When Do I Have a Say?

By Kizito Anyanwu Nonso

The book When Do I Have a Say? is a story of a young girl Iholong, who lived through two civil wars, and is still living the experience of the latter. The major character Iholong is a perfect representation of the whole experience of the girl child and women in the war-torn South Sudan: the girl child who wants to have a say about whom and when to marry and not sold out to a man as a child, the girl child who desires equal opportunity to education as the boys, the girl child who wants to walk down the road without fear of rape or being violated, the girl child who is not regarded below the domestic animals, the girl child who has a say in charting a course for her future, the girl child who needs an environment free from wars and violence to be able to grow up without being forced to marry and repopulate the nation.

The beauty of the book is in the strength of the young girl Iholong. Despite her existential circumstances, she did not only remain strong throughout her terrible experiences, but was determined to help other girls like herself. The book tells the stories of wars, refugees’ experiences, killings, hunger, rape, sexual violation, women subjugation, forced marriages, child-marriages, girl-child compensation, girl-child abduction, trauma, illiteracy, and struggles to acquire education in the middle of war. It also presents the strength of the girl-child and women: their resilience, industry, generosity, beauty, intelligence, desire to acquire education, and determination to survive despite all odds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers USA
• Release date: Sep 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463024164

Kizito Anyanwu Nonso

Kizito Chukwunonso Anyanwu is a missionary Catholic priest from Ogidi in Anambra State, South Eastern Nigeria. He is a member of the Missionary Society of Saint Paul of Nigeria (MSP). He studied biological sciences in the University of Benin, Nigeria. He studied philosophy and theology at the National Missionary Seminary of Saint Paul, Abuja, Nigeria, between 2005 and 2012. In 2008, he obtained Bachelor of Arts (BA) in philosophy and classics from the University of Port-Harcourt, Nigeria, with second class upper honors division (magna cum laude). In 2012, he obtained his Bachelor of Sacred Theology (STB) from the Pontifical Urban University, Rome (Urbaniana) with summa cum laude (first-class honors). He was ordained a Catholic priest on June 22, 2013. He has been serving as a missionary in South Sudan since 2014 till date, after serving one year in Lagos, Nigeria. He works as a pastor and a high school teacher in the Catholic diocese of Torit, South Sudan. He has attended many peace conferences and workshops.

Book preview

Chapter One

Iholong woke up in her room, in Ontario, Canada, from a nightmare with an immense force and a shout. As she tried to recall what happened, it was a repeat of the experience that drove her out of their home in the historic town of Torit, near her home village, Ifotu, the ancestral home of the Otuho people in the Equatoria region of South Sudan. They had settled at Torit after a few months in Juba, when they returned from the Adjumani refugee camp, Uganda, in 2011, before the referendum for the Independence of South Sudan from the Republic of Sudan. Ifotu had served as a place of refuge for the Otuho people of South Sudan during past wars and violence, but the present war had turned it into a ghost town. A rebel faction used it for their base and the people had since vacated their calm peaceful town for them.

Iholong thought of the Anya-Nya battalion of the yesteryears, what they stood for. She asked herself, What does this new Anya-Nya group stand for? She thought of her father, Okuye, a Brigadier General in the Sudan People Liberation Army (SPLA) that fought for twenty-one years to liberate their people from the Arab Northern Sudan. He died shortly before the Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA) was signed with the Sudan Government of Khartoum in 2005. What cause did my father die for? She thought about the Independence in 2011, that she saw as a little girl of 12 in Juba. She tried to imagine all the singing, the euphoria, dancing and jubilation. The thought of what those celebrations had translated into in five years was frustrating to her. Why are we still dependent after so much celebration on the independence? What did we do wrong? What sin did we commit? What did my father die for, so that his children would have to be driven into exile for a second time? She thought about how much her mother Idwa had struggled to bring them up, how she had to bear being taken over by the father’s younger brother, and had to produce more children from him, all against her wish. Her two younger brothers and the last sister were not from her father, though they had grown to love each other as though they shared the same parents.

She remembered wordings of the South Sudan National Anthem, which read:

Oh God!

We praise and glorify you

For your grace on South Sudan,

Land of great abundance.

Uphold us united in peace and harmony.

Oh Motherland!

We rise, raising flag with the guiding star

And sing songs of freedom with joy.

For Justice, Liberty and Prosperity,

Shall forevermore reign.

Oh Great Patriots!

