"Only Grass Suffers When Two Bulls Fight"

From U.S. Committee For Refugees

My name is William Majak Deng. I am Sudanese by nationality. I was born in southern Sudan in the Upper Nile, in Bor. My hometown is Mading Bor. The community lived a solid and stable life. It was a splended, noble, and grand life in all its dimensions. In my native home, life was beautiful and authentic.

I was born into a family of ten: parents, seven boys, and a daughter. My family was an extended one, comprised of aunts, uncles, grand-parents, cousins, nieces, and nephews. My father was a pastoralist. He had a large farm and many herds of cattle. My father was also a prominent person in my community, the Dinka community, which is one of the Nilotic groups and also the largest tribe in Sudan.

However, the world is not static. That genuine life was interrupted by a civil war that broke out in 1983. This civil war intensified and spread in the whole Sudan. It was marked by unreasonable looting of properties, demolition of shelters, abduction of children, and later on when all the livelihood was swept away, deliberate killings were launched on us -- the southerners. We were attacked both aerially through bombing, and on the ground through shooting. Thousands of lives were lost. It was a genocide. Life bcause valueless and meaningless. I lost almost a half decade of my life. I love my father and many relatives. That was 1986. As that abomination raged on, life because unbearable, and a massive displacement of people occurred as a result of the ceaseless killing.

In 1987, things completely fell apart in the south. The situation deteriorated, particularly in my area. Couples were disunited, friendships and relationships deteriorated.

I was separated fro my brothers, mum, sister, and relatives. I found myself among the mass of people, mainly children, heading to an unknown destination. We wandered in despair and agony in the Sudan, looking for peace. The only relative who was with me during those doom days was my uncle's son. He used to carry me on his should some distance, and I walked the rest on my own. We headed eastward of the Sudan. On our way, we were bothered by mosquitos and terrified by wild animals. We experienced a burning thirst in some distances, and, of course, starvation.

I remember the water I drank in the desert on our way to Ethiopia. It was very bitter water squeezed out of an antelope's intenstines. During that hourney, some died of thirst and starvation. It was a long journey through hell.

After two and a half months, we found ourselves along a fast running river. Coming to water was a blessing. We quenched our burning thirst. That was the Ethiopia and Sudan border. Almost all of us lay flat on the bank for two days. Very few of us knew how to swim. To save ourselves from piercing hunger, we ate water lily tubers and some plants' leaves during the two days we spent on the river bank. Some of our fellow brothers who knew how to swim swam to the safe side ofthe river. Others drowned. The rest who managed to cross the river conveyed our pathetic situation.

Life is God's gift. Our fellow friends, the Ethiopians, came to our rescue. The rowed us to the other sude of the river using boats and motorboats. We settled under big baobab trees. Though the yellow corn they provided to us was insufficient, it brought some signs of life in me. I remarked that no man is an island. I also realized that a friend in need is a friend indeed. Those two thoughts crept in my brain after being saved by Ethiopians.

After a week, the UNHCR, the celebrated humanitarian organization, emerged. At that time, we were transferred to a place in a vast plain almost near the interior of Ethiopia. However, the suffering was not over. The UN personnel were only news-gatherers who took photos of our skeletal bodies and went back to where I could not imagine.

After they left, life became much worse. The yellow corn provided to us by our good Samaritans was insufficient for that huge population of dying children. We resorted to plants' leaves and roots. Some died of contamination from wild plants. Others sustained terrifying swellings and sores on their necks and mouths. I remember vividly painful boils and swellings inside my cheeks and mouth during that abominable time. The largest population was lost to disease like malaria and typhoid. Likewise, measles and the whooping cough claimed almost the same number of people. There was no medicine, no doctor, no parental care, only us -- the children of southern Sudan -- facing our own fate. Those were really my doom days.

After a couple of months, when a drastic increase in our population was noticed, the UN relief convoys arrived to our rescue. We were given enough food and non-food items, for instance, clothes and blankets. Health centers were erected, and life started to germinate. However deadly diarrhea broke out. It caused an additional loss of lives. I got sick, but I was treated in time.

