2006 - What is the What (69 page)

The moment I slowed my pace, I heard screaming. I looked up to see Luke and Gorial, trailed by a mass of other boys, running toward me.

—Go! they screamed.—Go to the board!

They looked like they would knock me down if they reached me. I turned again and ran, the boys close at my heels. We all ran, the boys skipping and jumping and laughing along side me. Gop Chol, coming back from the tap, saw us running down the road.

—Where are you going? he yelled.

His face again restored me to my senses. Should I tell him what the boys said, tell him where I was running?

I smiled and continued running. I ran with an abandon I hadn’t known since I was very small.

—It’s on the board! Gorial screamed to him.—Dominic is on the board!

—No! Gop gasped.—No!

He dropped his jerry can and ran with us. Now there were fifteen of us running.

—You really think it’s on the board? he huffed alongside me.

—It is, it is! yelled Luke.—I know how to read!

We ran, tears streaming down our faces because we were laughing and maybe crying and maybe just delirious. Finally we were at the board, the Lutheran World Federation’s information kiosk, where they displayed refugees’ arts and crafts.

I ran my eyes over the names. Gop was doubled over, holding his side. There were so many names, and the light was too bright, the ink so faint.

—There it is! Gorial yelled. His finger was stuck on the board so I couldn’t see. I swept his little finger away and read my name.

DOMINIC AROU. SEPTEMBER 9. ATLANTA. Now Gop was reading with me.

—September 9? he said.—That’s Sunday. Four days away.

—Oh my God, I said.

—Four days! he said.

The boys made a song of it.—Four days! Four days! Dominic’s gone in four days! I hugged Gop and he said he would tell the family. He ran off and I ran off, back to the bus.—I’m going! I told George.

—No! he said. I told the boys.

—Where? With us?

—No, no. To America. My name is on the board!

—No! they all yelled.—No it isn’t, never!

—You’re really leaving? George asked.

—I think I am, I said, not quite believing it.

—No! You’re here for life! the boys joked.

But finally the news sunk in. I would not be going on their trip that day, and probably wouldn’t see them again. Some of the boys seemed hurt, but they found a way to be happy for me. George shook my hand and they leapt over the seats and crowded around me and patted me on the back and the head and hugged my waist and legs with their small arms and tiny bony hands. I was not sure if I would see them again before I left. I hugged all the boys I could reach and we cried and laughed together about the insanity of it all.

It was Wednesday night and I was leaving Sunday. I had hundreds of things to do before my flight to Nairobi. My head ran through all the tasks necessary. There was no time. I knew everything that had to be done, having seen all of my friends leave before me. I had to be at cultural orientation two of the next three days, leaving no time for anything. I would say goodbye to my Kakuma family and friends on Saturday, but before then, it would be madness.

That night I went back to the board, to see my name again. It was indeed my name. There could be no error now. They could not remove my name from that list. Actually, I knew they could—they could do anything, and often did—but I felt at least I had grounds to fight if they tried to rescind their promise. While I was looking at the board that night, I saw also my name on the list for INS letters. They had not sent the letter; I only had to pick it up, and that was the last part of my release. It was all happening at once. I didn’t know what to make of the logic of the UN, but it didn’t matter. I was leaving in three days and soon everyone knew.

I was telling any person I could see, and they each told ten or twenty more. There was rejoicing in all quarters but there was also concern. Gop’s family, and many of my friends, though expressing happiness to my face, worried for me: what did this mean, that I should go on this trip so soon after the accident? This could not be good, they thought. It seemed to be tempting fate to take such a trip so soon after a near-death experience. No one said anything to me. I was too happy and unworried and they didn’t want to dampen my optimism. Instead, they prayed. I prayed. Everyone prayed. And amid it all I thought, this is not right. I’ve just found out my family is alive. How can I travel across the world? How can I not at least wait in Kakuma until Sudan is safe again? I had waited fifteen years to see my family, and now I was voluntarily taking myself even farther from them. Nevertheless, this was God’s plan. I could not believe otherwise. God had placed this chance in front of me, I was certain, and I became convinced of his presence in the sequence of my life when I learned of the possibilities offered by Mr. CB.