Let us stand up in silence and respect,

Saluting our Martyrs whose blood

Cemented our National foundation,

We vow to protect our Nation.

Oh God, Bless South Sudan!

She considered the line that calls the country, The land of great abundance. What have we enjoyed in abundance since I was a child? What have we ever had in abundance? Abundance of guns? Abundance of killings and deaths? Abundance of rapes and sexual violations of women and girls? Abundance of poverty, disease and malnutrition? Abundance of children who were not in school and drop outs? Abundance of child and underage marriages? Abundance of men in uniforms, who became unknown gunmen when crimes were committed? Abundance of inter-tribal and intercommunal wars and killings? Abundance of famine? Abundance of natural resources, but to what benefits? Her mind was racing as she looked up at the ceiling in the darkness.

The previous year they had prayed for rains and killed their rain-makers. When the rain eventually came, they planted their sorghum, groundnuts, maize, sukuma wiki, and other vegetables. Suddenly, they had dropped their hoes, machetes, and pangas before the maturation of the plants, and picked up guns to kill and maim their fathers, brothers, and sons, violate and rape their mothers, sisters, and daughters. Now the remaining are running away from their motherland.

She thought about her mother, twin sister, kid sister, and brothers. She had run away from their house with nothing, driven by survival instinct, when a group of uniformed men came into their compound at the heat of the July, 2016 violence. They had killed her stepfather and shot her two brothers as they intervened. They had pounced on her mother and twin sister, about to rape them as they were getting ready for school. She was already smartly dressed in her school uniform of white T-shirt and black skirt, a pair of black sandals and white stocks with black round lines on the edges. She was about serving the sorghum porridge and shy (tea) she had prepared for breakfast, when she heard of the commotion in their main hut (arch-hut). When she came out carrying the breakfast in her hands, with a scream of Jeeeesus! She dropped the tray of food as one of the uniformed men moved towards her. She rolled under the bed and forced herself out through the opening created in case of a life-threatening emergency, and ran as fast as her legs could support her. When she heard shots behind her, she thought she was dead as she stumbled over an empty drum and fell flat as the bullets hit the bamboo fence ahead of her. She pulled herself up and threw herself across the fence. She moved through the bushy garden ahead and lost consciousness as she fell again and hit the gutter ahead.

When she regained consciousness, she discovered that people were running to and fro in different directions, and there were heavy and sporadic shootings from different directions. She saw school children crying and running home, as though home was safe. Many people were already lying lifeless on the ground in their pool of blood and some others groaning in pain from their injuries. She was still confused as to what to do and which direction to move. She touched her head and discovered she was bleeding, though she was not feeling any pain yet. She heard a woman calling out to the school children, "Itakum gi ruwa wen? (Where are you going?)"

"Anina gi ruwa bet tanina. (We are going to our house/home)"

"La… tal itakum be anina, ara itakum, anina gi ruwa le kenisa. (No, no, no…come with us to the church)" Iholong got up and followed them to the church amidst heavy shooting. They met United Nations trucks packing people to an old empty market near their base where they could offer them some protection. They were taking in mostly foreigners first and the locals who forced themselves in. When she arrived at the church of Our-Lady of Sorrows, hundreds of people were already taking refuge there. She saw Fr. Mukasa, a young Nigerian priest who was their parish priest, walking around encouraging and cheering the people. He was also administering First Aid to the wounded and beckoning on the new arrivals, who were dehydrated, to go drink some water.

As Iholong secured a corner for herself and struggled to check around for her mother and sisters, Fr. Mukasa came face to face with her. "Mami, malu ita? (What happened to you?)" The young priest called her, with a tone of someone who was still struggling to perfect his Pidgin Arabic that was spoken in Torit. Mami was the name very few close family members called Iholong. He actually should have called her Malaiki, but he had called her Mami, a name which actually should be mummy, usually given to the first daughter, while the last is usually called bebi. When Iholong found her voice, it was a question she asked the priest, "Abuna, ita ainu uma tai wa ikwat tai? (Father, have you seen my mother and sisters?) With a tone of surprise, the priest responded, Ana ma ainu humon fi ini. (I have not seen them here.)"

The priest took her to where the First Aid Box was, cleaned and covered the injury she sustained on her shoulder and head. After that, the priest who knew her so well asked her what happened exactly once again. When the priest asked again, she narrated to him what happened in their home that morning and how she narrowly escaped with her life. He consoled her, encouraging her to relax, that he would find out about them.

