Thursday, August 7, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
After we left Michael and went back to our hotel, we took a walk along Brisbane's South Bank. It's a really beautiful part of the city with restaurants and cafes along the river that won the Wall Street Journal award for being the best planned city walk in the world. And it was. With an art museum, a performing arts center, botanical gardens and a University all leading into one another, the river walk was both convenient and beautiful. We had a great lunch and relaxed.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
In a checkerboard pattern, the Kuch family and our own dragged our luggage up the brick path to their new yellow-tan Australian home. The house was very open and looked as if they had just moved in. The only thing that was missing were cardboard boxes full of their possessions. Then I realized that coming from a refugee camp, what sort of possessions could they even have? Barely any. The mother urged us to sit down on the blue couches decorated with printed doilies and pillows. The shy brothers stood around us and Awiel perched herself on the other side of the room. After we were settled, Michael went to retrieve the huge bag recently purchased from an army surplus store. My mother sat next to Michael's mother, who was silently crying, and started rubbing her arm, whispering things like "You have raised such an amazing son," wondering if his mother's nods meant she could actually understand what my mother was saying. When Michael came back in and sat down, she immediately threw her arms around him in a heap. She then collected herself by going into the other room and wiping away her tears with the gigantic shaw she wore, one of the several layers she was sporting. Tea and cookies were served, and the family was able to produce laughs and smiles. There was definitely some awkwardness, as their Dinka and our English were not easily traded. We were surprised, however, about the amount of English the younger children knew. After taking a family picture of the Kuch's, the first complete family picture they have ever had, we did another round of hugs and they watched as our taxi took off, leaving Michael to stand with his family for the first time.
Before we knew it, we were standing at the fence before the house at 597 Moggill Road waiting for Michael's mother to come out. We heard someone on the other side fiddling with the latch, then the side of her face, then her whole face wet with tears rushing toward Michael to embrace him. She hid her face from us, too shy for us to witness her tears. She buried her face in his face. She would not let go. We watched. We stood there. We imagined another person beside her--Michael's father, then his image faded, and it was Michael and his mother again, finally together.Then Michael's sister, Aweil, came out and Michael's mother made room for her to embrace Michael. Then Awiel let go of Michael and made room for her mother again. Then Awiel approached each one of us--Rick, Tedra, Josh, Ellen and me--and embraced each one of us tenderly. Then Biar, Michael's seventeen year old brother came out, red-eyed, weeping and ran toward Michael, then Michael's youngest brothers, Dut, aged 7, and Riak, Aged 11--all born in Kakuma Refugee Camp. Then the brothers made room for the mother again and each of them came toward us and embraced us, sweetfully, thankfully.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
By Michael Kuch with Harriet Levin Millan
This first-person account tells the story of refugee Michael Kuch’s journey as one of the Lost Boys of Sudan. Harriet Levin Millan Director of The Drexel University Writing Program and the author of The Christmas Show (Beacon Press) interviewed Kuch and pieced his answers together in fluid prose.
These scars on my forehead? These are not my initiation scars. They are not the scars a boy gets when he goes into the forest to become a man. I did not live in my village and with my family long enough. Initiation happens to boys when they are somewhere around 10 years old. I was much younger when I was forced to seek a home elsewhere. These are razor blade scars. When I was about 5 years old I had some problems with my eyes — maybe just some dirt in my eyes — I don’t know how serious it was, and my grandmother cut my forehead with a razor blade to improve my health. I still remember the pain. The blood. I didn’t like my grandmother after that. Her name was Nyankuerdit. The “it” at the end of her name means “big,” a sign of respect like you would say in English, my esteemed Grandmother Nyankuerdit.
The government systematically planned to destabilize my village, Bor, in southern Sudan, because it was the home of John Garang, the man who started the Sudanese People’s Liberation Movement and began the rebel uprising. My village was attacked at night. Planes bombarded it with bombs and set it afire. My family was scattered. I joined a crowd of people and walked with them. When I first started walking I wore shoes, but this walk went on for three months and most of it I did barefoot.
There are two seasons in the Sudan, the dry season and the rainy season. This happened during the dry season, which is hot, windy and humid. We walked at night to avoid the hot sun and the winds, and because we’d be less thirsty. The problem with walking at night is that there are wild animals, which attack people. I saw lions and hyenas attack and kill people in my group. Another reason we walked at night was because we were walking though a war zone.
Even though I was so young, I was conditioned for the walk because I had spent many days with my siblings in the forest learning how to hunt animals. I was already skilled at learning how to survive. We walked days without food. Some of the walkers ate wild plants and others ate mud, which attached to their insides and killed them. It took me a long time after I moved to America to get accustomed to eating meals. For a year or so I only ate once a day, and still, I don’t eat a meal the way you do.