There was at that time a brand-new development at Kakuma: through the ingenuity of a Somali entrepreneur, it became possible for those with means to reach, or try to reach, relatives in war-torn areas of East Africa. The Somali, who became known among the English-speaking refugees as Mr. CB, knew how to contact NGOs working throughout the region, and could occasionally arrange to have those living nearby brought to the radio to speak to family members at Kakuma. To reach someone in southern Sudan, we could visit Mr. CB, and for four minutes of radio time, pay him 250 shillings—quite a lot for most of the camp’s residents. He would then try to ascertain how best to reach the relative in question. If there was an SPLA radio outlet in the area, he could start there. If there was an NGO in the area, he could go about negotiating with them. This was more difficult, given the NGOs typically had restrictions against using their radios for personal communications. In any case, if all hurdles were cleared, Mr. CB or one of his operatives—for he had employees representing all the nations of Kakuma—would say, We are looking for such and such a person, can you bring them to the radio? And on the other end of the line, someone would be dispatched in whatever village or camp or region to find this person. Sometimes that person would be a hundred yards away, sometimes a hundred miles.

I had the money to pay for a connection to Marial Bai, where I learned there was a cooperative NGO worker at the International Rescue Committee. I knew that it was necessary, now more than ever, for me to reach my father, to tell him about the developments in my life, that I had been chosen for resettlement to the United States. So very soon after Mr. CB opened his operation, I arrived, with 250 shillings in hand.

Mr. CB’s place of business, a rectangular room of mud walls and thatched roof, was always crowded. Wives were attempting to reach husbands, children looked for their parents. The Somali’s primary clientele was Dinka, but when I arrived that day there was a Rwandan teenager looking for her aunt, her only surviving relative, and a Bantu woman seeking her husband and children. I sat between two other Lost Boys, younger than I, who had come only to watch the process, to test its reliability before they went about raising the money for their own phone call.

We all sat on log benches on either side of the long room, and at the front, Mr CB sat on a chair, the radio on a rough-hewn table before him, two assistants flanking him, one Dinka, one Ethiopian, ready to translate when needed.

After two hours of listening only to static and disappointment, it was my turn, and by this time my hopes were realistic. As I waited, no one had been connected that day, so my expectations were low. I sat down before the table and listened as Mr. CB and his helpers contacted the IRC operator in Marial Bai. Much to everyone’s surprise, the connection was made within minutes. The Lost Boys behind me gasped to hear a Dinka voice on the other end. But it was far too soon. I wasn’t ready.

Mr. CB, using basic Arabic, explained that he was looking for my father, Deng Nyibek Arou. The Dinka assistant translated, and I heard the NGO worker say that he had seen my father just that day, at the airfield. There had been an Operation Lifeline supply plane that morning, and virtually the entire village had turned out to see what comprised the shipment. Mr. CB asked that my father, Deng Nyibek Arou, be summoned to the radio, and that he would call back in one hour. The man in Marial Bai agreed. I sat back on the log bench, the Lost Boys congratulating me, both of them electric with anticipation. I was absolutely numb. I was sure I had lost the power of speech. It seemed utterly impossible that I would be speaking to my father in one hour. I had not even planned what I would say. Would he remember me? He had so many children by now, I knew, and he was growing older…It was a horrible hour, that hour of waiting in that narrow room and that Somali barking into his radio.

A Burundian couple went ahead of me, attempting to reach an uncle they thought might send them money, but they had no luck. And soon it was my turn again. Mr. CB, with a certain swagger in knowing that at least this one connection, my connection, worked, took my money and contacted the Marial Bai operator again.

—Hello? he said.—Is he there? Okay.

The microphone was handed to me. I stared at it. It was as dead as a stone.

—Talk, boy! the Dinka assistant urged. I brought the microphone to my mouth.

—Father?

—Achak! a voice said. The voice was not at all recognizable to me.

—Father?

—Achak! Where on Earth are you?

