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              Return to Table of Contents Fires raged around me. Houses burned and collapsed. The putrid smoke of burning flesh emerged out of nearby houses. Never could I have imagined something like this happening. After seeing this, I knew that my life would never be the same.
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PUBLICATIONS | VOICES | BACK ISSUES | FOLKLORE IN ARCHIVES | FOLK ARTISTS SELF-MGT | ORDER PUBLICATIONS | SEARCH  Editors’ Note In the late 1980s, after decades of civil war in their native land, thousands of Sudanese children, some as young as six or seven years of age, fled forced conscription by rebel armies and trekked to Ethiopia. Most of the female children did not survive the ordeal. Many of the survivors remained in refugee camps in Ethiopia until 1991, when a newly elected government expelled them. Finding themselves returned to the Sudan with civil war again threatening, some of the boys continued their long walk more than six hundred kilometers into northwest Kenya, where Kakuma refugee camp and other camps were established to protect them. Members of the Dinka people, as well as the smaller group of DiDinga men, comprise the seventy-five Sudanese Lost Boys who arrived in Syracuse in 2001, after the United States offered 4,000 young men safe haven in several cities throughout the United States. The Lost Boys name is a reference to the motherless children in the Peter Pan story, given to this group by relief workers, who watched in amazement as thousands of boys arrived en masse in Kenya. In Syracuse, Gabriel performs traditional songs and dances recalled from his Dinka childhood at public folk arts programs, where he shares his personal narrative—a story tragically similar for all of the Lost Boys.
My village lay straight ahead from where I stood. As I was hurriedly running back home, I saw huge black clouds of smoke billowing into the air from the village. As I drew near I saw that it came from a fire in my village. Continuous gunfire rang out as I ran towards my home. Two men from my village intercepted me and tried to prevent me from coming closer to the village. Then, in an instant, one of the two men was shot dead. Instinctively, I fell to the ground and crawled. Bullets narrowly missed me on either side as I tried to find cover. Now I was separated from the other village man who tried to prevent me from going home. I thought my life was over— I was alone now, but determined to find my parents. When I arrived in my village, no one was there. Fear gripped me as I caught a glimpse of three bloody corpses near my home. I thought, “No, they weren’t my family.” But they were from my village; they were somebody’s family. Fires raged around me. Houses burned and collapsed. The putrid smoke of burning flesh emerged out of nearby houses. Never could I have imagined something like this happening. After seeing this, I knew that my life would never be the same. I continued to search for my parents and found that many women and children from my village were abducted by government-backed militiamen to be sold into slavery in the Arab northern capital of Khartoum, Sudan. It is the Sudanese headquarters for the most fundamentalist Islamic beliefs. Men, on the other hand, were killed on the spot. They were more of a threat to the militiamen, since they would have fought the attackers en route to northern Sudan. It was now about five in the evening. After spending most of the day at this ravaged scene, I lost hope of finding my parents. Devastated, I fled from my village and ran into the high grass of the Serengeti. I always feared the wild animals of the Serengeti. Lions, hyenas, and other wild animals frightened me. I was acutely reminded of this when I heard the roar of a lion nearby. Where was I to go? I climbed up the first tall tree I saw. It was safer than staying on the ground. And though its leaves provided some camouflage, those two nights were the most sleepless I ever had in my life. The chilling dew of the night fell upon me. By dawn I heard the sound of many footsteps. A large group of people came towards the tree, and from where I was, I could hear them speaking the same Dinka language. Using the leaves as cover, I peeked between the leaves to see if they were the militiamen or some people from my village. I was relieved to see that their skin color matched mine. They sat under the tree for rest and shade, but I was still skeptical. What would happen to me if I announced my presence? Would they kill me? Should I remain silent until they left? Then they began to share their stories. One man told of how his wife and children were abducted from his village. Others recounted stories similar to what I experienced. Slowly, I realized that they were indeed from the same tribe. Then I thought, this might be the only chance I have to ask for water and food. So, with the little courage I could summon, I said, “Hello!” Some people started to run away, not knowing where this greeting came from. When they looked up and saw a little boy hiding above them in the tree, they were relieved. They beckoned me to join them, and immediately asked me questions as I descended down each branch: How did I get there? Where was my family? My throat was too parched to respond to their questions—it was hard enough for me to say hello. They offered me water, roasted meat, and comfort. Like many people in the group, I was separated from my family. Although some had escaped with their families intact, most told me stories not unlike my own. And they still didn’t know where their families were. We rested under the tree, exhausted from the trauma, yet drawn together by our mutual experiences. When it was time to leave, they brought me along. I gladly joined them, not know where we were going, but understanding that none of us could return home. En route we encountered many ambushes from government soldiers, from which some of us escaped. I remember bullets whizzing pass our bodies and skimming the surface of the ground as we all ran in different directions. Later, we sought each other when it was safe. Weeks passed before our group arrived at the Nile River. The world’s longest river became our refuge for seven days. We could not remain there longer than that, so the decision was made to swim across the Nile. With gathered bundles of papyrus trees, which grew along the river, we began crossing the river. Strong currents, crocodiles, and alligators ended the journey for some people in our group. Twelve hours later, we reached the opposite shore of the Nile. Our food rations were running low, but we could not stop. A decision was made to continue walking across the Sahara desert in order to go to Ethiopia. Extreme heat made us thirsty. Occasionally, we licked the dew from the sparse savannah grass, which grew along the way, but it never quenched our thirst. Well into our two-month journey across the Sahara desert, we depleted our food supplies. To ease our hunger pangs we located edible leaves from the few trees that grew in the desert. There weren’t many, due to the harsh climatic conditions in the desert. Consequently, more people died of starvation, while others simply lost all hope and hid themselves the shrubs to die. For the latter, it was the only peaceful way for them to die, instead of in the hot desert sands.