After three months of walking, I arrived at a refugee camp in Ethiopia. It was 1991 and Ethiopia was undergoing its own troubles with Eritrea. A civil war was breaking out and almost as soon as I had arrived, I had to leave abruptly in the middle of the night. This time it was the rainy season and the Nile, which runs through all of eastern Africa, was flooded. Not many of us knew how to swim. There are tribes who have always lived by the Nile. In fact, they are called Nilotes. These people knew how to make dug-out boats from trees. I was lucky enough to get a spot in one of the boats, but other people were pulled across the river with rope attached to the boats. I saw many people drown in that river. I also saw crocodiles in that river attack people.
I couldn’t make it back to Bor because it was so far away. Instead, I stopped at an Internal Displaced Persons Camp called Pachalla where food and medical attention were provided. But again, just as I was settling in, more violence broke out. Planes bombarded the camp day and night and it became unsafe to stay. It took me one month to walk to another refugee camp, Kakuma, in Kenya. I stayed at Kakuma for eight years, all that time learning how to survive in the camp, which meant learning how to live in a very small space with tension — clashes over food and water, and avoiding the Turkana, the tribe who lived nearby and often attacked refugees outside the camp.
In 2000, I got an offer from the U.S. state department to come to the U.S. I struggled with this decision, which meant leaving Africa, perhaps forever. I still didn’t know if my family, particularly my mother, was alive. Just about that time, I was united with three of my brothers and sisters, who it turned out had also come to Kakuma. Then, all of us were given the chance to immigrate to Philadelphia.
I always feel called to go back to Sudan. The whole American experience, the chance to get my B.A. here, and now, applying to graduate school, is an opportunity, but I will always want to go back and do more.
An interview with Sudanese refugee and UPenn student Ahmed Elmardi
By Lea T. Burns, Drexel University Student
They either kill you, or you leave the country,” says Ahmed Elmardi, speaking about the National Islamic Front (NIF) that took over the government of Sudan in 1989, shortly before he came to the United States.
Now a resident of Philadelphia, Elmardi was once an artist and university professor in Khartoum, Sudan. Although he had plans to leave Khartoum with a Fulbright scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania and an acceptance into its MFA program in painting, the NIF interfered.
“They changed the laws so that the government could hire and fire as they pleased,” he says. “They prepared a long list of people to fire from universities. I was one of those people.”
Elmardi says the regime targeted the universities first because there was potential power in the student movement. At one time, students were able to change the government through strikes and demonstrations. Elmardi remembers the October Revolution in 1964, when students from the University of Khartoum banded together with the trade unions and successfully overthrew Ibrahim Abboud’s military dictatorship in Sudan. Since then, governmental changes in how universities are run prevent anything like that from happening now.
“They deliberately worked to deprive the country from its soul,” he says. “Artists, musicians and poets were all forced or encouraged to leave the country one way or the other.”
Along with many of his colleagues and other community intellectuals, Elmardi was arrested and imprisoned without reason. Calmly, he recounts his time spent in the detainment center. He explains that in order to maintain a sense of fear and minimize any resistance in the Sudanese people, the prisoners were tortured — or worse. Elmardi specifically remembers one of his fellow detainees, a pilot, taken from his cell and hanged.
“At that time they were very harsh,” says Elmardi. “They didn’t even care if you were related to one of them.”
After a month in the detainment center, Elmardi was released. As to why, he cannot say. He assumes that they let him go because they knew he was accepted into the graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania.
“I think I was lucky,” says Elmardi. “Especially because if I stayed there I don’t know what would have happened to me. I remember walking to the plane and looking behind me to see if anyone was following.”
Life as an immigrant in the United States has been far from easy. “I found myself without a Social Security number,” he says. “I thought, so what can I do now? I tried to drive a cab but I didn’t last more than one week. That wasn’t me.”
Elmardi says the immigrant people’s ability to bounce back is remarkable. Even the ATM machines posed serious problems for the Sudanese who came to the United States in the 1990s because they never had to use one before. So many years later, Elmardi believes that the Sudanese community has gained its footing.
“They have built their lives,” he says. “By now many have their own houses. It is very interesting to see how people have all this resilience.”
After completing his MFA in painting from Penn and starting his own graphic design company, Elmardi is surprised at how long he has been in Philadelphia. “In the beginning I thought, I am here only for a short time,” he says. “And now this is really half of my adult life — 18 years.”
With his wife, Iman, and 9-year-old son, Monier, in Philadelphia, Elmardi says it is too late for him to return to Sudan, despite his love and attachment to the country.
“A lot of my friends are not there anymore,” he says. “It is just too much to deal with. I have my son doing quite well in school. So to take him back there, to start again — the threat is still there. It would not be good for him and it would not be good for me, either.”
Asked to compare Khartoum and Philadelphia, Elmardi speaks in visual terms. He mentions that Khartoum suffers a lot from sandstorms, making the city look brown. He also says that shadows are much stronger in the cities in Sudan because the light is more intense. Still, continents apart, Elmardi can draw similarities between his native city and his new home. He sees shapes, shadows and lines that bring back memories of his life in Khartoum.
“Sometimes I am driving and I think I am home,” he says with a smile.
