Unexpected Rescue

Frequently, Sudanese bomber circled over Pochalla, a sign of danger. Rumours circulated that enemy footprints had been found around Pochalla. SPLA soldiers sensed that enemy was about to invade – with good reason. Being close to the border, Pochalla was an easy target. Khartoum and Ethiopia had become allies, emboldened by the SPLA/SPLM and the overthrown Ethiopian government of Mengistu having been allies. As the dry season began there was a sense of danger in the air.

In early January 1992, the SPLA began evacuating all unaccompanied minors, on foot. We weren’t told where we were going. We only knew we were heading toward the interior of South Sudan. While we were always like sheep being led to slaughter, as comrades, we were also excited. Each of our journeys began with excitement that was eventually replaced by pain from exhaustion that ran from our heads to our toes. This was our innocence. But I felt grown up. I wasn’t vulnerable anymore. I felt I could survive any situation. We had survived many dangers. As our Group Two prepared to leave, our caretakers asked everyone to carry some maize grain as food for the journey. It was a bright morning. The sun was warm.

As I prepared maize grain to carry, two male medical personnel, wearing Red Cross T-shirts appeared and called for our attention: ‘Boys who had gone for x-rays last month are required to remain. Red Cross will send vehicles to transport you.’ Then they called our names. I hesitated, though I had experienced chest pain it was mild. I was not feeling any pain now. I didn’t want to remain behind as my comrades left Pochalla. The Gilo experience was raw and vivid in my mind. But then I didn’t know what would happen to me along the trek if I didn’t listen to these medical personnel. I stood still, hesitating. I had to decide. I put down my nylon bag containing my blanket, long pants jeans and a red T-shirt as I watched my fellow minors walk away, leaving Pochalla perhaps forever. I knew that soon many of us would become SPLA rebels. Many of us had become of age. Caretakers who had radios had been telling us of Khartoum’s propaganda that the 1992 summer would be the end of the SPLA/SPLM rebellion in the Southern Sudan. Despite the threats and personal worries, I remained. All the boys called by the Red Cross men remained. There were about twenty boys from my group. I knew others by name: Mayar Kuol, who protected me in Gilo; Akol Anei, Kur Alier, Dut Mayuen, Dut Akuei and Dut Mayot. Mayar Kuol, Dut Akuei and Dut Mayot may have been suffering from rheumatoid arthritis. Swollen ankles and knees, restrained their walking, even short distances were a struggle. They constantly complained of joint pain. November and December had been cold. But SPLA authorities and caretakers insisted that these boys walk with the groups. I couldn’t understand how they would walk on a trek when walking just two-hundred metres took the boys two hours. Sadly, their names were not in the Red Cross list of patients waiting to be transported by vehicle. One caretaker in our group, Bol, remained with us.

That afternoon, caretakers from all groups moved us close to the UN Compound located in the centre of the camp. Some UN personnel, white men, still lived there in small huts and tents. It was the second month of the dry season with the river, from which we fetched drinking and cooking water, drying up. A big white UN tent store was filled with sorghum and beans. SPLA soldiers stationed in a nearby outpost hunted the African gazelles roaming the surrounding forest for meat. We walked to their camp and they gave us pieces of fresh meat. Pochalla was peaceful. We were happy. We played dominoes and cards. And we walk to Pochalla town on weekends to watch cultural dances of various tribes: the Anyuak and Dinka were the majority in Pochalla. We attended Sunday prayers as well. I was a devoted Catholic. News continued to reach us that Red Cross vehicles were on the way.

Late February, almost two months since the boys left, bad rumours began to circulate. Enemy footprints had been spotted in the surrounding forest. Routinely, SPLA soldiers went on patrol. And a few days later, a Sudanese plane again circled over the town. We were worried now. There was still no sign of the Red Cross vehicles. One Sunday morning, we walked to Pochalla for church mass as usual. But in his sermon the catholic priest mentioned increasing insecurity in Pochalla. He emphasised that people shouldn’t forget the recent Gilo’s massacre. After the mass, we walked back to Golkur, our makeshift camp. It was already passed midday by the time we arrived. It was my turn to cook so I put a mixture of beans and wheat on the fire. Maize grain, wheat and brown beans were our main food sources. We also cut and added the jerked meat the SPLA soldiers gave us. We gained all the energy we needed. I was feeling nourished and energetic. As the food was cooking we played dominoes.