When Iholong summoned the courage and managed to go home and check things out a few days after, she found their hut burnt down and destroyed, her two brothers and stepfather were killed, still lying there. She wept and asked herself again, in a tone that begged the heavens for answers that never came, What did we do? What offence did my brothers commit? She quickly went back and informed the priest, who gathered a few of her church youth to go bury them in shallow graves in their compound, amidst the receding shootings. Iholong went about asking for her mother and sisters. She met people who told her that they probably could have left back for Adjumani in Uganda, from where they had returned in 2011. Others mentioned Kakuma in Kenya or Khartoum in Sudan. But if they actually decided to make those journeys, they would still be on the road somewhere, she thought. However, an apparent reliable source told her that they could have left with Kenyans that were being evacuated back to their country via Uganda.

***

Chapter Two

Taking a deep breath, recovering from her wandering thoughts and having shed a lot of tears, she realized that someone was in the room. She looked up with damp eyes and noticed that her roommate Sarah was already standing in front of her. Good morning, Sarah.

You are at it again, how long are you going to cry? She asked with a tone that showed both surprise and deep concern. Please be strong and cheer up. Sarah squatted and held her tight in her embrace. It’s ok, dear...but I really think that you need professional help. Why do you have to cry for months? You will exhaust yourself.

Iholong chuckled as she looked Sarah directly in the eye, My dear, I wish you would understand. She did not say it loud so that she did not upset Sarah, who was also dealing with her own experience. She was simply handling herself better. Indeed, she herself knew that she needed help, but she was not sure which kind of help was going to save her from these perpetual nightmares, pain, confusion, trauma and hate. She heaved a sigh of momentary relief as streams of tears still flowed down her cheeks. She was now sobbing as Sarah held her tight.

Sarah was a beautiful young girl from Lebanon who, like Iholong, fled her country because of war and violence. Her father and brother were forcefully recruited into the army by the rebels. She had fled the country with her mother and younger sister, who now live in Germany. Their boat had capsized on their journey and she lost them when she was rescued. She had moved on one year after the experience, thinking them dead, when she eventually heard that they were also rescued and were living in Germany. She still hoped to get reunited with them someday, maybe after her studies in Canada. A year had passed, and she had moved on with her studies and learned to live without them. She had not heard anything about her brother and father. It took the two girls no time to build a strong relationship and ties with each other. They were now best of friends. Sarah was younger, but apparently stronger. She was trying to help Iholong get over her traumatic experience. Sarah was a sports person, a sprinter and swimmer. She was not as tall as Iholong, but she had a stronger build and well-toned muscles.

Holding Iholong very tight to console her, she whispered in her ears, Let’s go to the gym. Iholong was excited to know she had what it took to be a great athlete, since Sarah started encouraging her to check out the particular sports she could engage in. She got up and screamed, Wow! and stood up to go for her sports kits. She had been training for sprinting and long jump.

***

Chapter Three

Idwa was sitting in front of her tent at the Bidi-Bidi refugee camp, Uganda, with her last daughter and last born, Michelle Imanya. The same Uganda she left less than six years ago, when the war with the Khartoum government ended. She was lost in thought with her right hand supporting her chin. She was a middle-aged woman of 30 years old. She was tall, slender, with a long facial formation. Even in her rough young skin that had known and experienced suffering, her outstanding beauty could still be noticed. She was now looking far older than her age.

The day she first visited their Parish Priest to get a testimonial of faith, that would enable them to get some compensatory money for her late husband, Fr. Mukasa was startled to hear she was 29, because she looked above 45. He had asked, Are you sure you know your age or are you guessing? Of course, many South Sudanese, especially those born before 1990s often did not know their particular days, months and years of birth. Village women gave birth at home. They only named particular events that could suggest the year or period around which the person was born. Even when the year was known, the particular day became a challenge. That was why in the National Identity Card, majority had first of January as their days of birth, others just claimed any date and month they felt comfortable with. Even the church that could have helped had their documents destroyed by the war, or lost moving from one location to another. At some point, many stopped keeping baptismal records because of the experiences of the past. The only thing that every mother never forgot, was the event surrounding the birth of her child, because that determined the name a child was given. However, all that was beginning to change.

For Idwa, she was one of the few that were not in doubt about their age, because she was one of the very few that had the opportunity of starting school early, though hers was cut short by early marriage. She remembered her children’s birthdates by heart.