Currently, Elmardi is focusing on his art, which includes sculpture, mixed media and animation. With his wife, he started a Web site for contemporary Sudanese artists around the world. He says the site is an important tool because it educates viewers on contemporary art from Africa’s largest country and exposes Sudanese artists to an international audience.
An interview with Darfur refugee Fatima Haroun
By Sarah Mason, Drexel University Student
Fatima Haroun’s delicate handshake reveals nothing of her tormented life back in Darfur. Today she is a social worker for the City of Philadelphia, a mother, and the vice president of the Darfur Alert Coalition, a nonprofit based in Philadelphia.
Darfur is under the rule of “dictators who discriminate,” she says.
“Those who are not favored are marginalized,” says Haroun. “People like me don’t find many chances in our country for work and education.”
Survival, however, was the primary reason for Haroun and her family to come to the United States.
“The government [of Darfur] is racist,” she says, “killing the darker-skinned people first because there is hate and jealousy. Darfur is the second darkest region. They see the natural resources in these areas and want them, and use the Christian religion as a cover, saying they are killing them in a ‘holy war.’”
The villages surrounding Nirtity, her birth village, were systematically destroyed.
“The people came and attacked the village and set fire to everything,” she says. “Because of the noise, people came running, and they shot right at them. The elderly were burned, just like that,” she says, flicking her hand.
“They wanted to kill boys because they wanted to make the tribes weaker. They would take valuables before burning the villages, and they took my father’s mill and some corrugated metal and destroyed and hid them, because they wanted to destroy people economically.”
Haroun does not see the situation in her homeland changing anytime soon, pointing out that the president of Sudan recently appointed a suspected Janjaweed leader as his new adviser. “Janjaweed” translates to “devils on horseback.”
Haroun plans to get her master’s degree in the U.S., most likely in social work, and then return to Sudan to pursue her dream of running for parliament.
“I will work for stability,” she says, “and return when there is finally a peace that I agree with.”
Haroun believes that the international community has not done enough to stop the atrocities in Darfur.
“They announce this is genocide, but still didn’t take the right action,” she says. Haroun believes that the U.S. government has proven reluctant to help because of a past relationship with Sudan involving Osama bin Laden. As a result, she says, only non-governmental organizations are sending relief.
She urges all Americans to contact their congressional representatives and to spread the word.
“People need to put more pressure on the government to help, because political help is a necessity,” she says.
Much of Haroun’s family is still in Africa, including her brother, whose dream, she says, is to come to the U.S. and marry a woman here. Haroun also desperately wants to bring her father here, but cannot because she needs documented proof he held a presence in her childhood.
“I don’t know how to prove it,” she says with frustration. “It hurt me when they told me that.” She pauses. “I will bring him.”
She says the Sudanese community throughout the U.S. is committed and conflicted.
“We are trying to place ourselves and participate and contribute, and at the same time, trying to keep our culture to have our children learn,” she says. “We want to establish a community and build and organization to benefit and enable us to teach our children our language and culture.”
Haroun hopes that the City of Philadelphia can help the Sudanese community here “to build and fulfill our dreams in the new land.”
More information on the Darfur Alert Coalition: darfuralert.org. Sarah Mason is a senior at Drexel University.
The story of Sudanese refugee Nyoun Yok Gargik
By Titus Codjoe and Brett Haymaker, Drexel University Students
The following was adapted as a first-person narrative by Brett Haymaker and Titus Codjoe.
My name is Nyoun Yok Gargik. My mother gave me my first name and I inherited my last name from my father. It is a strong name, strong because my mother gave it to me and because it refers to a building material composed of cement and grass that we use in Sudan. I do not know the year of my birth.
One memory I have is drinking fresh milk we collected from the cows at our cattle camp with some other boys — a far cry from the Ph.D. I am now pursuing at Drexel University to become an electrical engineer.
I remember the day my mother came with a policeman to the cattle camp holding a telegram message from my father. My father had been in Kosti, north of Leir, working as a businessman along the White Nile River, and he wanted us to move there. I was too young to realize the telegram concerned the fighting. I was excited about the prospect of travel.
It was not until years later, after many nights staying up with my father listening to Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA) news reports, when I would come to know of Islamic government soldiers burning villages and bombing cattle camps in the south. Leir, my home region, became a battleground. I was lucky. I never saw any rebels.
I moved to Rufah to attend boarding school in 1993. I remember a man at the school who spoke speculatively about Islam and often made religious jokes — something you just did not do. Word spread. Islamists climbed the walls and cut the power so nobody could be seen. They broke into his room and slit his throat with a knife because he spoke badly about Islam. His blood was on the walls.
In 1996, I graduated from school in Rufah and gained admittance into Khartoum University, located in North Sudan. Although I was admitted, I could not begin my studies for another year and a half. There were no students. They all joined to fight for the government, burning crops, bombing cattle camps and tearing down homes built of the material from which I’m named.
North Sudan is dominated by Islam. I am Christian. I am the minority. In Khartoum, I was the enemy.
After some time at the university, I led a bible study group. I received threats often, but there were others that shared my faith, and I was not alone. We knew of the unwritten law to not “reach out” to Muslims, but we organized a “Bible exhibition” anyway so we could demonstrate our faith to others.
