look down at Africa stretched out below me like a big blanket made of green and brown patches. Pictures of my childhood flash before me — Nadai and me shaking the branches of the mango tree, herds of giraffes running, Mama grinding sorghum, my teacher peering at me through his oversized glasses, Kakuma with its endless queue of people waiting for food, Lokure under a blue scarf. And me running, always running.

  And then, suddenly, these images disappear, and all I see are clouds.

  As the airplane swims through the air, and as the hours pass, my eyes slowly close, and as I fall into sleep, I dream of Mama.

  She is wearing a bright red dress and, catching my eye, she laughs. I reach for her, but she evades my grasp. She dances past me, her dress a swirl of red.

  ———

  MORE GETTING IN AND OUT of airplanes, more pummeling through the sky until I have lost all sense of time and place.

  Then, just as I think these plane rides will never end, we land in Denver. Dizzy, I get off the plane, my feet wobbly and unsure of themselves. I have no idea where to go.

  I am supposed to meet a representative from the organization that has sponsored me, but the airport is huge and overwhelming with stores and people everywhere. Where should I find her?

  I begin to blindly follow a crowd of people, all of whom seem to be moving in the same direction like migrating wildebeests. I continue to follow them as they board a train heading to the main terminal.

  Next, there is a stairway that moves on its own. I am nervous at first, but I stand aside for a few moments and watch how people get onto it. I do as they do and hop on myself. Up I go, riding upwards, ascending into the unknown.

  The first thing I see when I arrive at the top and step off is an enormous fountain, spewing water in all directions. However tough life is in America, and surely it will be, some of the rumors about this country must be true. Clearly water is so abundant here that it can be sprayed about and used for decoration. It is hard to believe.

  All at once, I see a white woman holding a sign with my name on it. Indeed, she is from the African Center and, as she walks towards me, her dangly earrings swinging, she smiles and reaches out to shake my hand. Her pale hand is surprisingly firm. I cannot believe I have found her, that my coming here has actually worked.

  “Good! You’ve arrived. My name’s Susan. I’m so excited to meet you, Poni! I know you must be so tired and overwhelmed from your flight.” The woman talks rapidly, as though she is happy and apologetic at the same time.

  I look around. For some reason, I can no longer remember which direction I came from. All I see are people walking this way and that. It is as though the crowd has swallowed my path. I pick up my suitcase and begin to follow the woman.

  “What a trip you’ve had,” Susan says, turning towards me, and I nod. Such a long trip indeed. “I want to hear all about it,” she assures me. She grabs my suitcase from me before I have a chance to protest. I am not used to having someone else carry my load. It is strange to suddenly feel this light.

  I have never met this woman Susan before, and yet I get the feeling that, down the line, I will tell her everything, my whole story, even the not-so-pretty parts of it.

  For the first time, I think I may want to.

  I will not forget those I have left behind. If I could I would shout all the way back to Africa: “I have come first so that you may follow, my sisters.” Yet I do not look behind me. Rather, I continue to follow Susan out of the airport and into my new country, to walk into sunshine so bright that I can barely see.

  True, I am frightened, and yet, at this moment, I feel so very strong.

  ON JULY 9, 2011, Southern Sudan achieved independence from Northern Sudan. Peace is still tenuous and fragile, but the people of Southern Sudan are filled with hope.

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  Laura DeLuca and I first met at a conference in Denver in 2007. This conference brought together Southern Sudanese women from all over the world. These women were at the conference to share a message that females, not just males, were essential to the government and the future of Southern Sudan.

  Laura was a presenter at the conference, while I was attending the conference to do research. Drawn in by the question of why so much attention had been given to the Lost Boys while the Lost Girls’ stories had, for the most part, gone untold, I was trying to write a book about the women.

  In fact, the women I met at the conference did have amazing stories. However, after hearing them, I realized there was a great deal I did not know or understand about the Sudanese culture. After speaking with Laura, I saw an opportunity for a wonderful partnership. I could do the writing, while Laura, who knows East Africa extremely well, who is an anthropologist, and who has
worked with the Sudanese community for many years, could help me with the details of language, culture and history.

  Together, Laura and I discussed what format would work best for sharing the women’s stories. We decided that fiction would allow us to weave together the greatest number of experiences at once.

  Though the women we spoke with were generous and open in sharing their stories, because many of them were very young when they had to flee their villages, and because many experienced a great deal of trauma, remembering was often a painful or difficult experience. Fiction allowed us to fill in gaps, string stories together and focus on themes. Poni is a created, composite character, but she is based on the resiliency and perseverance of all of the women we spoke with. These women possess a determination to survive, get an education and give back to their nation — a determination that inspired and continues to inspire us.

