The lost boy. Aher Arop Bol
a mother and daughter in Panyido. They deserved death, we told one another. Until a week later, when a cloud mysteriously appeared – in the middle of the dry season. There was a single flash of lightning. It struck the hut in which the mother and daughter were sheltering. The hut caught fire but the two women survived.
I recall the good times we had too, times I always associate with one boy, Cyer Maror. He was older than me, tall and thin; a funny, sociable boy who, after supper, used to entertain us with jokes and impersonations. He made us laugh at ourselves. His stutter was never seen as a handicap. In fact, it made him rather unique.
Then the market came! Near our camp some Ethiopians had set up stalls – the first we had ever seen and a great temptation to young and old. The boys were soon loitering in every corner, gazing at the food and the great variety of articles for sale or running off with a titbit they had snatched. The traders introduced us to their traditional dish, endjira – a large rice pancake served with a variety of spicy meat and vegetable dishes. You tore off a piece of pancake, gathered up some of the fragrant filling, shaped it into a little bundle and put it into your mouth. The main attraction, however, was the fried maize-meal cakes. They were crisp and tasty, and the traders were willing to exchange them for sickles or axes from the camp, or the blankets, soap, cooking utensils and cooking oil we were regularly issued with. The minors’ camp was raided for articles we could barter. It was turned upside down. School was forgotten.
When the teachers realised what was going on they instructed one hundred and fifty boys from each unit to patrol the footpaths leading to the market, and threatened to punish any boy caught near it. I knew this, but one day when I saw a group of older boys returning from the market, chewing what they called alawa-luban (bubble gum) and smoking cigarettes, I could no longer resist the temptation. I managed to sneak past the monitors unnoticed, clutching the bar of soap I had been given for washing my shirt and shorts. An Ethiopian trader saw me crossing the dusty road, grabbed me and pulled me into a gap between two stalls. He took my soap and pressed two silver coins into my hand. I had never seen money before, but I took the coins and ran to the stall opposite his. Before I could explain to the shopkeeper what I wanted, though, the security boys appeared, confiscated my money and took me to a tree where I joined a group of captives who looked as miserable as I felt. And so we returned to the minors’ camp – and to the detention centre behind the area occupied by Group 6 – each boy holding on to the shirt of the one ahead.
As punishment we spent a night and day without food before we were all given ten lashes with a stick and released. I never attempted to visit the market again.
Chapter 6
It was in Panyido that the animists among us – I was one of them – first came into contact with Christianity. Those in the camp who knew about Jesus started sharing their faith with those who did not. There were two denominations: Roman Catholic and Protestant. Each group marked out a chapel under the trees and brought benches for their parishioners to sit on. From the start the Protestants – with their singing – drew the larger number of followers, although the Catholics – who established a clinic to provide for the sick and injured – were also popular.
Prayer soon became an everyday way of speaking to God, of communicating to Him our sorrow and the suffering of our fatherland. Sunday services were well attended, by both those who had already committed to Christianity and those who had not. I chose to attend the Sunday prayers held by the Catholics, but did not join the catechism class.
In 1990 a baptism was organised by the Protestants. When the fateful day arrived a great number of boys gathered under the trees, singing the rousing songs they had been taught in the Dinka language to celebrate the occasion. I could not stay away – I had to go and see.
I was watching from a distance with some others when the boys were lined up under the trees. While the boys who were to be baptised were being organised, prayers were conducted by the pastors. I was fascinated and longed to be part of it. Eventually – the queue was long and moved slowly – I went up to one of the organisers and asked him if I could also be baptised. “I’ll have to find out for you,” he replied. “These boys have already completed their catechism.”
He went off to speak to some higher authority, then returned to announce that, as there wouldn’t be another baptism anytime soon, anyone who wished to be baptised that day was welcome to attend the ceremony. We could attend catechism classes afterwards, he told us. I was delighted and quickly joined the line to register.
At last it was my turn. “What’s your name?” a man asked me.
“Aher Arop,” I said.
“I mean your Christian name. A name like Abraham or Daniel or Jacob.”
“Oh, I want to be Santo,” I told him.
“No, sorry. Santo isn’t a Protestant name,” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t be Santo.”
“If I can’t be Santo, I don’t want to be baptised,” I replied.
“Look, here’s a list of names.” He read some out to me. “Just choose one of these.”
But I was adamant, and, eventually, he relented. “All right, then, you can be Santino,” he said, writing the name on a small piece of paper so that I would never forget it.
And so it came to pass that I was baptised Santino.
But who was I, actually? Aher – the name my mother had given me – or this new guy, Santino?
A boy I knew started calling “Santino, Santino!” and the others soon followed suit.
Much later, in Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya, I was to complete my catechism and be confirmed as a member of the Roman Catholic Church.
Chapter 7
It was in May 1991 that President Mengistu of Ethiopia was overthrown by rebels from northern Sudan. This made it very difficult for Sudanese refugees from the south to stay in Ethiopia as we were now at the mercy of the new Ethiopian government, one that was collaborating with the Sudanese rulers from whose tyranny we had originally fled.
So, when rumours of an imminent attack by government forces reached us, we were left no option but to run back to Sudan. On the night that we heard that fighting had broken out some hours from us, the children were ordered to leave first and to run for the border. We were reassured that the part of Sudan we were heading for was controlled by our own soldiers, the SPLA.
I was in one of the last groups of minors to leave. The road was crowded and it was dark, but the enemy was fast gaining on us, pushing our defenders back, and we had to press on. As we ran we could hear bombs exploding, just like when we had fled Sudan for Ethiopia. Now we were rushing back!
After walking all night and most of the following day, we reached the Gilo River. Little did I know that once we had crossed it, it would take us another night and another day of walking to get to the border town of Pochella.
The river bank was congested with people. The first minors’ groups had crossed to the other side, but the earth was parched and there was no food to be found. As most of the refugees had already consumed the little they had carried with them, and there was obviously no food on the other side of the river, some were talking about turning back. We were back in hell, just like in those early days in Panyido. Meanwhile, the level of the river was rising, and soon it was coming down in flood. It seemed impossible for those still on the Ethiopian side to cross it.
Our enemies were on their way to kill us and we were trapped!
That afternoon, when people were still milling around, wondering what to do, the soldiers we had relied on to protect us came running wildly from the front line, their shirts tied around their waists. The enemy had evidently destroyed everything behind us. The SPLA soldiers ordered us to jump into the river and swim for our lives, or, if we were unable to swim, to follow the river to where we would reach Sudanese territory controlled by the SPLA. They would cover us, they promised.
Then I recognised Salva Kiir Mayardit. He was the SPLA commander in charge