Читать книгу The lost boy - Aher Arop Bol - Страница 12

Two and a half years had now passed since my arrival. We were growing up. We had learned a great deal and boys who had initially stood by helplessly were now working as hard as the others. I had grown strong enough to carry a five-litre jerry can, so every day I ran to the river with the other boys whose duty it was to supply the cooks with water.

Panyido was as hot and dusty as ever. There were patches of white dust and patches of red. You could guess where a visitor came from by the colour of his feet. Ours, in the minors’ camp, were white. I remember how we used to make fun of the boys from the surrounding communities who sometimes wandered through the camp on their way to fetch water from the river. These boys were often orphans who lived with families who used them to perform the most unpopular chores. “Slave!” we would taunt them. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not a slave, I’m a minor like you!” they would reply.

“Liar! Look at your red feet!”

Then something happened that upset our routine. The camp administrators decided to reorganise the groups. In some groups, they argued, such as in Groups 7 and 8, the children were all very young, and unable to take care of themselves. So, first Groups 1 to 4 and then Groups 5 to 8 were brought together, mixed, and then divided up into new groups. At first we were disoriented – boys from our former groups, boys who had been close friends, suddenly disappeared – but, gradually, new friendships were formed.

Dut was back! Dut Mayout, my cousin! The quiet one, the frail one. He was afflicted by some disease which caused him a great deal of pain. I recall his mouth in particular; the encrusted lips which always looked so very red and dry. As there was no proper hospital, he received no treatment, and although I loved him more than anyone else – he was the only relative I had left – there was nothing I could do for him, apart from being his best friend.

The elders next turned their attention to education. We were going to learn the alphabet! A call went out for teachers, anyone who had attended an English school would do. One man came forward, a man called Bol Deng Tach. Some Ethiopians from a nearby village also volunteered, but we could not understand them, so they withdrew again.

We had no exercise books, pens or blackboards. In our unit there were more than five hundred boys and only one teacher.

Bol Deng Tach started to sing in a strong voice: “ABCD . . . EFGH . . . IJKL . . . MNOP . . . QRST . . . UVW . . . XYZ . . . XYZ.”

This was fun! We joined in.

Next our teacher selected a small bunch of boys. He wrote the letter A on a medicine carton and taught them to write the letter on the ground. As soon as these boys could copy the letter perfectly, they were told to go to the next group and teach them the same lesson – they had to earn their position as the chosen ones before they could return to our teacher to learn the letter B.

While the first class was practising their Bs, our teacher moved to the second group to check on their progress with A. Once he was satisfied, he sent them off to teach more children, and before long a throng of children could be seen scratching their letters in the sand. However, if he wasn’t satisfied a child could quickly be demoted from B to A, while others triumphantly reached C and then D, and eventually XYZ!

Once we had learned the capital letters we started all over again with the small letters, and finally to spell the names of animals, places and objects. Later, some students were given USAID boxes to write on with charcoal. We were given books – in English! Only the boys who really couldn’t manage were given other duties, like carving stools for our teachers or collecting firewood.

Being educated meant a great deal to me. I recall a conversation I had with Marco Akec Deng, with whom I shared a blanket:

“Let us always be brothers, you and me,” he said.

“Yes. I will be here for you, and you for me,” I replied. “Your problems will always be mine.”

“And yours, mine.”

“I want to be educated,” I said.

“Me too, for a good future.”

There was lots to do. The camp was improving in many ways. Donors occasionally paid us a visit, and we were taught to welcome them with songs in English: “Welcome, welcome, UNHCR! Welcome, Americans, Congress men!” (Congress men? Concrete men? Whatever. To us it meant “strong men”.)

They brought blankets, clothing, cooking utensils and tools. Each boy was given a blanket, a pair of trousers and a shirt. It was an exciting time! Now we could sleep anywhere as long as we carried our blankets with us. Unfortunately, the children who were too young to take care of their belongings promptly lost them, some on the day of distribution. Fighting broke out – “This is my blanket! I left it here when I went to the river!” – and the strong robbed the weak, who in turn waited until lines were forming for food and then grabbed an article belonging to anyone who was not watching. It would be his for a day or two until, in an unguarded moment, he would lose it again.

One day writing materials were delivered. There was now an exercise book and a pencil to be shared between every three boys who were able to write, but having to make do with a third of a book and one third of a pencil was declared an insult by some students, who used it as an excuse to skip school and help with grown-up jobs.

Perhaps it was to take our minds off our missing mothers that the authorities allowed us to participate in the projects that were now underway – the building of more shelters as well as classrooms – but whatever the reason, when the school term ended we were all given tasks. The older boys were sent to cut down the tall, slender trees that grew in the forest. They were given an axe, but some boys would get impatient waiting for their turn with it and start carving away at the tree trunks with sharp stones. In this way many a tree was felled. We younger boys carried the tree trunks back to camp, where we helped to join the poles together with wild vine and erect the frameworks for the shelters and classrooms. Then we would flatten bundles of grass and tie them to the poles to form walls and a roof. We did all the work ourselves, except when something was too heavy to carry and teams of grown-ups would assist us.

