2006 - What is the What (31 page)

—This is acceptable to you? he barked.

—Everyone is dying, I said.—We passed dead soldiers coming here.

This seemed surprising to Tito. He wanted to know where we had seen them, and how many there were. When I told him, he was changed: it became clear to him that his was not the only group of soldiers alone in the desert, forgotten in the war. This news, I believe, gave Tito strength. And watching him run back to the bus to tell his comrades, I felt stronger, too. I realize it was not rational.

In the early evening, as the sky’s blue grew black, we were settling in to sleep when a figure broke the horizon. Dut saw him and stood on the edge of the village, squinting into the distance. The figure became a boy.

—Is that one of ours? Dut asked.

No one answered. Tito was asleep in the shadow of the tank.

—Kur, could that be one of ours? Dut asked. Kur shrugged.

I squinted and saw that the boy on the horizon became many boys, then hundreds of figures. I sat up. Dut and Kur stood, their hands on their hips.

—My God, who is that?

Dut woke Tito and asked if he knew anything about a group of boys coming to Gumuro.

—We didn’t know about
you
, Tito said wearily. He was unhappy to be woken but was interested in the mass of people approaching.

The group in the distance grew closer. All of the boys of our group were watching as this other, larger, line of boys approached. The line did not end. The line grew to four boys wide and soon there were women visible, very small children, armed men. Tito was agitated.

—What the hell is this?

This was a river of Sudanese and they were coming into Gumuro. They looked stronger, and they walked briskly, with purpose. They carried bags, baskets, suitcases, sacks. And then the most incredible thing: a tanker.

—Water, Tito said.—That’s the SPLA water tanker.

—A tanker? Dut whispered.—We have a tanker?

The group emerging from the drenched horizon was eight hundred strong, perhaps a thousand. They were accompanied by fifty soldiers or more, armed and healthy and guarding the walkers. The first of them began to enter the town. Dut was elated. He saw their food and their water and gathered us.

The first of the new soldiers stepped up to Dut and Tito.

—Hello uncle! Dut said, now exuberant, almost in tears.

—Who are you? the new soldier said. He wore a baseball hat and a full uniform.

—We’re some of the walking boys, Dut said.—Like you. We just arrived earlier today. It’s so good to see you here! We’re so hungry! And we have no clean water. They’re drinking from puddles, from the swamps. When I saw that tanker I thought God himself had sent it to us. We really could use some of that. We’re dying here. We’ve lost so many. How should we—

—We’ll feed the soldiers, the new rebel said,—but you shouldn’t be here.

—In this village? Dut was incredulous. His voice cracked.

—We have to take this village. We’ve got a thousand people.

—Well, we’re only three hundred. I’m sure there’s room. And we really need assistance. We lost nineteen boys in the desert.

—That may be the case. But you have to leave now, before the rest of my group arrives. These are important people and we’re escorting them to Pinyudo.

Dut watched the people arriving. There were families and adults in fine clothing but there were among them many boys, small boys, looking very much like us. The only difference was that the new group was better fed. Their eyes were not shrunken, their bellies not bloated. They wore shirts and shoes.

—Uncle, Dut tried.—I have respect for you and your position. I only ask that we share this land tonight. It’s already getting dark.

—Then you better move now.

Dut was sputtering now, as the reality of the soldier’s resolve became clear.

—Where? Where will we go?

—I won’t draw you a map. Move. Get these mosquitoes out of our way. He cast a disgusted look over all of us, our protruding bones and eyes and cracked skin, our mouths circled in white.

—But uncle, we’re the same! Aren’t we the same? Are your goals different than mine?

—I don’t know what your goals are.

—I can’t believe this. It’s absurd.

The crack at that moment was very similar to that when my father was struck in his shop. I turned away. Dut lay on the ground, his temple bleeding from the blow of the butt of the gun. The soldier stood over him.

—It
is
absurd, doctor. Good choice of words. Now get the hell out of here.

The soldier raised his gun and shot into the air.—Get out of here, you insects! Move!

The new soldiers chased us from the village, beating whomever they could. Boys fell and bled. Boys ran. We ran and I ran and I had never felt the rage I felt at that moment. My anger was more intense than it had ever been toward the murahaleen. It was born of the realization that there were castes within the displaced. And we occupied the lowest rung on the ladder. We were utterly dispensible to all—to the government, to the murahaleen, to the rebels, to the better-situated refugees.

