The lost boy. Aher Arop Bol

      Prologue

      What is the price of freedom? How many lives does it take to buy liberty in Sudan, where religion and politics breed war and poverty, where Muslim Arabs from the north are fighting a war against the people of the south – the animists and the Christians?

      It was on 16 May 1983, in the town of Madingbor, that a hundred and five men, the founders of the Sudanese People’s Liberation Army (SPLA), took up arms against the Islamic government in the north. This was the beginning of a war in which two-and-a-half million lives have been lost, thousands of orphans abandoned and prosperity and dignity ravaged.

      This is where my unfortunate peers and I were born – in the rift caused by war – and where we grew up – in the crossfire. We were victims and targets. There were eighteen thousand of us, but each suffered in isolation, without parents to help us deal with the corpses we were too weak to bury.

      Watched by a world that no longer recognised the value of human life and dignity, the government forces treated the southerners inhumanly, robbing them not only of their possessions, but also of their children and their lives.

      It is suffering and frustration that have compelled me to write this book – the story of my youth – and the need to plead with the mediators to not only end the war in Sudan, but to solve the issues behind it. I pray that God will make this possible, so that the people may return and live in peace once again.

      This book is about my experiences and those of other minors in Panyido and other refugee camps. It tells of the agony, the hunger, disease and thirst we survived, of the relief and camaraderie we found during periods of rest, of our search for meaning and for ways in which to make this world a better place to live in.

      War has scattered us to all corners of Sudan and across the world. We have learned to put our trust in God. And we honour the memory of our elders who took responsibility for us in the camps and warzones, even though they themselves were suffering.

      In Sudan, land of corruption, the voices that once spoke for us have now fallen silent

      From a song sung in Dinka by Deng Kout (also known as Deng Pannon)

      Part 1

      Part 1

      Chapter 1

      I arrived at a refugee camp in Ethiopia on the shoulders of my uncle Atem, who had cleared a way for us through the bush as we fled. I soon learned that the camp was called Panyido. It was 1987 and I was three or four years old.

      Later, when I returned to Sudan, I discovered that Panyido was a two-day journey (if you walked day and night) from the Sudanese border, and many, many days’ walk from my village.

      It was night when my uncle and I, and my two older cousins, Dut and Yaac, reached the banks of the Tana River, where the camp was situated. There were throngs of people who, like us, had been told by the villagers we had met along the way that food and shelter might be found there.

      New arrivals, who had suffered hunger, thirst, disease and injuries on their travels, rushed expectantly to the centre of the camp, but there was nothing for them. As they had forced their weak bodies to march along the river towards the camp, rumours of food and medical attention had given them hope. They had imagined being welcomed in true Sudanese style by missing family members who would offer them something to eat, or by strangers who might be persuaded to share the food they had, but in Panyido there was nothing but more hungry faces and people crying for help. There were no food supplies and no relief workers. Some, covered in white dust, sank helplessly to the ground and remained there; others, who still had the strength, turned towards the seemingly endless stream of people who kept coming from the bush and helped them across the river.

      The days went by and hundreds of new refugees arrived, but no assistance came from the Ethiopian government or the United Nations High Commisioner for Refugees (UNHCR) – despite the rumours that relief workers would come with food and medicine as soon as they were able to. As their hunger increased some, who hadn’t eaten for many days, gathered the strength to go hunting. A few others, those who had the energy to walk to the nearest villages, returned with the meagre supplies they had exchanged items of clothing for.

      In Panyido there was only one red-dust road, which linked it to Itang, another camp, where the first refugees had settled. All eyes remained on this road, but the hoped-for roar of truck engines did not come. So every man had to deal with the suffering and disease of his own family by himself.

      Panyido was hot. I remember the shadows under the trees. They were thick with bodies. Living bodies. And dead bodies.

      My uncle Atem and I found a spot under a marula tree, where we took shelter from the fierce sun. At night we followed the others to the open ground to bed down. Some people, however, were too frail to move away from the trees. In the morning the dead were carried away to be buried.

      I missed my mother and my father and didn’t understand why they weren’t with me in the camp. I saw the eyes of a dead man looking straight at me. They were large and bright, but could not see.

      Months passed, but no food arrived. There were no longer enough people left with the strength to go hunting to save the lives of the starving. Then one morning, a little help came from some Ethiopian soldiers. Thousands heard the roar of a tractor approaching. It was a green-and-black striped tractor, pulling a red trailer with bags of maize on it.

      Food! There were cries of agony and cries of joy!

      When the tractor stopped, hundreds of hands grasped. Maize from shattered bags spilled onto the road. Strong men grabbed hold of the bags. Let the weak pick up from the ground – even if it meant that they were trampled to death in the rush to reach the food. Crawling men and women ate the maize raw. The sick were begging to be fed. One man was given some kernels but was unable to chew them. He gave up and died, his family wailing at his agony.

      That day three loads were delivered, and this continued for a week – a blessing that turned into a curse. Eating so recklessly after months of starvation caused severe thirst and people rushed to the river. Some were so weak that as they knelt down to drink they toppled over and drowned. Cholera killed many more as by then the water had been polluted by the sick and the dead.

      Chapter 2

      God alone knows how I escaped death in that camp.

      My uncle Atem survived too – the uncle who had carried me all the way to the camp. He took responsibility for me and made rules I was not allowed to break. “When you are very thirsty,” he cautioned, “don’t drink more than a small mouthful when we get to water.”

      He told me to drink water only when he would provide it – usually three times a day: in the morning, the afternoon and the evening. I was not allowed to drink the water our neighbours kept offering me, as he feared it might be polluted. Our water he filtered through his shirt – to trap the silvery dust in it – before storing it in a jerry can. Every morning he would ask me if I needed a drink, and then, as we had no cup, he would tilt the can for me to drink from. When food was scarce, he would forbid me to drink too much water until