A few Egyptian men who were part of our group did not show up the day of the exhibition. They had seen the written warning from Islamists posted the day before, threatening violent demonstration. Even professors from the university signed the warning. We propped up our tent and laid bibles out on tables. There were 15 of us, so when the 300 Islamic students showed up with sticks, throwing rocks and wielding knives, we ran for our lives.
Rocks flew into the tent striking peoples’ heads. A group of men cornered a friend named Peter, which is the English equivalent of his Arabic name. Peter was light-skinned, and did not look southern. They yelled at him, hitting him with sticks saying, “You are not from the South, why are you Christian?” Some protesters did not know what to do because he looked innocent, but Peter was trapped in a corner. A man knifed Peter’s side. He fell to the ground. Blood stained the walls built of cement and grass. All the Bibles burned.
This clash happened on a Saturday. The next day, Sunday, students from Juba University — a southern Sudan School — stormed Khartoum, climbing over the fences. Juba brought many people to chase the few Islamic students and faculty into nearby mosques, threatening to burn down the buildings with the people still inside. I heard people say these things, but I did not support this. I did not want to waste more human life. Luckily, nobody went through with it and the mosques remained.
I pursued legal action against the demonstrators. My lawyer was Arab and Muslim. Because I was a Christian, he did not do anything. The case never went anywhere. He even cursed me out when I questioned him about it.
A few of the demonstrators were connected with Sudanese Security, an organization similar to the Secret Service in the United States. My case against them made me a target, like the man killed at my school for talking badly about Islam. In Sudan, it is very common for people to be taken in the night. Many pastors of churches disappeared this way.
My nights became sleepless. I feared for my life and knew I could not stay. I applied for a U.S. student visa and was granted political asylum. I moved to Columbia, S.C., to live with a Sudanese man I knew from childhood. From there I moved to Indianapolis, Ind. I was not working and had little money. It was in Indianapolis where I learned of the “Lost Boys” community in Philadelphia. An American family in Jenkintown, who were members of the New Life Presbyterian Church, took me in. I’ve been in Philadelphia ever since.
One day I will help in building a stronger Sudan — one whose boundaries do not reflect the composition of the North or the composition of the South but of one united, composed Sudan.
Interview with Darfurian refugee Amira Tibin
By Shazia Mehmood, Drexel University Student
Unable to hold back her tears, Amira Tibin speaks of the recent government-backed attacks in Darfur that killed her uncle and left 200 people dead.
Tibin, 39, was born and raised in Al-Fashir, the capital of Darfur. In 1985, when Tibin was 15, fighting erupted.
“The government was not trying to find a solution,” Tibin explained. “The government was part of the problem. When the fighting started, they gave weapons to the tribes to fight against one another.”
The standing government has received international accusations for oppressing non-Arabs and supplying the Arabs with ammunitions. Although the two groups have historically coexisted in Sudan, Tibin discussed the cause of the current conflict:
“Colonization was part of it, but the government in Sudan widened the conflict. By giving weapons to the Arab tribes, racism resulted.” In a country full of rioting, Tibin explained, the government did not fulfill its duty to establish justice.
Tibin’s husband, Ibrahim, brought her near the people in power. Omar Al-Bashir, the current leader of Sudan, was raised in the same village as Ibrahim. Although they were close as children, their beliefs became polar opposites. When the rioting started, Ibrahim realized the government’s role in the conflict, and called a meeting with Al-Bashir. In doing so, he put his life on the line to speak out against the injustice.
Eventually Ibrahim escaped to Yemen with Tibin and their daughter, Emtithal. In Yemen, Tibin bore another daughter, Afaq. Tibin could not imagine leaving Africa, as her extended family was still in Sudan. However, she felt like an outsider living in Yemen, so she entered the lottery for immigration to the U.S.
“I did want my children to get a good education in America. But how could I be happy leaving my people in Sudan, when there is still so much suffering?” Tibin said.
After she was settled in the United States, Tibin and her family knew that they had to go back to Sudan to help others. They stayed in Sudan for six months in 2000.
“At that time,” Tibin recalled, “there were protests on the streets. Schools were closed because the government wasn’t paying teachers anymore. I saw people dying in front of my eyes. People were not only shot in the middle of the streets, but also in their houses. The Janjaweed could come any time and kill you, even during the day.”
“Janjaweed” translates as “the devil on the horse” — soldiers who rode into the cities with guns and bombs, attacking innocent civilians.
“While we were in Sudan, my daughters were very close to my younger brother, Saif, who was only 17 years old,” Tibin said.
Saif had plans to attend college, but the government forced men to join the national defense military.
“I told him not to go. But he had no choice. They would come into his house and take him if he didn’t go then,” Tibin said.
Tibin visited Sudan again in 2005. Saif was nowhere to be found. Tibin paused before discussing these deeply entrenched memories:
“We looked everywhere, called everyone, and traveled throughout Sudan. To this day, he is still missing.” Tears began to flow slowly from Tibin’s eyes, as she spoke of him.