Sometimes we were able to kill wild gazelles and antelopes for meat. They were difficult to catch, though, since they usually ran away when we approached them. The meat and leaves were inadequate sustenance. Of greater threat to us were rhinoceros and water buffaloes. Ordinary spears could not fell these massive creatures. And since they were of greater threat to us, we hid ourselves whenever they passed by. Poisonous snakes posed a danger, too. Still more died from these bites without medical treatment. As people died around me, I despaired, thinking I was next on this death row. I personally saw four children my age die. I would not believe it—but it was true. It was the most dreadful thing I ever saw. I could not bear to say good-bye to my best friends. I wept for this great loss of friendship. Everyone was sad, but we did not stop to bury the dead—we kept moving. It is beyond my reasoning to divine how the rest of our group of about five hundred arrived in Ethiopia. I reached Dimma camp in northwest Ethiopia, but I was hospitalized for several weeks due to chronic malaria and other diseases. After my recovery, I stayed in the camp for four more years. Over eighty thousand refugees from southern Sudan survived extinction at the hands of the Arab militiamen. Compared to what I had endured, the standard of living was not that bad. Some food supplies were sent to the camp by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). However, the standard of health care was poor and failed to prevent many from dying of malaria, anemia, and diarrhea. I began school for the first time in 1990, at the age of thirteen. Education was basic. There weren’t enough school facilities or qualified teachers. Bars of charcoal were all I had to use as writing implements. We did not have notebooks, so I peeled and divided boxes to use to keep notes in my first grade class. For food, we worked cooperatively with others in the camp. We lived on subsistence farming and built our own huts using mud and grass. Our entertainment included swimming in a nearby river, soccer, and English word spelling. I made the best life I could from the camp but I longed to return to my village to find my parents. Despite this, I had an unshakable faith that things would get better. In 1991, Ethiopia erupted into civil war. Mengistu’s government was toppled within five months as Ethiopian rebels, backed by the Sudanese government, staged a successful coup. As a reward to their benefactors, the rebels wanted to return thousands of Sudanese refugees to the Sudanese Islamic regime. Initially, the camp administration refused this forced expatriation to spare us from torture, rape, slavery, and massacres. But greater pressure from the Sudanese government coerced the refugee camp administration to recant their vows to protect us. In a moment, during our rainy season, the rebels emptied the refugee camps at gunpoint, killing many where they lay. Many others avoided capture and risked returning to the Sudan. Escape was more treacherous now, as Ethiopia is the most mountainous country in all of Africa. To escape, we crossed many rivers and streams as they overflowed their banks, with stronger currents flowing from the highlands to the lowlands. Children and older adults drowned in the River Gilo and Bahr-el-Jebel right along the Ethiopian- Sudanese border. The river crossing was full of people desperately trying to reach the other side. Some could not swim so they climbed onto the backs of others to stay afloat. Fortunately, I ran along the river until I found a safer place to cross. Were it not for good fortune, I don’t know how I could have crossed that river.