  — Leah Bassoff

  WHO ARE THE LOST CHILDREN OF SUDAN?

  The Lost Boys and Girls of Sudan are orphans who fled the violent attacks on Southern villages during the second Sudanese civil war, which started in 1983. Some of these children trekked thousands of miles before they reached Kakuma, a United Nations refugee camp in Kenya. Once there, they continued to suffer from starvation, dust storms and lack of health care.

  The young boys were dubbed the Lost Boys by foreign-aid workers, who associated them with the parentless boys in Peter Pan.

  The Lost Girls were less visible than the Lost Boys when US State Department representatives visited the Kakuma camp. Unlike the young men who lived together in a section of the camp for unaccompanied minors, the girls had been placed with ad hoc Sudanese foster families and so they were less conspicuous. These “families” were often hesitant to part with the girls, who represented the possibility of a large bride price consisting of cows and cash. Moreover, when the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) consulted Sudanese leaders at Kakuma to assist in decisions about which youths should be resettled, the male elders favored boys over girls. According to the elders, the Sudanese boys were better candidates for traveling abroad and would be more likely than girls to attend school in the US.

  For these reasons, among others, in 1999, the State Department decided to allow nearly 4,000 Lost Boys to resettle in the US, but only 89 girls.

  Eventually, Refugees International urged the US government and the UNHCR to work together to resettle more unaccompanied females. Some Lost Girls were selected for resettlement as early as 2001. These girls had the luck, as well as the burden, of being some of the few fortunate enough to escape an otherwise often dire fate.

  Although Southern Sudan became independent in 2011, life is still very difficult for girls there, and a girl is still more likely to die in childbirth than to graduate from school.

  Our hope, in writing this book, is that more girls will get to tell their stories, receive educations and take on leadership roles. Since the signing of the peace accord in 2005, more than two million refugees have returned to South Sudan. Others have chosen to remain, at least temporarily, in the United States in order to pursue their educations. Whether or not they will eventually return to Sudan, all of the young women we spoke with remain connected to their country. They know that they are the hope and future peace for the Republic of South Sudan.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Sudanese have a saying — “One hand cannot clap.”

  We received so much help and support from our community. Special thanks go to Jean Wood, Sharon and Rich Wildau, Gretchen Stein, Lindsay Eppich, Dana James, Marilyn Krysl, Tom Maddox, Ed Stackler, Richard Klin, Elisabeth Kerr, Eben Weiss, Jennifer Dickerson, Pam Holloway-Sheldon, Laurie Felland, Aaron Couts, Ian Morgan, Beth Novick, Marc Gale, Linda Block, Hannah Payne, Minja Maletic, Kathy Collins, Hope Forgey, Nii Armah Sowah, Joan Gabriele, May Penuela, Mara Goldman, Jim Schechter, Katherine Bruch, Alphonse Keasley, Priya Jha, Ajume Wingo, Eric Wirba, Myanna Lahsen, Shoba Rajgopal, Tracy Ferrell, Bridget Kromrey, Colleen Scanlan-Lyons and Jeff Lyons, Carol Conzelman, Alicia Davis, Lori Hunter, Nicole Smith, Jane Sovndal, Carmela Weber, Eliza Woloson, Francoise Mbabazi, Leyla Day, Diane Sieber, Rift Valley Institute (RVI), School for Advanced Research in Santa Fe, Paul Shankman, Mariella Bacigalupo, Priscilla Craven, Ursula Lauper, Deborah Fryer, Terry and Judith McCabe, Sharon Campbell, Weston Roberts, Jackie Holder, Elizabeth Scarborough, Peter Gwinn, Simone Charles, Judith Jackson, Jo Driessen, David Fleming, Tim Zych, Raphael Mungai, Stefano Ponte and Lisa Richey, Mr. Mbiji, the late Eugene Bodo, Pete O’Neal and Charlotte O’Neal, Maggie Duncan Simbeye, Gabriel Ole Saitoti and family, Maanda Ngoitiko, Jordan Olmstead, Jordan Campbell, Susan Kelly, John Ryle, Corinne Kratz, Michael McGovern, Sylvester Maphosa, Julie Maximom, Lina Bahn, Kim Mattingly, Paige Eldridge, Cecile McAninch, Mary Rolinson, Katie Chiocchio, Tim Braughn, Dave Secunda, Jeff Lyons, the alumni of the Global Seminar Tanzania, Cloud Baffour, students from the Regional Cultures of Africa (ANTH 1150), Peter Simons, Beth Osnes, Susan Clarke and Gary Gaile, Rachel Silvey and Dylan Clark, Kamala Kempadoo, Laura Busse, Judy Huston, Elizabeth Dunn, Rabbi Bronstein, Katie and Mark Milleker, Jon Sheldon, Joy Ann Sofio, John Maluccio, John Engels, Rain Donahue, Liz Johnson and Curtis Altmann and the RPCV Kenya Teachers of 87-89, the Bynum family, the Pasquini family, the Nelson family, the DeLucas, the Madtsons, the Paynes, the Wirths, the Frasers, the Kovachs, Jose Del Pino, the Hobart-Frank family, the Heiderers, the Vargas, the Hernandez family, the Lazaroby family, the Alaimos, the Sandbower family, the Accordinos, the Medlers, the Bhatia family, the Bramer/Thompson family, Matthew Gumpert, the Brennig family, Elizabeth O’Malley, Susan Erikson, Brian and Erica King, Urban Hamid, Ursula Lauper and Christina Lee.