Military discipline was now maintained. Sixteen grown-ups were put in charge of each group, two per unit. We called them teachers. Units worked together as teams. Leaders were appointed and made responsible for the younger boys. Each morning they would get the boys to line up. Even the littlest ones had to be present. Then the teachers would allocate tasks to those capable of performing them. The children who were too young to work would remain in the compound with the sick. After lunch, we would work in or near the camp, cleaning and tidying. When that was done, we would be allowed a dip in the river before supper and bedtime. The rules were strict, but we had come to understand that they were necessary.

When at last each unit had completed eighteen houses, arranged in a circle around a kitchen, as well as a teachers’ house near the storeroom, we were told to build ourselves two classrooms. Units competed feverishly to finish ahead of one another, as the first school to open would receive the pick of the new equipment and materials delivered by the UNHCR. We were kept running all day as by now we had to walk long distances to find suitable grass, and often left at dawn in order to be back before the sun and thirst would affect us too severely. Soon our enthusiasm was waning. Some of us were simply too exhausted to continue working. Boys who performed other jobs refused to fetch water as well. I was part of it all. Lugging jerry cans of water was hard work and the older boys who accompanied us wouldn’t let us rest along the way. Instead, they would beat those who were slow or reluctant; they pushed us on until we were too tired to care.

Finally, the school buildings were completed. Visitors expressed their amazement that such fine sleeping quarters and classrooms could have been built by the boys themselves.

When school resumed, we were all put in Grade 1. This time there were exercise books and pencils for all, and we could once again practise our As and Bs. After school we still had chores to do, but we were also allowed to play games like football with balls we made from rags and plastic bags tied together.

In the evenings we would go to bed covered in dust – such was the life of kids who had no mothers to make them go down to the river to wash.

One of the lessons we were taught was a grim one. We were excited when all the boys were ordered to gather in the camp one day. Something important was going to happen. There were SPLA soldiers everywhere; their commanders looking very impressive in their smart uniforms. They had brought loudspeakers and tied them to the branches of trees. We sat in our units, waiting. Then six men were led past us. I was sitting too far back to actually see the firing squad, but I heard the shots. And I heard the gruff voice coming from the loudspeakers: “Let this be a lesson to you!”

Later we learned that two of the men had been executed for stealing guns and ammunition to sell to the bandits. Two others had apparently been accused of raping a mother and daughter in Panyido. They deserved death, we told one another. Until a week later, when a cloud mysteriously appeared – in the middle of the dry season. There was a single flash of lightning. It struck the hut in which the mother and daughter were sheltering. The hut caught fire but the two women survived.

I recall the good times we had too, times I always associate with one boy, Cyer Maror. He was older than me, tall and thin; a funny, sociable boy who, after supper, used to entertain us with jokes and impersonations. He made us laugh at ourselves. His stutter was never seen as a handicap. In fact, it made him rather unique.

Then the market came! Near our camp some Ethiopians had set up stalls – the first we had ever seen and a great temptation to young and old. The boys were soon loitering in every corner, gazing at the food and the great variety of articles for sale or running off with a titbit they had snatched. The traders introduced us to their traditional dish, endjira – a large rice pancake served with a variety of spicy meat and vegetable dishes. You tore off a piece of pancake, gathered up some of the fragrant filling, shaped it into a little bundle and put it into your mouth. The main attraction, however, was the fried maize-meal cakes. They were crisp and tasty, and the traders were willing to exchange them for sickles or axes from the camp, or the blankets, soap, cooking utensils and cooking oil we were regularly issued with. The minors’ camp was raided for articles we could barter. It was turned upside down. School was forgotten.

When the teachers realised what was going on they instructed one hundred and fifty boys from each unit to patrol the footpaths leading to the market, and threatened to punish any boy caught near it. I knew this, but one day when I saw a group of older boys returning from the market, chewing what they called alawa-luban (bubble gum) and smoking cigarettes, I could no longer resist the temptation. I managed to sneak past the monitors unnoticed, clutching the bar of soap I had been given for washing my shirt and shorts. An Ethiopian trader saw me crossing the dusty road, grabbed me and pulled me into a gap between two stalls. He took my soap and pressed two silver coins into my hand. I had never seen money before, but I took the coins and ran to the stall opposite his. Before I could explain to the shopkeeper what I wanted, though, the security boys appeared, confiscated my money and took me to a tree where I joined a group of captives who looked as miserable as I felt. And so we returned to the minors’ camp – and to the detention centre behind the area occupied by Group 6 – each boy holding on to the shirt of the one ahead.

As punishment we spent a night and day without food before we were all given ten lashes with a stick and released. I never attempted to visit the market again.