Another one of Tibin’s brothers, Abdul, also served in the military, and his experiences have left him scarred. After serving his time, he was traveling back home, when bombing broke out. His closest friends were killed right in front of him. He survived by finding shelter under a bridge. The resulting psychological effects turned him into a quiet, reserved man, hopeless about the situation in Darfur.
Along with her two daughters, Tibin now has two sons, Imam, 5, and Abdullah, 7 months. When asked if she was happy, Tibin responded by saying, “No, I am not happy. I do like that my children are receiving an education, but I will never be able to forget about my people in Sudan. We receive calls frequently with news of another family member’s death. Just yesterday … the rioting. The problem has not been solved in Darfur, and until then, I cannot be happy.”
Despite the losses Tibin has faced, her desire to work toward peace in Sudan has grown even stronger. She is currently actively involved in a local grassroots organization, Darfur Alert Coalition (darfuralert.org), to respond to the ongoing aggression in Darfur.
Tibin says that her great-grandparents’ stories of the beautiful city of Al-Fashir, filled with nomads, farmers, and businessmen working together peacefully have remained in her heart.
Shazia Mehmood, a senior at Drexel University, is a pre-medical student, majoring in history and political science.
War in Darfur
by Emtithal Mahmoud (Tibin’s daughter)
With a heart that’s a boulder,
Blinded by fear,
Desperate cries for help, he’ll never hear.
Roaming the streets with a charred black soul,
No one is safe, not woman not man, not young and not old.
Knowledge is forcibly pushed aside,
Because power has now taken the stride.
What was once a sanctuary, a haven for all,
Is now no haven, but a place where innocent lives did fall.
What’s going on is a senseless, cold hearted war;
Bad against good, strong against weak, all in Darfur.
Possessions are gone, everything is wrong.
People aren’t happy, and homeless and hungry,
Worst of all is that no one is free.
Families are shattered, in this big bloody battle.
Good people loose jobs
And are replaced by slobs.
No female is safe,
Because she is a subject to rape.
People are murdered throughout the nation,
Because of this, mostly orphans make up the population.
There is no respect and there is no pride,
The only thing there is, is GENOCIDE.
I believe it’s time to put this to an end,
For there are lives to defend.
Take action, or sit in grief? If you still don’t know
which side to choose,
Ask yourself one question, “What did the children do?”
An interview with Sudanese refugee James Lual
By Monica Singh and Amy Brammell, Drexel University Students
As young boy living in Ajueny — a Dinka village of 5,000 in southern Sudan — James Lual and other children would work together from nine to six each day, tending the goats and cows in cattle camps on the outskirts of the village. Isolated, Ajueny did not immediately receive news of the war in Sudan, and village elders were unable to explain the drastic changes that Lual would soon experience.
He watched while older boys left the village to fight the government. “I didn’t know why my cousins were leaving. It wasn’t until I saw a plane go and drop bombs that I knew what was happening.” When government soldiers set fire to Lual’s village, he was forced at gunpoint from his home.
Wearing a hand-me-down school uniform and a pair of bedroom slippers cut from rubber tires, Lual walked with a growing number of boys to Ethiopia, 500 miles away. On the emotionally painful and physically dangerous journey across the desert, the boys were plagued by starvation, thirst and wild animal attacks. Lual carried only a water container.
“It was so painful to carry above my head or by my side, but I couldn’t throw it away,” Lual says. After nearly three months of walking, Lual reached Pinyudo, the first of three refugee camps he’d call home over a period of 10 years. There was little food at the camp and the boys relied on fishing and foraging in the jungle for food. Six months later the United Nations became involved, providing food, clothing and shelter. They sent adults to help care for and teach the displaced children, now deemed “unaccompanied minors.” (Lual’s father had been killed; his mother was lost to him somewhere in southern Sudan.)
It was here that the importance of education took root for Lual. “Our first school was under the trees. We would sit on stones and use the dirt as notebooks. We learned our ABCs and 123s,” he says. Each day, boys were recruited by the Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA). “I was so excited about the SPLA recruiting kids. I wanted to join the army. Either you could go and kill or be killed, or die in the camp. Because of my size, I was turned down,” he says. Lual remained behind in Pinyudo for four years, continuing to learn, until another civil war broke out, this time in Ethiopia and the camp was no longer a safe place to stay.
In a struggle to survive, Lual and the other boys began another trek, this time across the flooded Gila River back to Sudan as shots were fired. “There was blood in the water. People would hold onto you until you were both dead. I was lucky that I learned to swim in Ethiopia,” says Lual. When he arrived in Pachala, a camp on the border between Ethiopia and Sudan, it took time for the United Nations to find a way to provide sufficient aid.
“A cup of beans would be rationed for seven people and would have to last five days,” Lual says. Soon the Sudanese government discovered Pachala, and boys were forced to dig holes in the ground to try to protect themselves from the bombing that ensued. Pachala was invaded by ground troops, and Lual was once again forced to move, walking along the border to Kenya.