Life experiences, however, had left her looking older than her age. Gray hairs were already appearing, the face had wrinkle lines and the muscles a bit tough and saggy. She had known and experienced the saddest and toughest parts of life. She had vowed that her children would never know her kind of experience. She had struggled, tried to give them what life denied her, before the present violence turned things around. She rejected all the suitors that had come for her daughters very early and vowed to give them education as much as her financial strength could carry her. Even when her status as a woman could not allow her to take strong stands, God had always intervened somehow. She was also lucky to have intelligent children who were ready to make her proud.

Growing up in a country and culture where having a girl child was the pride of womanhood, she lost her pride early in life. As the girl child was appreciated, so she was guarded and protected till she got married, but often very early as a child. The more female children one had, the more revered she or he was. The only reason people wanted male children was to carry on their names and lineage, and to inherit the family wealth, since the girls had no inheritance but only brought in wealth. Once she got married, she belonged to the husband’s people. The other reason was the need for the communities to protect themselves. It was the male children who became warriors and soldiers. If a male child was gold, a girl child was diamond, or even more. If one had just a male child, it was just enough. The only reason for having more was that in the case of premature and sudden death, no one would be left to inherit the family wealth and carry on the family name. The wealth eventually got transferred to other male relatives, not even to the daughters. However, they understood that no one had the control of the gender of the child. It was entirely dependent on fate and providence.

The more girls you had, the wealthier you would become in the long run. The dowries were paid with herds of cattle, goats, sheep, and money in some cases. Thus, the treasure, unfortunately, was not the girl, but the cattle and the other animals. The value of the girl child was attached to the number of these animals she could attract as her dowry. The determining factors included: virginity, height, strength, health, beauty and family background. Of course, the girl after obtaining these material as dowry to her father, went to her husband’s house with nothing. So it was still the men who enjoyed the wealth eventually. Whatever was got, was shared by the father with his relatives who were not just stakeholders but also shareholders. Shareholders in the sense that when a male child was about to marry, these relatives were obliged to contribute cattle, goats and sheep, depending on the capacity of the individual and how closely related he was to the father of the girl. Thus, when a girl was born, they wished that she grew fast so that they recovered their investment into the marriage of her mother and even more. This made the girl, as such, valued as an article for trade; much like a commodity to be sold. When she got to the man’s house, she had to stay no matter what happened and the treatment she received, since no one would be ready to return the dowry, which would be the result of a woman leaving her husband. It was only possible when the man sent her away himself, in which case he loses the dowry. But, of course, the girl could eventually remain without another husband, since any man who offered to marry her must pay the dowry to the former husband if he was interested.

***

Chapter Four

As Idwa sat, she had an appearance that said, I have seen it all. Her mind flashed back to the experience that was to redefine her life. She became furious to have grown up in a culture that gave and still gives women no voice. A culture that did not allow a woman to tell her story and share her experience without shame and guilt. She remembered, with sadness, how she was raped as a little school girl and got pregnant. She shed tears when she remembered that the few girls who were able to at least finish their senior secondary, were now big people in the government, holding parliamentary and ministerial positions and appointments. She imagined how her life and the lives of her children would have been if her early education was not interrupted. She hated the man she first married, even though he was long dead.

Her father Afore was one of the teenage recruits of the Anya-Nya 1 battalion of Southern Sudan—Anyanya was a term in Madi language that meant snake venom—the rebel group that fought the first Sudanese Civil War between 1955 and 1972 against Northern Sudan. They were the agitators who were the first to revolt and move for the liberation of Southern Sudan from the then Sudanese government. They fought oppression, marginalization and Islamization of Southern Sudan. Their demand was representation of the South in the national government and more regional autonomy. They led the protest against the Arab North domination that started in 1955. They felt subjugated, suppressed, and neglected.

Afore was a tall huge man with charcoal black complexion. He had a deep commanding tone that was as intimidating as his physique. Having risen to the post of a commander of the Torit troop of Anya-Nya battalion, he was feared by all. He was one of those men who could waste your life without qualms of conscience, if you dared to oppose him. At home, however, he was a compassionate man. He was a man who lived ahead of his time. He insisted that all his children, who were intelligent, must go to school, especially the boys. The girls were to at least finish their elementary school before getting married. By the time he married Idwa’s mother, Maria Natinga, he had five wives already. He had seen the three stages of the movement, beginning with the guerrilla war, Anya-Nya, and South Sudan Liberation Movement. He was part of the 1972 first peace agreement, that temporarily stopped the war and conflict that had witnessed the death of about half a million lives during its seventeen years. He was one of the earliest generals – at least, that was what they called themselves – of the Sudan People Liberation Army (SPLA), which, in 1982, moved again the motion for the liberation of Southern Sudan. He was assassinated in Uganda, by an unknown gunman, in 2005.

