When Elephants Fight (3 page)

It had been quiet that night when the Lord's Resistance Army had come to his village. The rebel soldiers ordered everybody out of the huts and made them all kneel on the hard-packed earth of the yard and—he didn't want to think about it anymore. There wasn't even time for memories or grief. There was just time to walk. It was almost comforting to realize that there was no decision to make. Now, every night was too dangerous to stay.

Grandmother gave each boy a hug. As Jimmy wrapped his arms around her, he felt nothing but bones. She wasn't well and she didn't eat enough to get better. Whatever scraps of food that were left were meant for her grandsons. Each evening, as he said his good-byes to her, he wondered if he would see her when he returned in the morning. He wished that she could come with them, but he knew she was too old and too sick to make the trip.

Besides, the soldiers left old women alone. She wasn't strong enough to work or young enough to bear children. She wasn't somebody they could make into a soldier, or somebody that they had to fear. She was just an old woman, a grandmother, and she was of no use to them. Not even worth the price of a bullet. But he still worried. There was no cost in the blow of a machete.

Some of these people—and Jimmy hardly even saw them as people— didn't need a reason to kill. Maybe they were high on drugs or simply lusted for blood and didn't need a reason. He could only hope that they didn't want to even waste the energy necessary to strike her down. They left old women alone...they left old women alone...that's what he'd heard. That was the thought that kept his hopes alive. They didn't bother with old women.

He had to hope that's how she was seen: a worthless old woman. But to Jimmy and his brothers, she was all they had. If something happened
to her, who would cook their meals for them? Who would help work the fields or bring water? Who would Christopher talk to when he needed to make decisions? Jimmy knew his brother was smart and he trusted him, but still, he was yet to turn fourteen. He still needed the advice of his grandmother.

“We have to go,” Christopher said softly.

Without another word they started off. It was a long walk, but the first steps were always the same and provided them with a vivid reminder of why it was they needed to walk. There were three mounds behind the huts, just off the path they took. Jimmy cast only a sideways glance as they passed—maybe it wasn't respectful—but he just didn't want to look, couldn't dwell on what had happened and how much he missed them. Too many memories.

Jimmy envied his littlest brother. He was only two at the time and was too young to remember it. All he knew were the stories that he'd been told. Jimmy would never forget, never get those images out of his mind.

As the boys walked they were joined by other children leaving their families behind. There was already a trickle of other kids on the dirt track. As they passed each new home, each cluster of houses, each village, they were joined by more and more children. Some of these children were relatives and some were friends. None were strangers. Walking together each night and back again in the morning left little time for the fields or for schoolwork, but lots of time for talking. It was almost ironic that during these long walks, with nothing else that could be done, the children were free to be children. They sang songs, or played games, talked and laughed as they walked. They tried to make the best of it. But what choice did they have? To stay in their homes in the isolated villages and countryside was to risk being killed or kidnapped. So each night they walked, leaving their homes behind, heading for the safety of the town of Gulu, where they could be supervised by relief agency staff and guarded by government soldiers.

The children moved to the side of the road as two vehicles rumbled up behind them. One was a van driven by one of the relief agencies, and the second was a big army truck. As the second truck passed, he saw the soldiers, rifles in hand, sitting in the back. Even they didn't want to be in the country or on the roads when darkness fell. And, if it was even too dangerous for them, how much more dangerous was it for the children being left behind on the road as dusk rapidly approached?

Jimmy looked behind him. As far as he could see there were children walking. Looking forward the line stretched out of sight as well. Next he looked on both sides of the road. Huts dotted the hills; small stalls— roadside stores—were frequent. Everything seemed as it should be. They were safe. At least for now. At least until darkness fell. He found himself quickening his pace.

In some ways Jimmy and his brothers were lucky. For them the walk was only six or seven kilometers. They could make the trip in less than two hours. He knew of other children who were traveling twice as far.

Then there were those who were too far away to make the walk. Rather than seeking a blanket in the town, they simply left their homes, left their villages and headed into the forest. Some would dig shallow depressions in the ground, lie down and push dirt back over themselves like a blanket to provide protection from the elements, animals and any prying eyes. Others hid in thickets, while some built crude shelters in the branches of trees. Jimmy couldn't imagine having to live like that, sleep like that every night, but for them, as with his family, what was the choice?

Everybody in the whole Gulu district knew what might happen to those who stayed behind. Jimmy had met people who had been attacked, hands or feet hacked off by blows from a machete or their lips and ears sliced off with a razor. He'd never forget the first time he'd seen somebody who had suffered that fate. Then there were those who were taken. Young girls were kidnapped to be sex slaves and young boys were taken at gunpoint to become child soldiers, leaving behind murdered parents and looted and burned villages.

As darkness started to settle in, Jimmy felt that sense of uneasiness that he always felt at night. Still, he was reassured by what he could see ahead—the glow of lights in the sky marking the town of Gulu. And, on the road all around him were more and more children. Each little trickle, each stream, coming from all directions, had become a human river, and they were moving along in the current.