The health crises abated, but I was not at peace psychologically and emotionally. The booming of artilleries, whizzing of bullets, and the bloddy sight I experienced in the wars in the Sudan remained intact in my brain. Days and nights passed by as those horrible images kept replaying in my mind. I am not sure whether I was mad or normal. This was by 1988 apparently. I learned later that I was not the only one with that trouble of mental disorders. The very question later on that bothered me the most was the absence of my parents, brothers, and sister. I could not imagine living life as an outcast. Life without parental care almost a full blow to me.

Within the same year, 1988, schools were opened. We were taught under big trees by our fellow Sudanese. To me, getting used to that teaching program was unbelievable. I thought I would get a chance of going back to see my dead relatives. As time went by and by, things grew more and more normal. Later on we built our classrooms using grass and poles. I first went to my elementary class in 1988. There was no paper yet. We used to write on the floor and count sticks.

What was our refugee life like in Ethiopia? It was a chance for independent and reliable thoughts and work. I had not known how to cook my own food, how to thatch my hut, how to live in the bush, but adversity had taught me how to do these things. Four years of refugee life in Ethiopia wa actually a rehearsal for the suffering we had to bear.

When the Mengistu regime was toppled [1991], we were expelled from the camp by the new government. Our exodus from Ethipoia back to Sudan was a curse to bear.

On our way, we were bombed and shot at. The rest were seized and taken to Khartoum, Sudan. The worst stage was on the Gilo River, the dividing river between Ethiopia and the Sudan. The majority of us did not know how to swim and the enemy did not give us a chance to look for boats. "Which death is better?" That question stormed me. The roaring of the fast running waters, the thundering of the heavy guns, the crying of shots and seized children and the whizzings of showering bullets were a hell on Earth.

I was in a dilemma. I ran along the river bank, from left to right, right to left, and vice-versa, in hope of getting to a safe place so that I could cross the devouring river. A great number of children jumped into the river, but only a few appeared at the other side. i could not explain how I escaped the double death. However, I was still within the bullet ranges. I crawled for seven miles with some children to Pochalla, Sudan.

On the way, we were attacked by wild animals. Starvation, mosquitos, rain, and cold were the common crises that we faced. It took us a couple of days to reach Pochalla. The town was controlled by the SPLA [Sudan People's Liberation Army] at that time. I was only in a rag, torn by thorns. I was partially deaf; my hands were almost paralyzed with cold. it took several days for me to regain human senses.

Life in Pochalla was a threat. A cup of good was given to five people for an indefinite period of time. We resorted to plants' leaes and fruits. The plant called "waak" was our basic food. We used to take turns picking the tiny white fruits of that plant. We starved terribly. However, not many children amongst us died of starvation.

Life went on for a couple months in that hopeless manner, then the IRC [International Rescue Committee] arrived. It first brought mosquito nets, hooks, and fishing nets. There were some fish in the Pochalla River. I learned how to catch fish using nets and hooks. A fish and waak meal was wonderful. Life improved a bit but was still frustrating in many ways.

By the end of eight months in Pochalla, the spell erupted. A very harsh battle between the SPLA and its enemy victimized us. We escaped the town at a bottleneck speed. We staggered in distress heading eastward in the direction of southern Sudan. We trekked several miles on foot. We experienced our obvious problems on the way: hunger, thirst, attacks, and such kinds of evils.

We were completely exhausted and had sustained boils on our bare soles. We laid flat in the desert of the Sudan. The powerful summer equatorial sum scorched us. we were almost roasting to death. We faced severe dehydration. No food, no water, no good shelter. I thought God had forgotten us.

We suffered out of somebody else's causes. I realized that only grass suffers when two bulls fight. The SPLA and its enemy were the bulls fighting.

When I was ready to curse the day I was born, the UN water truck arrived. It was really a messenger from God.

We were given very little water. Shortly afterwards, several convoys came. We were thornw inside the trucks like empty sacks: cold and flexible. We all got into trucks. The rest of the journey proceeded without my knowledge.