“The 15-and-unders were taken on the UN convoy trucks. It was so crowded that people stood on top of each other, but I felt lucky to get a ride,” Lual says.
Eventually he reached Kakuma, the final destination for most refugees — a hot, dry desert region with no river. The camp here was very crowded. The UN provided a water tank for the refugees three times a day. People woke up at four each morning to get in line. The Sudanese refugees were often attacked by local tribes who had too little food themselves.
Life became more permanent, and shelters and schools made of mud and thatch were erected. Kenyan teachers were hired and paid to teach the boys, though many were understandably more concerned with getting up early to stand in the water line and to obtain their daily food rations. Lual did not miss the opportunity for education. Living without his parents, “Education was the only opportunity for me. I didn’t take it simple like the other boys who dropped out,” he says.
In 1997, the United States developed a program to relocate the “unaccompanied minors.” Immigrating to the United States was a dream still very far in the distance. He had learned not to get his hopes up over the long year of interviews with U.S. officials. Lual’s perseverance paid off when he received a letter from the United Nations, offering him the opportunity to live to the United States.
In 2001, Lual arrived at JFK International Airport in New York City around 9 p.m. A short flight to Philadelphia delivered him to Janet, a member of Lutheran Children’s Services (LCS) helping Sudanese refugees get settled. On his way to Quakertown, Lual went to his first McDonald’s, and learned how to pronounce “water.” At 20 years of age, Lual’s life in the United States had just begun. Quakertown church members working with LCS volunteered their time to taking care of him and getting him prepared for the GED and then enrolled at Bucks County Community College.
Even as life changed dramatically for Lual, a “Lost Boy” far from his native land, education remained critical in shaping his future. Today, Lual is a Chestnut Hill College graduate with a degree in political science. For the past six years, he has lived with his “mother,” Doris Brown, and recently with another helpful woman, Martha Fisher. Now 27, Lual works with Global Education Motivators as a public speaker at schools, libraries, and humanitarian organizations to tell his story and to make people aware of the suffering in Sudan and Darfur. He’s in the process of applying to graduate school with hopes of someday working for the United Nations.
Amy Brammell and Monica Singh are students at Drexel University.
A moment with Darfur activist Dr. Abdelgabr Adam
By Gilbert Flores and Marisa McStravick, Drexel University Students
Dr. Abdelgabr Adam, trained in the Sudan as a gastrointestinal doctor, was born in Nyala, Darfur, 54 years before political strife plagued his homeland. Today, Darfur is the home of an ongoing military conflict. In April 2005, the Coalition for International Justice estimated 400,000 deaths since conflict arose in Darfur — the land Adam fights so hard for today.
“No one knows exactly how many were killed. It was like flying over an open cemetery. You could only see bones. No one will tell you how many died,” says Adam, describing what he saw during a flight in a small plane over a ravaged village.
In all, some 4,700 villages were struck by the genocide, each one’s 100-200 inhabitants dying from drinking water from poisoned wells, gunfire or starvation. “People are in a hurry. Mothers are forced to tie their small children to donkeys’ backs and let them go. They know they must choose between their own survival or death for the entire family,” says Adam.
The genocide in Darfur began in the early 1980s, but according to Adam, political oppression has existed for a long time. While in his 30s, he held the role of a special envoy, a position he compares to that of a political ambassador. He communicated with foreign countries, explaining Sudan’s horrifying situation and the ongoing oppression. It was a dangerous job, and when Islamic extremists took power in 1989, Adam was forced to flee Africa. He found political asylum in the United States.
During his first several years in the U.S., Adam traveled continuously until settling in Philadelphia in 2001. He became actively involved as a Darfur activist, speaking at rallies at colleges and universities. “It was not easy to convey the message because the international communities were not involved,” Adam recalls.
He was elected president of the Sudanese Association of the Greater Philadelphia in 2001-02, and helped to form the Western Sudan Association of Philadelphia. These days he’s president of the The Darfur Human Rights Organization, which he founded.
Spreading awareness is the key, he says. “Let what happened in Darfur be known.” He urges Americans to donate clothes, shoes, school supplies and relief items to people living in refugee camps. According to Adam, everyone can be a Darfur activist by urging people to make donations and participate in rallies. Above all, he asks Americans to donate their time to educating themselves about genocide.
To donate clothing, money or school supplies directly to Darfurians living in refugee camps, contact Dr. Abdelgabr Adam and the Darfur Human Rights Organization at email@example.com.
A Darfurian refugee raises awareness and expectations for the people left behind
By Garelnabi Abusikin with Deborah Yarchun, Drexel University Students
Deborah Yarchun, a Drexel University screenwriting and playwriting student, sat down with Darfurian survivor Garelnabi Abusikin and interpreter Dr. Abdel Gabar Adam. These are the words Abusikin asked her to share.
I have a basement in my home. It is filled with people’s shirts and shoes, 22 large sacks of clothes, 400 pounds of jeans, 12,000 pairs of flip-flops and about 40 Eagles hats. If you give me a shirt, I have a big basement. Everything that goes there is used. There is never enough. There are 420,000 refugees. Everything I get — I will take back.