The houses and stores became more frequent as they approached the town. And those buildings became more solid, made of brick and stone and blocks, some two- or even three-stories tall. Lights glowed from upper-story windows or storefronts. Around them, standing at watch, clustered together in little groups, sitting in trucks or vehicles, were soldiers and police. Strange: they fled men with guns to come here to be protected by other men with guns.

Some of those stores remained open just for the night commuters, those who had a few shillings to purchase food. Here, every night was crowded like a market day. The streets were filled with thousands of people, mostly children, although they weren't here to buy or sell, but simply to find a place to lie down for the night, to sleep.

Most of the children had a place that they sought out, that they were familiar with. For Jimmy and his brothers it was a hostel called Noah's Ark. It was run by UNICEF—United Nations International Children's Emergency Fund. The staff who ran the shelter were friendly and treated the children well. Each night the boys registered, were given a blanket to use and went to find a piece of ground where they could spend the night. In the space around them were other children. Jimmy didn't know how many, but most nights there were between three and four
thousand
children. And that was just a percentage of the night commuters. Throughout the town there were half a dozen places, run by other aid agencies, church groups and the government. And even with all of those places, there were still those who simply slept on the streets. At least they were safe. And what choice did they have?

Jimmy took his blanket, laid it down on the ground and wrapped
himself in it to ward away the night chill. Douglas placed his blanket down next to Jimmy, followed by Julius and Christopher on the far side so the two oldest sheltered the two youngest.

Population:
27,600,000
Location:
Latitude: 3° 13' 60 N, Longitude: 31° 52' 0 E, east Africa
Area:
236,040 square kilometers
Climate:
tropical, equatorial climate
Languages:
English (Official language) 74% Swahili (Official language) * over 30 languages used in Uganda (predominantly Bantu and Nilotic languages)
Ethnicity:
Buganda 16%
Iteso 8%
Basoga 8%
Banyankore 8%
Banyaruanda 6%
Bakiga 7%
Lango 6%
Bagisu 5%
Acholi 4.5%
Other 31.5%
* over 30 ethnic groups in Uganda
Religion:
Christian 85%
Muslim 12%
Other 3%
Life Expectancy:
52 years
Infant Mortality Rate:
66 deaths per 1,000 live births
Per Capita Income:
$1,100
Literacy rate:
66.8% (male: 76.8%, female: 57.7%)

Children at Pagak Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camp
.

All around them the other children were settling in for the night. Some of the younger children had already gone to sleep; others sitting on their blankets and talking; while some were off to the side, talking or playing simple games. Jimmy didn't have time for games. He needed to study. He took the book and angled it so that he could catch a little bit of light from the bulb that hung overhead in the corner. It was dim and far away, but there was enough light for at least a few minutes to study before it was turned off for the night.

Christopher opened the little sack that their grandmother had prepared for them. He took out the two pieces of bread that it held, divided them in two and shared them between the four boys. This would have to hold them, through the night and the walk back to their home. Their grandmother would be waiting with a little more breakfast for them, some cassava, maybe some more millet. The boys would do a few chores, and
then they would walk to school. After school they would go home, help to gather water, work the fields and get ready, once again, to walk to Gulu. Night after night, day after day, that was the life Jimmy knew. Each day going to school, or working the fields, doing chores, selling vegetables at the side of the road. Each evening walking to Gulu. Each night sleeping at Noah's Ark. And each morning walking back home. It had been going on for years. It was the only life the younger children even knew. But Jimmy remembered a different time, a time before they had to seek shelter in the town every night, before the deaths. Sometimes he just wished he could forget that night when everything changed. It had now been four years, but in some ways it seemed like it had just happened.

It was a quiet night. They'd gone to sleep, the four boys, Christopher 10, Jimmy 8, Julius 6 and Douglas just 2. They nestled together in one room, on the right side of the hut, with their parents in another room to the left. It was a comfortable home, cream-colored clay walls, a tin roof and door and a dirt floor. Across the way their uncle, their father's younger brother, slept in his hut, and in the third, their grandmother
.

Jimmy was awakened by screaming and yelling. There was pounding on the door, and then the door was kicked open. They were hauled out, half sleeping, half in shock, crying, powerless beneath powerful flashlights, and forced to drop to their knees in the dirt, their hands on the back of their heads. His parents and uncle were knocked to the ground, their hands tied behind their backs. And all the time the men screamed out threats, saying they would kill them all if anybody resisted

The men—no they weren't all men, some were barely boys
—
stood over them, waving guns, yelling, screaming. Some were dressed in uniforms, others in nothing more than pants and heavy jackets. All wore gumboots. On the ground, not daring to look up, partially blinded by the lights shining in their faces, all Jimmy could see were the boots
.

The men—the boys—walked down the line, screaming, yelling, threatening to harm or kill as they passed. Jimmy knew these weren't just idle threats. And now he was on the ground, kneeling at the feet of the people who committed these atrocities, and all he could see were their boots
.