At around three, as I was about to serve our food, an artillery gun sound echoed in the summer heat. It sounded like an empty drum. Then another similar sound followed, then another one, all in succession. It sank in that this was enemy fire. Rapid fire followed as we desperately ran around, grabbing our few belongings. Pochalla was under attack. Artillery bombardments continued intermittently as SPLA soldiers stationed close to our camp emerged, rushing in a single line toward the fighting. We were panicking, moving in a circle like sheep that had smelt danger. But there was nowhere to run or hide. Raw and vivid, memories of Gilo rushed into my mind. ‘Let’s fill the jerry cans with this food,’ said Kur grabbing a can. I grabbed a small jerry can and filled it half-full. Now the fighting was fierce. Machine gun fire silenced AK-47s. Fighting was close to Pochalla town, some five kilometres from our residence. UN personnel in the nearby compound got into UN marked cars and drove toward Pochalla. It was the only road out of the town. We waved but they didn’t stop.

One of our caretakers, a big tall man jumped up and down, apparently panicking: ‘Make sure you have no bullets in your bags. Say you’re school children if the enemy captures us.’ He walking around like he had lost his mind appeared to want to run though he didn’t seem to know where. A section of ten SPLA soldiers appeared, walking directly toward us as we stood outside the UN compound. We wanted to get inside but the gate was closed. ‘You all come here Red Army,’ they said, holding AK-47s in one hand, fingers closed to the trigger guard. We followed them as they led us to a nearby bush with many acacia and gok trees. ‘Don’t run anywhere. Stay here. We’ll find you here,’ they instructed then rushed toward the fighting, jogging in a single file.

Our very ill colleagues, with terrible pain and inflammation in their knees, ankles and joints had been left inside the makeshift huts. I couldn’t see the other caretakers but the tall one was still restless. ‘Don’t go astray. We’ll say we have been abandoned,’ he said. The enemy’s artillery shelling intensified. It was a hot day. Terror was in the air. It was perhaps three hours of intense fighting with gunfire never seeming to abate. We lay flat on our stomachs, our eyes blinking at everything that moved in the surrounding. Suddenly enemy long-range shells landed close, just behind our hiding spot. The exploding missiles and shrapnel felt like we were under attack. Shrapnel shot towards us as we ran toward the residence. But Kur Alier, who was leading, turned. AKol Anei, Dut Mayuen and I followed him.

My nylon bag was on my back. I had a firm grip on the half-full jerry can of cooked wheat grain and beans with my left hand. I knew we would want food. I was running hard, passing through acacia trees. Thorns pierced my bare feet. I felt no pain. Many boys threw themselves down and remained flat but I refused to follow. In my mind, the enemy was too close. All I saw ahead of me was Kur, Dut and Akol, with their bags on their backs. Too frightened and gasping for air, we were running in the same direction, in a line. We entered another acacia bush. As I had bent to dodge a twisted rope-like bush, it caught my neck and pulled me back to complete stop. It felt like the enemy had caught me. Then realised it wasn’t an enemy, it was the bush. I disentangled myself and kept running after my three friends. They were now nearly out of sight. The jerry can was gone. I looked up to see their backs. I ran to catch them. My mouth felt so dry. My throat was burning. I gasped for air as exhaustion consumed my body. I felt like my chest would burst open. It felt so painful. My right leg felt wet. I looked down. Blood had covered my foot. A sharp piece of wood had pierced my lower right leg but I hadn’t felt the pain. As we were running, mouth open, gasping for air, I felt like we were moving targets. Yes, we were moving targets as we crossed open ground where we and other children used to play. We ran through the former residences of groups ten and eleven reaching the local river. We cupped our hands and brought water to our mouths as we ran across the river through leg-high water. We couldn’t run anymore. Every vein in my body was kicking and writhing.

