Running for My Life: One Lost Boy's Journey From the Killing Fields of Sudan to the Olympic Games (26 page)

I put my hands on my head to catch my breath after I crossed the finish line. The times from my race flashed up on the scoreboard. Right then I knew I could and would do better in my next Olympics. The winning time in my semi-final race was 3:37.04. I ran a 3:36.70 in the quarterfinals. If I had run anything close to my quarterfinal time, not only would I have qualified for the finals, I might have won my semifinal race. Those times told me I can compete at this level. In 2008 I was overjoyed to make the team. Next time, my goal is to bring home a gold medal.

After my cool-down lap and post-race drug test, I left the stadium to find my parents. Mom gave me a huge hug. “I am so proud of you,” she said. Dad patted me on the back. He kept shaking his head with a wide grin like he could not believe where he was.

“You ran a good race,” he said. “I can’t wait to watch you run in London.”

Jim Paccia, my high school coach, added, “I have a surprise for you.” He then pulled out our old team flag that we made for the cross-country team at Tully High.

I doubled over laughing. “I told you I was going to the Olympics,” I said.

“I never doubted you,” he said. He then pulled out another surprise. “You know, we won’t get to hear the national anthem play for you in the stadium, so I think we need to do something about that.” He took out an American flag. I grabbed one side, he took the other. With the flag in front of us, Jim started singing “The Star Spangled Banner.” I joined in. Thousands of people filled the plaza around us, but we did not care. Coach and I sang at the top of our lungs. Other Americans in the crowd came over and started singing with us. We finished the last line, and everyone cheered. People chanted, “USA, USA.” Then someone recognized me. “Oh my goodness. Lopez is here!” I signed autographs and laughed and talked with fans. I felt like I had just won the gold, silver, and bronze medals combined. Mom and Dad soaked it all in. It was a moment I will never forget.

TWENTY-FOUR
Passing the Dream to My Brothers

A
couple of months after returning home from Beijing, I received autographed copies of the photographs I’d taken with the President and Mrs. Bush. Along with the photographs came an invitation to join my fellow U.S. Olympians at the White House. As much as I wanted to go, I had to decline. Just like after winning the 2007 NCAA Championship, I had another, more pressing opportunity. I guess it is only fitting that my new opportunity grew directly out of the first.

The night HBO aired the
Real Sports
profile of my life in late 2007, a track coach in Virginia and his wife happened to tune in. By the time the story ended, Winston and Beth Brown knew they had to do something about what they had just seen. Winston teaches and coaches cross-country and track at Fork Union Military Academy in Virginia. Although it sounds like a boot camp, it is not. The school is a Christian academy for boys in grades six through twelve. Coach Brown made several phone calls and held many meetings before contacting me. I met him for the first time at the Olympic trials. He introduced himself to me and then dropped a bomb: “I want to help you bring your brothers to America.”

I could not believe my ears. Since the day I left Peter and Alex a year earlier, I had prayed for a way to bring them to America to get an education, but I did not even know where to start. Even though they attended school in Kenya, their school cannot prepare them for college. And a college degree is my goal for my little brothers.

“You’re kidding me,” I said to Winston. “That is very generous of you.”

“You story touched us,” he said. “I figured this is one small thing we can do to make a difference.”

“This is not small,” I said to him. “A good education means everything.”

Winston went on to tell me about Fork Union Academy. He told me how it is a Christian school that focuses on preparing students to go to college. His words were music to my ears. “The school is a boarding school, but my wife and I want your brothers to live with us, if that’s okay with you. We want to give them the experience of a family like what you had with your American mom and dad.”

With those words, this man in Virginia and his wife went from being strangers to family. By the time I returned from Beijing, Winston had completed all the paperwork needed to start the immigration process for my brothers. However, I could not just jump on an airplane and go get Peter and Alex. Back when I came, all I had to do was write one essay. That was easy. The real work was done before I ever heard about the chance to come to America by people at Catholic Charities whose names I do not know. Now that I was on the other side, I had a new appreciation for all they did for me. With Peter and Alex, I had to fill out mountains of papers from three different countries. The process took months, even though Winston Brown had already completed a large portion of it for me.