New refugee camps were established in the wild forest between Ethiopia and Sudan. No food supplies were available, since the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees did not have direct access to the new refugee camp. Hence, we spent months foraging for wild honey and animals to eat. If we could not kill an animal to eat, we cooked edible leaves from trees to survive and continue the hunt the next day. We stayed in small groups to protect ourselves from lions and hyenas that roamed about at night. A large fire was usually sufficient to keep the lions from attacking us. But we kept a big, long stick at the ready should the lions attack. We talked until morning, and although there were always present dangers around us, we managed to tell jokes most of the time. For instance, we would call our temporary living arrangements “home” in order to pass the time quickly. I called it “my home on the move.” My first grade notebook and Bible from Ethiopia were the only reading material I had—they meant everything to me. After the long run of hunting and fighting for survival in the forest, the UNHCR provided food for us using aerial drops, since no airports existed where we were. The mad rush for food killed some people who were trampled upon in their attempt to retrieve food supplies. In 1992, the National Islamic Front (NIF), the most powerful political party ruling by sharia law (strictest adherence to Islamic law), sent ground troops to attack our camps by carpet bombing, which killed many people. They continued bombing us for weeks. I, and many others, fled to Kenya in East Africa. While we ran towards the Kenyan border, Antinov antiaircrafts indiscriminately dropped bombs on innocent civilians in the Sahara desert. The International Red Cross took us to Kakuma refugee camp in northern Kenya where I lived for nine years. Life was bearable there, although we fended off occasional attacks from local tribes. Once again, there were limited food supplies for the refugee population in the camp. Each person received a total of twelve kilograms (about five pounds) of dry corn, which had to last for one month. Sometimes we received rations of cooking oil, but we had to exchange the oil for money to grind the corn into flour. Occasionally we were given one cup of beans to supplement our diet, but it was used before the next food distribution, regardless of how frugal we were eating only once per day or one meal every two days. Thus, we went without food for many days. We had one liter of water per week. Even then, I skipped one day to have more water for cooking, bathing, etc. At times the entire camp suffered from acute shortages of water due to poor pipeline water drainage. Water was our most important commodity in the camp. Health care professionals were scarce, so many died from curable diseases such as marasmus and kwashiorkor, which usually affect children. Furthermore, the hot weather contributed to the spread of airborne diseases. We could not farm in this arid area of northern Kenya, as we did in Ethiopia.
In 1998, we were approached by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. They asked us to write our autobiographies as part of the application process for the refugee resettlement program in the United States. By 1999, I and numerous other applicants participated in a series of screening interviews before the final decision was made to send 4,000 applicants to the United States. More than 17,000 unaccompanied minors from the Sudan applied. Approximately twenty-five percent were accepted. We were known as the “Lost Boys of the Sudan.” Those who passed the final interview with the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) lawyers from the United States received a full medical screening before notification was given for resettlement. On November 18, 2000, I received an approval letter from the National Migration Office in Washington, D.C., to be resettled in the United States as a refugee. On February 8, 2001, my name appeared on the notice board for the flight scheduled to depart for America on February 12. I arrived in the United States on February 14—St. Valentine’s Day for the rest of the world, a day of emancipation for me. My post–high school education resumed after I passed the college entrance examination at Onondaga Community College on August 16, 2001. My classes began in the spring semester of 2002. On May 15, 2004, I graduated from Onondaga Community College with an associate’s degree in mathematics and science. Currently, I am pursuing my bachelor’s degree in mathematics, with a concentration in both general and special education, at Le Moyne College in Syracuse. To this day I do not know the whereabouts of my family in the Sudan, nor have I heard from anyone else in my village or from the first group of refugees who brought me with them when I hid in a tree. Just as faith kept me strong and determined to survive and have a better life, I still have hope that one day I will reunite with my parents and siblings. It is my wholehearted prayer that they are still alive, despite the odds. I imagine sitting and eating with Mom and Dad around a dinner table as one of their eight children. I hope and pray that my parents will hear of my whereabouts and learn of the fruits of their future—that the son they brought into this world lived to see the beauty of everything here on this earth. Though I left home at a very young age, I will always recall in the recesses of my memory the beautiful and encouraging words of advice from my dad. So I miss the warmth and nurturing relationship from my family. But despite the hardships and perils, I am forever thankful and appreciative to God for his protection and guidance, which led me through this most difficult part of my life. “The Narrow Escape: The Facts of My Life” by Gabriel Bol Deng was published in Voices Vol. 32, Fall-Winter 2006. Voices is the membership magazine of the New York Folklore Society. To become a subscriber, join the New York Folklore Society now. At the American Folklore Society annual meeting in October 2008, it was announced that Felicia R. McMahon won the Chicago Folklore Prize for her book, Not Just Child’s Play: Emerging Tradition and the Lost Boys of Sudan. The Chicago Folklore Prize is awarded each year for the best book-length work of folklore scholarship for the year, and it’s the oldest, and most prestigious international award recognizing excellence in folklore scholarship. Faye, a research professor of anthropology at Syracuse University and Voices acquisitions editor from 2003-2008, wrote this book to raise money for its subjects, a community of Didinga Sudanese refugees who settled in Syracuse. She is donating her royalties from the book to the Lost Boys. According to Faye, “I think this book is just my way of lending a helping hand. My degree is in folklore and folk art, so what can I do? ... So this was my way of being able to extend a little kindness, and I’m hoping more people will get involved in this kind of work. I just gained so much from knowing newcomers to our city and our region.” (Read more.) HOME | ABOUT NYFS | PROGRAMS & SERVICES | MUSIC | PUBLICATIONS | RESOURCES | CALENDAR | WHAT’S FOLKLORE? | MEMBERSHIP | GALLERY | SHOP |
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