At a certain post called Lokichokio, I was awakened. That was an outpost of Kenya near the Sudan and Kenya border. We were nursed there by the IRC, then after a month were transferred to the interior of the northern part of Kenya in Turkana districct -- to a place called Kakuma. That place was not an idea one for human life. It was a wide semi-desert. The only creatures there were camels, monkeys. The only vegetation was a very short, stunted plant locally called "Kakuma." The name of the camp was derived from that plant.

Our arrival to Kakuma's hostile environment in 1992 was not an easy one. Though basic requirements were in surplus, the weather itself was unwelcoming. Indeed, Kakuma was an abyss for natural disasters, whirlwinds, and blazing equatorial sun. The only rain was a dusting. It blew or rained day and night. I learned that forces without care must be endured.

The UNHCR brought plastic sheets, poles and palm leaves, and we built our own huts, health centers.

I was physically and mentally demoralized, upset with my own life. kakuma was like a pool without an outlet. Year after year, the refugee numbers increased.

The camp was ccomposed of different refugees from different nationalities, within Africa. The obvious ones were Somalis, Ethiopians, Congolese, Burundians, and of course the Sudanese, who were predominant. In fact, Kakuma was a multinational, multiethnic, multicultural, and multireligious camp. That huge number of people were confined in the camp. As the number grew larger and larger, the shortages of food, water, and living space and all the health problems because major crises.

We were asked to queue up to meet every one of our needs. There was frequent fighting in food distribution centers -- barbed wires and razor wires nearly tore everyone during struggles for food. That food was not enough. however, it made the different between little and none. Either an adult or a child was given the same ration. Two cups of maize, a quarter cup of beans, and a jerry can top full of oil were given to every individual for a fortnight. Firewood was a source of death -- ladies were raped by the local people when found astray in search of firewood. Fetching firewood or kindling was an unforgivable crime. Therefore, we had to give them a portion of our ration in exchange for firewood and kindling. The local people killed many because firewood and kindling were taken without permission. We cried for help, bu the government turned deaf ears to us. The local people almost became wild because of hardship on their own land. They begged that they could get a share of the ration provided to us by the UN. They started an open robbery. I wished I could leave the camp, but there was no safe place that I knew of. We had to live like prisoners.

Recently, in August 2000, I was clled to the UNHCR compound for the U.S. resettlement interview. I emotionally prayed to God that I would get an outlet from the camp. My petition was only to leave the cruel life of the camp, not to come to the U.S. I knew of nothing good in my world even in the U.S. In Octobert 2000, I was summoned to the UN compounds for the JVA [join voluntary agency] to interview for resettlement. To my stonishment, I was given an approval letter by the INS [Immigration and Naturalization Service]. I had to leave within no time.

On February 26, 2001, my name appeared at the top of the list of forty-five children scheduled for the Febreuary 27, 2001 flight. It was unbelievable to me until I stood the following day by the plane's door among the forty-five on board. I was the first to me called in. At the door, I stood motionless. I had nothing with me except my IOM [International Organization for Migration] bag. The dream had come true.

The waving hands of my fellow friends brought tears to my eyes. My heart pumped as if it would burst open. The bitterimage of my teen yars reappeared vividly in my mind during those seconds of standing. I did not dare to wave goodbye in return. Then, I got into the plane. i left the savage life of the concentration camp in kakuma, Kenya.

My first plane journey was not simple. I felt nervous because that was my first time flying in the air like a bird. The plane swayed from side to side, bumped up and down. The lacck of oxygen and the motor sounds of an airplane were all troubling to me. "No journey is easy," I concluded.

The rest of the journey from Nairobi to Washington, D.C. was better. My arrival to the city was crowned with mixed moods and feelings. The flickering, glimmering lights, the roads upon roads, the endless queue of fast running vehicles, and the magnificent sights I saw and heard were all new and strange. Totally fantastic! "Yesterday in the darkness, today in the light," I remarked.

My departure from Africa, the third world continent, and arrival in the heart of the advanced world in Houston, Texas was a remarkable turning point in my life. The horrible images of the bitter fourteen years of refugee life in Africa and the strangeness of the new way of life in Houston are the greatest rivals in the small brain of this one Sudanese Lost Boy.