During this time I also tried to bring my sister, Susan, to the States. However, I faced two insurmountable problems. First, Fort Union Academy is an all-boys’ school. I could not find another school willing to accept my sister. Without a school in place, I could not apply for a student visa for her. On top of that, Susan was afraid of leaving the family and the familiar surroundings of Kimotong. She is the only girl in the family. The thought of leaving our mother filled her with dread. She just could not do it. No matter what I said, her mind was made up. Rather than argue with her, I focused my efforts on Peter and Alex. I still pray that someday I can bring Susan to the United States.

By the time the invitation to the White House came, I had moved far enough along in the process of bringing my brothers to America that I could finally go to Sudan for the next round of paperwork. I traveled with my mother and brothers to the city of Juba, Sudan. My mother, brothers, and I went to the government offices to try to get my brothers’ passports. In most African countries, children are not born in hospitals. As a result, we do not have birth certificates. Without birth certificates, it is difficult to get a passport.

We took three witnesses from our village who basically had to tell the government, “Yes, I know these boys. They were born in Kimotong and this is their mother.” However, the clerk almost did not sign off on the paperwork. He looked at me, the English-speaking American, my two brothers who spoke Swahili almost exclusively after going to school in Kenya, and my Buya-speaking mother, and asked with a suspicious tone, “How are you people connected?” Thankfully, he believed me when I told him this was my mother and brothers and that I was going to take my brothers to America. Either he believed me or he did not care enough to try to stop me. Either way, we got our passports.

Once I had my brothers’ passports, we traveled south to the United States embassy in Nairobi, Kenya. On the way I told my mother once again, “I am taking Peter and Alex back to America with me.” The first time I told her months earlier, she said something like, “Good. These boys are driving me crazy.” Back then she did not think I was serious. Now she knew I was.

“Why do you have to take them away to America? Why don’t you stay here with them?” My mother never quite understood why I had not moved back to Africa once she found me alive.

“Mother, I’ve told you. America is my home now. I am a United States citizen. I go to college there. I am a professional athlete.”

“Why do you want to take Peter and Alex?”

“So they can get a college education, just like me.”

We had this same conversation over and over all the way from Juba to her house in Juja, Kenya. I never convinced her, but she did not stand in my way. “Okay, you can take them. But you have to bring them back home to me after they get their education,” she said. She had given her approval, but deep down, she hoped they would stay with her.

My mother almost got her wish. For two months I went round and round with the staff at the United States embassy. The embassy grounds are officially United States territory, but all the workers are Kenyan. I have nothing in my heart but gratitude to the Kenyan nation and people for giving me a safe place to live for ten years, but my experience at the embassy nearly took away all the goodwill I had for the place.

Several days each week I made my way from my mother’s home in Juja to the embassy in Nairobi. A nine o’clock appointment meant arriving at nine, then sitting and waiting for hours upon hours. The embassy has the look and feel of a post office. When my name was finally called, I had to go to a little window and speak to a Kenyan woman through a phone like something out of a prison movie. She would tell me I had to have another piece of paperwork, or the piece I spent the previous day tracking down had now expired and had to be redone. The new paperwork always meant spending more money. Finally I tossed my Visa card through the slot below the window to the woman and told her, “Here, take everything you need at once. Let’s get this over with. I need to get back to America.”

Weeks turned into months. When I first flew to Africa, I assumed I could secure their visas in time for them to start school at the beginning of the spring semester. Now we were into February. They had missed more than a month of class and we were no closer to getting home. The stress took its toll. I lost at least twenty pounds and spent thousands of dollars.

Back to the embassy I went.
Oh God, hear my prayer. Let my cry come to You. Please help me get these boys to America.
I arrived at the embassy with my brothers right on time for my nine o’clock appointment. This day, Peter and Alex had to wait outside in the heat. I walked into the waiting area in front of the line of post office windows.
Let me please speak to an American today,
I prayed. I thought if I could just talk to an American, I could make my case and cut through this red tape.