I come from Darfur.
I was born in 1982 and when I was 5 years old, I listened to my mom and dad say, “Today, the Sudan government killed people.” My father was a chief of the Zaghawa tribe and a leader in Karnoi. Growing up as the son of a chief, on a daily basis we heard of people being killed. I’m 12 and the Janjaweed comes I hide inside with my family and when we emerge two days later, I find my uncle slaughtered, his throat slit ear to ear.
In 1999, I helped bury the bodies of 92 men killed while digging clean wells to provide water for the people. I’m 18 and bombs fall on our village, destroying Karnoi. I see the People’s Defense Force, the Janjaweed and the Sudanese army kill my uncles, my cousins, my brothers-in-law and about 100 of my friends. I run with my mother and sisters with no plans and no directions. Those who go north go straight into desert. The ones who go south run into more Janjaweed. We were lucky to go west and cross into El Fasher.
I have some photographs to show you. See this? This is my childhood friend, Shariff. In 2003 after escaping Karnoi, Shariff and I went to Al Neelain University in Khartoum. When we arrived, it was as if we are crazy and nothing happened. New skyscrapers are being developed and the people are happy. We heard nothing on the radio or in the newspapers about the murders. Nobody was speaking about it, because most did not know. The people in the U.S. know more about the genocide than the people in Khartoum. After witnessing the systematic murder of our people, Shariff spoke up. He led demonstrations in front of government buildings. “Stop poisoning the wells. Stop genocide in Darfur,” [he said]. At 10 a.m., I was having breakfast with him when an officer came in and shot him dead at close range in front of the students. I fled to Egypt and applied for refugee status with the U.N. High Commission for Refugees.
In the U.S., I spoke about Darfur. I testified for the Judgment on Genocide mock court held at the United Nations Church Centre in New York in November 2006. When the government in Sudan found out, they arrested my mother and sister. They beat my mother and shaved my sister’s head bald. They told my mother to tell me to be silent. My mother told me, “Don’t worry about us. We are like dead bodies who will never feel the skinning.” She told me to keep talking. To never stop talking. The more people talk about it, the fewer people die.
See this? This is my mother. This is my family. My little sisters. My baby brother. My aunt. They are now in a refugee camp in eastern Chad. My father is not there, because he stayed in Karnoi and was killed in another Janjaweed attack in 2005.
From Sept. 23 to Oct. 23, 2007, I went with the Darfur Human Rights Organization with the help of Amnesty International to the refugee camps. I saw my mother. I had not seen her in five years. She had changed so much, I could not recognize her.
In the refugee camps, the security consists of men, mothers and sisters and children with guns. The people are bone-thin. There is a riverbed, but it is dry. A few green containers with water dredged from the ground sustain the village. The people are not even waiting, they are enduring. Our roofless huts are of mud and sticks and sheets and the children huddle for shade against the sides. Each day is about existing.
There are many children, mostly orphans. My mother takes care of 17 of them. Sixty-five percent in each camp are children who never saw a father, but many times saw their mothers and sisters being raped. They are lucky to be alive, because when the villages were bombed, they ran and ran across the border to stay alive. They have no schools. They hardly have shelter or food to eat. Many will become soldiers and will be killed. They are hopeless, helpless. They have no future that they can see.
That is why I am going back.
In March, I will go back to the camps through the Darfur Human Rights Organization with president and co-founder Dr. Abdel Gabar Adam and other volunteers. We will bring clothes, food and medical supplies. We hope to continue our mission every three months with the goal of reaching the people four times a year. We are still looking for donations and money to purchase a water pump, which is needed desperately. One machine can supply clean water for 4,000 people daily.
When I return to the U.S., I will continue to drive a taxi, gather clothes and learn English so that I speak about my story.
I will not stop speaking until what is happening in Darfur stops. We need you to listen.
To contribute relief donations to the Darfur refugee camps in eastern Chad, or have a representative from Darfur Human Rights Organization make a public presentation, call 267-784-7073.
An interview with Sudanese refugee Eltigani Abualgasim.
By B. Davin Stengel
Recently recognized as one of the best cab drivers in Philadelphia — nominated by the Philadelphia Convention and Visitors Bureau and the Greater Philadelphia Hotel Association — Eltigani Abualgasim used to be in a very different kind of transportation business, helping to deliver Red Cross messages across Sudan and reconnecting families torn apart by war.
“One of our main programs was for unaccompanied minors, who are called ‘Lost Boys’ here,” says Abualgasim. “We did a lot of missions to trace the relatives of these minors — in the mountains, in southern Sudan, through war zones … it was very difficult.”
A graduate of the University of Khartoum with a bachelor’s degree in geography and a diploma in economics and development, Abualgasim spent the 1990s working for the tracing department of the Sudanese Red Crescent Society, where he led a team charged with helping concerned family members locate missing loved ones displaced by violence. In 2000 he traveled to Saudi Arabia where he lived for three and a half years before securing a visa to come to the United States, settling in Philadelphia in 2004.