We were only four; Kur, Dut, Akol and I. We would surrender to whoever was chasing us. We stopped and dropped to our knees on the dry grass. Suddenly, the fear of death returned. We stood and continued on – heading nowhere. We were surrounded by long dry grass, and acacia and pine-like trees. The sun had set. Gunfire was still coming from Pochalla. We were walking directionless in the bushland. Little birds quacked over the tall pine-like trees. We then crossed the river again. As we walked up, away from the river, we encountered nine other boys as confused as us. They carried nothing. They had thrown away their nylon bags. ‘How did you get here?’ Kur asked them. ‘We had been running in the bush from that ambush,’ one replied. We joined company and walked together, thirteen of us now. The gunfire had died down. We didn’t know Pochalla’s fate, if the SPLA had succeeded in repelling the enemy, or if it had been captured. We were in the middle of nowhere and helpless. We wished we had AK-47s to protect ourselves from Arabs in Pochalla, and lions and hyenas in this jungle. It was pitch dark. Noise echoed in the surrounding dry bush. There was lots of movement; snakes perhaps. At close range, hyenas laughed hysterically, hunting the African gazelles that roamed this territory. We stopped. Grass was cutting our bare feet and legs, like razor blade. From my abdomen to my feet I was in pain. There was danger in this pitch darkness. We feared lions the most, actually second to the Arabs in Pochalla. We sat in a circle on dry grass, looking over our shoulders. We peered into the dark, banking on our number to keep predators like lions and hyenas away. We would all make noise together if a lion attacked. The hysterical hyenas seemed to be running after gazelles.

Seated on the dry grass, we argued, dissecting every opinion, every idea. We were actually whispering. We hardly heard each other. We argued which route to take. We felt the enemy had captured Pochalla. The enemy footprint that was found suggested Pochalla had been besieged. We failed to agree. Three of us were vocal. Kur, Gatpan and Uthou argued back and forth as we listened. These three were the oldest. ‘We’ll walk toward the morning sun. That’s the direction to Pakook,’ said Kur. We had heard Pakook was the nearest town to Pochalla. Our fellow boys had followed this route.’ ‘We must not walk the route to Pakook. Anyuak will kill us all,’ countered Uthou. ‘We need to return to Pochalla first to fetch some food,’ argued Gatpan. Others argued that we needed to bypass Pochalla while it was dark and head south toward Ukello, another SPLA occupied town on the way to Bor, our homeland. The enemy had attacked Pochalla from the north. It was a nerve-racking argument. I barely said anything, silently resolving to agree with the majority decision. Half of us were leaning toward Kur’s argument. In my mind, the road to Pakook was preferable. ‘I’ll never follow that route. I would rather return to Pochalla,’ objected Uthou. I could even ‘see’ his head shaking in the absolute darkness. Our instinct was that people fleeing Pochalla as a result of the fighting might be heading to Pakook. However, Uthou’s objection filled me with more fear. He himself spoke the Anyuak language. He was a Juorchol, a Luo’s sect of South Sudan. Anyuak, Luo, Shilluk and Acholi tribes speak the same language. Uthou’s concerns were valid. Gatpan was from the Nuer tribe, a distant Dinka cousin. The Dinka stereotype for a Nuer was that he would die with a spoon in his mouth. With Nuer, food comes before all else. While the Nuer believe Dinka men are cowards. These stereotypes have fuelled many years of hostility between the groups. Uthou won the bitterly contended argument. He would, perhaps be the only one spared if the Anyuak were to kill us. He would claim he was one of them. Seated in that circle, we fell silent as the night’s silence grew around us. I was most afraid of the Arab soldiers in Pochalla. In my mind, they would capture and kill us or send us to Khartoum.

My head hit my knees. My buttocks ached. I dozed off. In mini-dreams I was reunited with my fellow comrades who had recently left Pochalla. I was telling them about the enemy in Pochalla but awoke just before completing the story. I blamed myself for remaining in Pochalla. The promised Red Cross vehicles had failed to arrive. The night was warm with a gentle wind. Trees and grass whistled. The sky was crystal clear but the tall pine-like trees shadowed the place. The morning star appeared. Our fear increased. Day broke, we didn’t know where to go. We needed a place to hide before it was fully light. First, we walked to the river to fetch water. We had three jerry cans. But then as we approached the river, a lion in the nearby grassed roared angrily. I felt petrified, frozen, nearly paralysed. Everything around us came to a standstill. My heart dipped. We turned back. I wanted to vanish.

‘Don’t run. Remain calm,’ whispered Kur as I felt like the lion was preparing to pounce. We tiptoed away like frightened dogs with tails between their legs. As we escaped briskly, I recalled my dad saying, ‘don’t run when you have seen a lion. They run after the fearful.’ Lions and hyenas were commonly encountered by people back in our villages, particularly by hunters. The lion didn’t follow us. Our village elders used to say lions would not eat people unless provoked. After walking some distance we turned toward the river, hurriedly filling the three jerry cans. Then we walked back, to a nearby bush. We found a low-lying bush in which to hide, and to decide our next action. ……………….. to be continued