I found a seat and sat down. Nine o’clock, ten o’clock, eleven, twelve, one. I did not know why we had to come so early just to wait. All of our paperwork was in order. The passports were signed. The scholarship papers from the Academy checked out as genuine. Everything was supposed to be in place. All I needed was to have the embassy stamp my brothers’ visas in their passports and send us on our way.

“Lomong, window thirteen,” the intercom said. I went to the window. The same Kenyan woman with whom I’d dealt too many times sat on the other side. I had already figured out that she looked down on Sudanese people. To her, we are nothing but useless refugees. I could see in her eyes that she did not think we deserved to go to America. She didn’t care that I was a United States citizen. In her eyes, I was a lost boy from Kakuma. No one cares about lost boys.

Once again I picked up the phone and made my case. We went back and forth. But today, God answered my prayers. An American walked behind her. He recognized me from the Olympics. “What’s the problem?” he asked. I explained my case to him. He picked up my file and read through it. The woman sat very still. She wasn’t happy. “Oh sure, we can clear this up quickly. Just give me a little time to get everything signed. Come back tomorrow and we will have you on your way. And if you have any problems, come find me.” I thanked him and went out to find my brothers.

The next day I returned to the embassy. Peter and Alex stayed in Juja. I gave them money to get a real haircut. They were also supposed to take a shower and pick out their best clothes for our trip to the United States. I’d already purchased our tickets to leave on a flight that night.

At the embassy I once again found a seat in the large waiting area. A crowd of people waited for their names to be called. Once we hear our name, we go to the window, talk through the phone, then pick up our papers that the worker slides to us through a slot below the glass. I waited all day. My name was never called. The room went from bursting at the seams to empty. I went to the window. Again, I came face-to-face with the same woman. “Can I help you?” she said, hardly even looking up at me.

“I came to pick up my brothers’ passports with their visas.” I could see their passports lying on the desk behind her.

“They are not ready yet.”

“I can see them behind you.”

“I cannot give them to you because you have not paid the fee.”

“What fee? I’ve paid all the fees.”

“You need to pay another two hundred and thirty dollars.”

“Why?” I asked. Anger rose up in me.

“Because they are Sudanese,” the woman said with a matter-of-fact tone.

“How horrible are you? God knows what you are doing and you will answer to Him someday. Who is Sudanese? Who is Kenyan? Who is American? We are all people made by God! We are all equal. I want to speak to your manager.”

“I am the manager.”

“Let me speak to an American.”

“I’m sorry. Come back next week.”

I was about to go nuts. I had already purchased tickets for a flight that night. Next week was not an option. Right before I completely lost my temper, God intervened. The American who had helped me the day before walked into the office.

“Lopez,” he said, “did you get your brothers’ passports and visas? Did we get everything worked out for you?”

I glared at the woman. “No,” I said. The man looked shocked.

“Oh, here they are,” the woman said. She shoved the passports through the window below the glass.

I acted like I did not see them. “This woman said I had to pay another two hundred and thirty dollars because my brothers are Sudanese.”

“What?” he said. “What difference does that make?”

“You ask her, sir,” I said. I grabbed the passports and walked out.

I went back to my mother’s house, expecting to find my brothers clean and shining. Instead, they were outside playing in the dirt, no haircut, no showers, no clean clothes. Obviously they did not have a clue as to what was about to happen to them. I got them cleaned up and ready for our flight. We said a tearful good-bye to our mother at her house and headed for the airport.

The joy I felt walking onto the plane bound for America with my brothers was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I melted into my seat. All the hard work, all the headaches with the embassy, were worth it to have these two next to me on the plane. I felt more like a proud dad than a brother. I looked at the two of them as they checked out the magazines in their seats’ back pockets. As good as I felt about bringing them to America, I knew I wanted to do more. Now I just had to find a way to balance training as a professional athlete, working to make a difference in South Sudan, and, of course, finishing my college degree.