“I left Sudan … before the war in Darfur started,” he says. “I was forced. The policy of the government is to drain the country of opposition.”
While Abualgasim has some extended family in the Philadelphia area, he is the only one of his siblings currently living in the United States, and the crisis in Sudan continues to affect his brothers and sisters directly. In 2006 his older brother, Abualgasim Ahmed Abualgasim — a longtime resident of Saudi Arabia and an opponent of the Sudanese government — was arrested by Saudi Arabian authorities and sent to Sudan, where he remained incarcerated for six months without ever being charged with a crime.
“He gave a talk at the Sudanese Embassy in Saudi Arabia, and the next day he was deported,” says Abualgasim. “When they brought him to Sudan, they tried to assimilate him by offering him an appointment as a minister. He refused.”
Abualgasim’s brother was released this past March, thanks in large part to the advocacy efforts of Amnesty International and other collaborative organizations. One of Abualgasim’s sisters was less fortunate. She resided in the Kuttum area of northern Darfur — where Abualgasim’s family is originally from — and died recently after being unable to seek medical treatment for a heart condition.
Here in Philadelphia, the situation in Darfur is never far from Abualgasim’s mind. He is active in a number of organizations — including the Sudanese National Rally, whose primary goal is to raise awareness among Sudanese living in the U.S. about ongoing human-rights violations in Sudan — and serves as volunteer director for Darfur Alert Coalition, a Philadelphia-area coalition of Sudanese and Americans offering educational programs and coordinating advocacy initiatives on behalf of the oppressed in Darfur.
Abualgasim clearly takes pride in his job, but he knows he won’t be driving a cab forever. “I want to go back to school to start my master’s degree,” he says. When asked what he plans to study, he says matter-of-factly, “Peace and conflict resolution.”
Interview with Isaiah Kuch, of the Lost Boys of Sudan.
By Patrick Rapa
In a way, it’s remarkable Isaiah Kuch still feels a connection to Sudan.
He was only 6 when civil war forced him and thousands of others out of their villages in the southern part of the country. After that, he spent about four years in a refugee camp in Ethiopia and another eight in a camp in Kenya. In 2000, he and the other Lost Boys were relocated to the United States in search of education and safety. Kuch has lived in Philadelphia since then, studying and working.
Now, armed with U.S. citizenship and a degree in economics, it would seem like an easy choice to stick around and move on with his life.
“I will always believe one day I will go back to Sudan and make it my home again,” he says soberly. That’s a common sentiment among his fellow refugees. They want to return to the site of their most difficult times, where they lost their parents and siblings, to help the place build and develop.
When he wasn’t studying at La Salle University, Kuch was working several jobs and sending money back to his half sister and half brothers in Kenya. So far, he’s been able to make enough to get his siblings out of the Kakuma refugee camp and into school.
That was the place he called home the longest. It’s an immense camp set up by the United Nations to house refugees from Somalia, Congo, Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda, Ethiopia, Eritrea and Sudan. Only compared to Pinyudo — the initial makeshift settlement Kuch fled to in Ethiopia — does Kakuma look livable. “There was food, but not enough. Water, but not enough. Schools, but not enough qualified teachers,” recalls Kuch. Skipping meals was commonplace and education stopped at grade 12 (after that, you could be enlisted as a teacher yourself).
Kakuma was also the place the Lost Boys were finally old enough to understand their situation, as much as it can be understood. “When all that in Sudan started, nobody knew,” he explains. “You just think it’s a fight, you go and hide, it’s going to be alright. In the refugee camp you start going to school, you start asking the question why.”
When faced with the opportunity of being relocated to the U.S., he took it, though not without reservations. “You have to also keep in back of your mind: Is this taking me farther away from home? Most of us thought it couldn’t be worse than what we went through.”
So on a freezing cold day in November of 2000, Kuch’s plane touched down in Philadelphia. It was quite a shock to the system. He remembers back in hot, dusty Kakuma seeing a picture of Alaska and thinking he’d like to live in a place like that. “Alaska looks really beautiful in pictures,” he laughs. “We didn’t understand all that snow means cold.”
This year he’s gonna skip as much of the Philly winter as he can while visiting family in Kenya, Uganda and, if possible, Sudan. Kenya, once considered the most stable country in eastern Africa, is currently embroiled in social unrest surrounding its recent elections. Kuch isn’t scared. As long as the flights are still allowed in and out, he’ll be going.
And right now, the war in Sudan is quieted thanks to a peace agreement — though the situation in Darfur remains dire and some are skeptical about the government’s willingness to adhere to the concessions it’s made. While waiting to see how that plays out, Kuch is applying to grad schools.
“There is hope,” he says. “You can’t lose that. Once you lose that, you don’t have anything left. You got to have some hope or otherwise life is meaningless. That never goes away. However I do not cheat myself by believing that this hope is going to come easily. I do believe it’s going to be as complicated as my past. But one day, one time, it will come.”