We settled on the edge of Gumuro, in a marsh, where we rested in ankle-deep water and tried to sleep. We were alone and in a circle again, listening to the sounds of the forest, watching the lights of the tanker in the distance.

It was two days more before we reached Ethiopia. Before Ethiopia we had to cross a tributary of the Nile, the Gilo River, wide and deep. The people who lived by the water owned boats but would not allow us to use them. Swimming was our only choice.

—Who’ll be first? Dut asked.

On the riverbank there were three crocodiles drying themselves. When the first boys stepped into the river, those crocodiles chose to enter the water, too. The boys leapt from the water, crying.

—Come, look, Dut said.—These crocodiles won’t attack. They’re not hungry today.

He waded into the river and then began to swim, gliding easily, his head above water, his glasses never getting wet. Dut seemed capable of anything. Some boys cried anew, watching him in the middle of the river. We expected him to disappear in an instant. But he swam back to us untouched.

—Now we must go. Anyone who wants to stay here, can do so. But we are crossing this river today, and once we do, we will be very close to our destination.

We squinted to see what lay ahead on the opposite bank of the river. From our perspective, it looked very much like the side of the river we were on, but we had faith that once across the water, all would be new.

Few among us could swim, so Kur and Dut, and the boys who could swim, pulled across those who could not. Two swimmers would take one boy at a time, and this took quite some time. Each boy was courageous and quiet as they were brought to the opposite shore, keeping their legs from dangling too deep. No one was attacked in that river that day. But these same crocodiles would grow accustomed to eating people at a later time.

As I waited for my turn, hunger came to me like I had not experienced in weeks. Perhaps it was because I knew that in the riverside village there was real food, and that there must exist some way to get it. Alone, I walked from house to house, trying to conceive of a plan to trade for or steal food. I had never stolen in my life but the temptation was becoming too great.

A boy’s voice spoke to my back.—You, boy, where are you from?

He was my age, a boy who looked not dissimilar to us Dinka. He spoke a kind of Arabic. I was surprised to find that I could understand the boy. I told him that I had walked from Bahr al-Ghazal, though this meant nothing to him. Bahr al-Ghazal did not exist here.

—I want your shirt, the boy said. Soon another boy, looking like the older brother to the first boy, approached and commented that he, too, wanted my shirt. In a moment a deal was struck: I told them I would sell them my shirt in exchange for a cup of maize and a cup of green beans.

The older boy ran into their hut and returned with the food. I gave them the only shirt I had. Soon I rejoined the walking boys at the water; others had traded with the villagers and were cooking and eating. Naked but for my shorts, I boiled my maize and ate quickly. As we waited to be brought over the water, those boys who had not eaten now went about bartering what they had. Some sold extra clothes, or whatever else they had found or carried: a mango, dried fish, a mosquito net. None of us knew that only one hour away would be the refugee camp where we would settle for three years. When we arrived there, at Pinyudo, I would curse my decision to trade my shirt for a cup of maize. One boy traded all of his clothes, leaving him naked completely, and he would remain naked for six months, until the camp received its first shipment of used clothes from other parts of the world.

In the late afternoon, it was finally my turn to cross the river. I had eaten and felt sated. Dut and Kur, however, seemed very tired. They spent much of my crossing on their backs, mistakenly kicking me, splashing slowly backward. When we reached the far bank, I sat with the other boys, resting and waiting for our hearts to settle. Finally, as night fell, Dut and Kur finished crossing the river with boys. We thanked them for pulling us over and I kept close to Kur as they led us up from the river, through a thicket of trees, and upon a clearing.

—This is it, Kur said.—We are now in Ethiopia.

—No, I said, knowing he was making a joke.—When will we reach it, Kur?

—We’ve reached it. We’re here.

I looked at the land. It looked exactly like the other side of the river, the side that was Sudan, the side we left. There were no homes. There were no medical facilities. No food. No water for drinking.

—This is not that place, I said.

—It is that place, Achak. Now we can rest.

Already there were Sudanese adults spread out across the fields, refugees who had arrived before us, lying on the ground, sick and dying. This was not the Ethiopia we had walked for. I was sure we had farther to go.

We are not in Ethiopia, I thought. This is not that place.

F
irst I hear his voice. Achor Achor is close. Talking on his cell phone, in English. His wonderful high-pitched voice. I look up to see his form pass through the window. Now the scratching of his keys against the door and finding their place in the lock.

