The lost boys of Sudan
by Svetlana Guineva
The Metropolitan
War. A curtain of thick smoke soaked with the stench of burning flesh falls. The Creator can't see the convulsive throes of suffering of His own flesh.
War. A mass grave where humanity is buried under piled up lifeless bodies--bodies whose open eyes radiate quiet judgment to the skies, to whatever god can give an answer: why?
 (Leah Bluntschli -The Metropolitan) Daniel Duol checks the computers at the front desk of the Rule Recreation Center, 2855 W. Holden Place.
A frozen black and white image of a life before, and no life after. Who dares to notice?
Dragging feet worn out from the endless walk, torturing hunger and thirst, thousands of refugees fleeing southern Sudan creep in the bush, praying to whomever god for the Arab militia not to notice them.
The year is 1987. The ongoing civil war between the Muslim North and the Christian South in Sudan has left countless villages burned down, two million people dead and four million displaced with no point of return. Among the fugitives, banished from a land where their ancestors have lived for centuries, were a great number of children, mainly boys whose parents were killed or disappeared with no trace.
Being part of the resettlement project that brought to the U.S. 3,700 of those Sudanese children, now young men, Colorado has harbored 61 of them. They are called the Lost Boys of Sudan. They have no families, no home and no country.
Although the story of each Boy is strikingly similar-a sudden attack on his village somewhere in southern Sudan, chaos, death, lost parents and siblings-Arok Garang, a 22-year-old refugee keeps circling around one major detail. He mentions it, then continues with his morbid saga of run-and-hide-a game he played to save his life-and then comes back to it again. His wrinkleless white shirt marked with tiny blue stripes brings some odd freshness to the air and highlights Arok's smile in the rare moments it appears.
His thin, long fingers tap nervously on the table, or instinctively touch the scarification on his forehead (a sign of belonging to the Dinka tribe), as if to make sure that in this exact heartbeat in time and space he still exists; or his hands sunk under the table with palm pressed against palm as if to support his breaking voice.
He got lost.
His village was attacked at 11 p.m.
"I tried to run. I lost direction; I couldn't see anything. I got lost running around. I was seven years old. I lost the direction where my mom, brothers and sisters had gone," Arok says, then stops talking. He stays still: the silence is thick, perhaps just like the one that falls after destruction and death.
"I haven't seen my parents for 15 years now. (I don't know) if they are still alive and where they are," said Daniel Duol, 23, another Sudanese Lost Boy. "I don't understand why nobody interfered, why nobody tried to stop the killings."
Really? Why? The questions echo in the laid-back afternoon at the Auraria library, hit the ceiling and bounce off the shelves crammed with books where the unused wisdom of the centuries has gathered dust.
No answer.
The southern Sudanese, escaping the atrocities done by the Arab government-backed militia, streamed like the last rays of the setting sun to the border of neighboring Ethiopia.
Many-especially young children and the elderly, who died from hunger, dehydration and various diseases-were attacked by wild animals or drowned while crossing rivers along the way. The ones who survived found shelter in a refugee camp they had to build themselves. The refugees were counted, and grouped by age.
"It took my group and me four months to get to Ethiopia," Arok explained. "Most of us were really young. Many died of hunger and exhaustion."
"At that time, we were all thinking that, wherever we are going, it might be a better place we can live-although we were not sure," Arok said.
"We had to walk at night," said Daniel, who was part of a different group of refugees. "We had to walk for two months before we crossed the Ethiopian border."
The night walk was supposed to protect them from the bombing done by militia units that followed the human trail. Water was scarce, so they walked at night, when they would not get thirsty as quickly.
"I don't have an idea how I survived, because I really didn't know what to do at that time," said Daniel, shaking his head absently. It is clear he has gone back in time. Then, suddenly, he glanced up and uttered: "Maybe God helped me."
There was something in the Ethiopian camp that brought sparks of joy in the Boys' eyes: a school. They were able to attend classes in improvised classrooms underneath trees and learn to read and write, but this time in English, not in Arabic.
The illusion that the refugee's lives have slowly regained some normalcy ended in 1991 when civil war broke out in Ethiopia. The Ethiopian communist government collapsed and the country was flooded with violence and atrocities committed by insurgents taking advantage of the reigning chaos. The Sudanese refugee camp was looted for food and whatever else could be found and taken.
Arok, Daniel, Simon and the rest had to leave in search of a safer place. All headed back toward the Sudanese border and formed a camp along the flooded Gilo River. Ethiopian insurgents attacked and pushed thousands into the river's muddy waters where many found their death, either by drowning or becoming a snack for fierce crocodiles.
Desperate and hungry, the wretched began walking again, undertaking another trek through southern Sudan with wild animals to keep them company, with no water or food, and with bombs falling over their heads, banished from everywhere, with no home and no country.
In 1992, the human sea of thousands of helpless and hopeless Sudanese refugees streamed into Kenya. At Lokichoggio, an international relief base, they received food, water and medical care. Then, they were transported from the Sudanese border to Kakuma, a town which no one suspected would become a second home, or the only home the Lost Boys can remember not being destroyed.
"The life of a refugee is not easy," whispered Daniel, lowering his eyes with a sorrowful expression.
The Kakuma refugee camp is situated in the desert of northern Kenya and has a sad history. The camp is one of the oldest and the largest in the world. It was built 13 years ago and today is a home to some 85, 000 people from nine different countries and dozens of ethnic groups. Sudanese refugees make up nearly 70 percent of the population. The camp's residents rely solely on humanitarian help, including food and water from relief agencies and a number of organizations, including the United Nations.
"There wasn't enough to eat (even) just once a day; sometimes (we'd go) two days without food," said Arok. It was hard there, just sustaining life."
The refugees were not allowed to go outside the camp-a rule imposed by the Kenyan government in order to limit frequent clashes between locals and foreigners. The local people would enter the camp at night to look for food given to the refugees and often to rape or even kill.
Three secondary schools were functioning-not enough for the thousands of eligible children. Some attended classes, some played soccer; others were lucky to find a low paying job working for a relief agency. If nothing else, they would just go visit friends and chat for hours, or sing and dance traditional dances. Correction
In the last issue of The Metropolitan, a photo of Arok Garang of "The Lost Boys of Sudan: Part 1" was published with no mention of him in the article.
In the Kakuma refugee camp, time stood still. The vacuum of uncertainty swallowed the courage to dream about the future, to dare to imagine life better and safer. The days rolled into years; the years chiseled out a perspective starved of aspiration and shrunk down to the fear of hunger and death.
But for some of the lost souls, the capricious providence had different plans.
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