  Our family members have given us endless emotional and editing support along the way: Evelyn and Bruce Bassoff, Linda and Michael DeLuca, Jennie and Ned Oldham, Bart and Sarah DeLuca, Kurt Scholler and Katherine Alaimo, Carol and Charlie Alaimo.

  Thanks to our incredible and supportive husbands: Ethan Lovell and Chris Alaimo.

  To our wonderful boys: Kevin and Avery Lovell and Charlie and Simon Alaimo. We love you boys more than words can say.

  Thanks also go to the wonderful schools in which Laura and I are privileged to teach: The University of Colorado at Boulder and Denver Montclair International School.

  To our amazing agent, Matthew Carnicelli, to whom we owe everything. To our fabulous editors, Shelley Tanaka and Sheila Barry, who helped shape and nurture this book. Your sage and thoughtful editing was an absolute gift.

  Most of all, thank you to the community of Southern Sudanese women and men who graciously shared their stories with us and who taught us about survival, hope and grace.

  BRIEF TIMELINE OF SUDAN

  1899-1955 Sudan is under joint British-Egyptian rule.

  1955 There is a large secessionist movement in the South, called the Anyanya. The first civil war begins and lasts until 1972.

  1972 Under the Addis Ababa peace agreement between the government and the Anyanya, the South becomes a self-governing region.

  1978 Oil is discovered in Bentiu in Southern Sudan.

  1983 Civil war breaks out again in the South, involving government forces and the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement (SPLM) led by John Garang. The second civil war lasts until 2005. President Jaafar Nimeiri declares the introduction of Islamic sharia law.

  1989 The Sudanese government begins deploying army militia to raid villages in the South.

  1992 The Kakuma Refugee Camp in northwestern Kenya begins accepting Sudanese refugees. This camp has since expanded to serve refugees from Somalia, Ethiopia, Burundi, the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), Eritrea, Uganda and Rwanda.

  1999 Almost 4,000 Sudanese refugee boys are approved for resettlement to the United States.

  2002 Government and the Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA) sign a ceasefire agreement providing for a six-month renewable ceasefire in the central Nuba Mountains,
a key rebel stronghold.

  2003 The Darfur conflict reignites.

  2005 Government and Southern rebels sign a peace agreement that includes a permanent ceasefire. Former Southern rebel leader John Garang is sworn in as first vice president. A constitution is signed — one that gives a large degree of autonomy to the South. On July 30, John Garang is killed in a helicopter crash. He is succeeded by Salva Kiir Mayardit.

  2009 Leaders of the North and South agree on the terms of a referendum on independence.

  2011 Southern Sudan gains independence and becomes its own nation. The Republic of South Sudan is founded on July 9, 2011.

  FOR MORE INFORMATION

  Although little has been written about the Lost Girls, there are a number of books, films and plays about the Lost Boys:

  A Great Wonder: Lost Children of Sudan. Bullfrog Films, 2004.

  A documentary directed by Kim Shelton, about two Lost Boys and one Lost Girl who are adjusting to their new life in Seattle.

  Applegate, Katherine. Home of the Brave. New York: Feiwel and Friends, 2007.

  A novel in verse about Kek, a young Sudanese refugee who joins his aunt’s family in Minnesota.

  Benjamin and His Brother. 2002.

  A documentary by British filmmaker Arthur Howes, about Benjamin and William Deng, brothers in a Kenyan refugee camp who are separated when only one is accepted by a US resettlement program.

  Bixler, Mark. The Lost Boys of Sudan: An American Story of the Refugee Experience. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2005.

  A nonfiction book by a journalist about Lost Boys who moved to Atlanta.

  Bol, Aher Arop. The Lost Boy: The True Story of a Young Boy’s Flight from Sudan to South Africa. Roggebaai, South Africa: Kwela, 2009.

  The autobiography of a Lost Boy who makes his way from Sudan through Ethiopia, Kenya, Tanzania, Zambia and Zimbabwe to South Africa.