The voice broke into a loud belly-laugh. It was my father. To hear my father say my name! I had to believe it was him. I knew it was him. And just as I became sure, the connection ended. The Somali, his pride at stake, called again. In a few minutes, my father’s voice again burst through the box.

—Achak! he barked.—Speak if you can! Be quick like a bunny!

—Father, they want to send me to the United States.

—Yes, he said.—I heard they were sending boys there. How is it? And the connection died. When Mr. CB found Marial Bai again, I continued where I had left off.

—I’m not in America. I’m at Kakuma. I want to ask you what I should do. I want to see you. I’m not sure I want to travel so far away from you, now that I know you and my mother are alive. I want to come home.

The radio cut out once more. This time the Somali took twenty minutes to regain the IRC operator, and the connection was now far more faint.

When my father and I could hear each other again, he was still talking, as if he had never been interrupted. He was lecturing now, far from amused, his voice raised.

—You have to go, boy. Are you crazy? This town is still ashen from the last attack. Don’t come here. I forbid it. Go to the United States. Go there tomorrow.

—But what if I never see you again? I said.

—What? You’ll see us. The only way you’ll see us is if you get to the United States. Come back a successful man.

—But father, what—

—Yes, the What. Right. Get it. This is it. Go. I am your father and I forbid you to come to this place—

The connection snapped closed for good. The Somali could not regain it. So that was that.

In those last few days before leaving, I ran everywhere. The next day was my first day of orientation, and my last day of work at the Wakachiai Project. I ran to class and sat with fifty others, mostly younger boys who I did not know; everyone my age was gone. There were two teachers, an American and an Ethiopian, the American withering in the heat. This classroom, the best in Kakuma, was indoors, in the International Organization for Migration center. It had a real roof and floor and we sat in chairs. We listened, but were too excited to pay attention properly, to process the information in a useful way.

They talked about life in the United States. About how to get a job, how to save money, how to arrive on time for work. They talked about apartments, about buying food and paying rent. They helped us with the math—most of us, they said, would be making $5 or $6 an hour. This seemed like a great deal of money. Then they told us about buying food, and paying rent on an apartment. They had us do the calculations, and we realized we could not afford to live on $5 or $6 an hour. No particular solution was offered, I don’t think, but we were too high to dwell on the details. We tried to listen to all the words, but we were so excited. Trying to learn numbers and facts that first day was like catching bats leaving a hollow. They managed to seize our attention when the American brought out a cooler and passed around a large cube of ice. I had seen ice before, though in smaller form; none of the other boys had seen ice at all, and they laughed, and squealed, and passed it hand to hand as if it might change them forever if they held it too long.

At work that day, I attempted to impart everything I knew to George, who would have to take over the project entirely. He was very attentive, but we both knew that leaving so quickly would be problematic. The operation had lost its two primary staff members in the space of a month.

—Maybe they’ll send another Japanese person, George said.

—I hope they don’t, I said.

I wanted no more people coming to Kakuma unless they had no other choice. I wanted us to take care of ourselves, and to solve all this on our own, and to bring no innocents into the hole we had dug. It seemed a sensible plan, that day at least, and after we locked up the office that afternoon, I felt the satisfaction of having settled another of my affairs at the camp.

As I walked home, the afternoon still bathed in harsh light, I saw my stepsister Adeng walking quickly toward me. Her arms were wrapped around her torso, a strange expression on her face.

—Come quickly, she said.

She took my hand in hers. She had never held my hand before.

—Why? What is it? I asked.

—There is a car, she said.—Outside our house. For you.

A car had only once before stopped at our shelter, when Abuk had arrived.

We walked quickly toward home.

—See? she said.

When we arrived, I saw four cars, UN cars, black and clean, dust everywhere around them. I stood with Adeng. The car doors opened and a dozen people stepped out at once. There were two white people, two Kenyans. The rest were Japanese, and all were wearing formal clothing—jackets and ties, clean white shirts. A young Japanese man, tall and wearing a tan suit, stepped forward and introduced himself as the translator. And then I knew.