He opens the door and his hand falls to his side.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks in English.

To see him is too much. I had a secret fear that I would never see his face again. I manage to make a few grateful squeaks and grunts before he kneels and removes the tape from my mouth.

‘Achak! Are you okay?’

It takes me a moment to compose myself.

‘What the hell is this?’ he asks.

‘I was attacked,’ I finally say. ‘We were robbed.’

He spends a long moment taking in the scene. His eyes rest on my face, my hands, my legs. He scans the room as if a better explanation will reveal itself.

‘Cut me loose!’ I say.

He is quick to find a knife and kneels next to me. He cuts through the phone cord. I give him my feet and he unties the knot. He switches to Dinka.

‘Achak, what the hell happened? How long have you been here?’

I tell him it has been almost a full day. He helps me stand.

‘Let’s go to the hospital.’

‘I’m not injured,’ I say, though I have no way of knowing.

We walk to the bathroom, where Achor Achor inspects the cut under the bright lights. He cleans the cut carefully with a towel soaked in warm water. As he does, he takes in a quick breath, then corrects himself.

‘Maybe a few stitches. Let’s go.’

I insist on calling the police first. I want them to be able to begin the case; I’m certain they will want the warmest trail to follow. The assailants could not be far.

‘You pissed your pants.’

‘I’ve been here for a day. What time is it? Is it past noon?’

‘One-fifteen.’

‘Why are you home?’

‘I came to get money for tonight. I was going to Michelle’s after work. I’m supposed to be back at the store in ten minutes.’

Achor Achor looks as concerned about getting back to work as he does about me. I go to my closet for a change of clothes. I use the bathroom, showering and changing, spending too long on basic tasks.

Achor Achor knocks. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m so hungry. Do you have food?’

‘No. I’ll go get some.’

‘No!’ I say, almost leaping off the toilet. ‘Don’t go. I’ll eat whatever we have here. Don’t leave.’

I look in the mirror. The blood has dried on my temple, on my mouth. I finish in the bathroom and Achor Achor gives me half a ham sandwich he has retrieved from the freezer and microwaved. We sit on the couch.

‘You were at Michelle’s?’

‘I’m so sorry, Achak. Who were they?’

‘No one we know.’

‘If I had been here it wouldn’t have happened.’

‘I think it would. Look at us. What would we have done?’

We discuss calling the police. We have to quickly review anything that could go wrong if we do. Are our immigration papers in order? They are. Do we have outstanding parking tickets? I have three, Achor Achor two. We calculate whether or not we have enough in checking accounts to pay the tickets if the police demand it. We decide that we do.

Achor Achor makes the call. He tells the dispatcher what has happened, that I was attacked and we were robbed. He neglects to mention that the man had a gun, but I figure it will not matter for now. When the police cars arrive I will have plenty of time to describe the events. I will be taken to the station to look at pictures of criminals who resemble those who assaulted me. I briefly imagine myself testifying against Tonya and Powder, pointing at them across an outraged courtroom. I realize I will know their full names, and they will know mine. Making them pay for this will be satisfying, but I will have to move from here, because their friends will also know my address. In Sudan a crime against one person can pit families against each other, entire clans, until the matter is thoroughly resolved.

Achor Achor and I sit on the couch and it grows quiet between us. Having the police in this apartment causes growing anxiety. I have little luck with cars or police. I have owned a car for three years and have been in six accidents. On January 16, 2004, I was in three accidents in one twenty-four-hour period. All of the incidents were small, at stoplights and driveways and parking lots, but I had to wonder if I was being toyed with. Now, this year, has begun the ordeal of near-constant towing. I have been towed for parking tickets, have been towed for an out-of-date car registration. This happened two weeks ago and began when I passed a police car leaving a Kentucky Fried Chicken. He followed me, turned on his lights, and I pulled over immediately. The man, very tall and white, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, quickly told me that he might take me into jail. ‘You want go to jail?’ he asked me, suddenly, loudly. I tried to speak. ‘Do you?’ he interrupted. ‘Do you?’ I said I did not want to go to jail, and asked why I would be going. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and I waited in my car as he returned to his. Soon enough I learned that he had pulled me over because the sticker on my license plate had expired; I needed a new, different-colored sticker. For this he saved me—he used the words ‘I’m gonna stick my neck out and save you here, kid’—from jail, instead simply forcing me to leave the car on the highway, from which it was towed.