Idwa’s husband, Okuye, was also a soldier in the SPLA. Idwa was on her way back from school when Okuye, who had admired her and wanted to have her even though she was only 13, pounced on her along a bush path. He took her into the bush and raped her. Mamaaa! Mamaaa! She cried out, but nobody seemed to have heard her and if anyone did, no one dared to come close. In their culture, abducting and having sex with a girl a man wanted to marry, was a legitimate practice, but it was done when the girl and the family had shown some obvious signs of acceptance. That was a way of telling other men that the girl was already engaged. When Idwa became pregnant, she knew it was an end to the future she wanted. Since her father encouraged education, she had wanted to get educated as far as her intelligence could take her, since they were only two daughters from her mother Natinga. She wanted to match the sons of her father, if not surpass them in education. They were at this time staying in Kitgum in Uganda, which was a border town between South Sudan and Uganda. When her mother noticed changes in her body and the regular morning fever, she knew something was wrong with her first daughter. She called her inside her hut and began interrogating her. Idwa, as a woman I have noticed the changes in your body which show you are pregnant, tell me that you have not brought shame to this family. Idwa was speechless and completely devastated. As a little girl, the only sign of pregnancy that she knew was a protruding belly.

What happened to her was still clear in her mind, though she hadn’t the courage to tell anyone. She looked at herself and was completely at a loss. She opened her mouth a couple of times but no words came out. Suddenly, a stream of tears started rolling down her cheeks. There was a saying in their culture that no one can hide pregnancy. Natinga immediately ran to Afore’s hut, who had just returned from the war front. She knelt and started crying. Afore immediately understood that something serious had happened. "Malu ita, ya mara? (What is wrong, woman?) He bellowed in a stern, threatening voice. Has anybody died? He just asked, knowing certainly that it was not a news of death, because if it was, his wife wouldn’t have come to him. She would have started crying aloud outside her hut, such that anyone who heard would come to inquire what was wrong. As she was still kneeling crying, he asked again with an even louder voice, Ya mara, malu ita? (Woman, what is wrong?)" He was about to get the stick that he used in beating the wives, which is usually hid in the roof of the hut. It was then that Natinga summoned courage.

Your daughter Idwa seems pregnant, she said, with a very low tone that showed how afraid she was. As Afore, who was enraged, immediately picked his gun, and ran towards Natinga’s hut, Natinga ran out shouting and calling on the neighbors to intervene. Idwa, who was already aware of her father’s possible reaction, had left the house immediately after her mother entered her father’s hut. Everyone who knew Afore, knew that he could kill Idwa and probably the mother, before having to think about the situation. In an instant the men around were all holding Afore, trying to calm him down.

In the evening, Idwa who had run to her maternal home, returned with her grandfather and three of her uncles. Her grandfather, Emilio Marko, was one of the few men who were lucky to have a long life. He had seen wars and epidemics. He could have been a handsome man, but his age and experience had made him rough and haggard. His white hair, beard, sideburn and moustache, radiated wisdom and experience. It was him who narrated to Afore and his brothers, what had happened to Idwa, from what Idwa had told him and from his experience as an old man with years of life experiences. It was him also who calmed down Afore, who had picked his gun again to go in search of the man who had not just raped his daughter but had brought shame to his family; the man who had denied him his daughter’s fat dowry. The little girl was also blamed for being careless. Issues of this nature aren’t solved with bullets, Emilio had told them. Let us get the young man responsible and his family and negotiate with them. If he accepts the responsibility, we will ask him to marry Idwa. Even if he has nothing to give us now, he can pay gradually. Let us first of all take the shame away and save our face. This is the only way a considerably befitting marriage can be guaranteed for our daughter. Don’t forget that we share the blame for not being able to take care of our daughter.

Emilio paused and swallowed some saliva before continuing. We neither want her to stay unmarried nor marry an old man like me, which is what will likely happen if we delay.

"Itakum asma? (Have you heard?)" He ended with the aura of authority that only he carried.

"Ai, Tamam, Kweis, Ongida, Oyyu," the men chorused, depending on what each was used to.

When the emissaries sent to Okuye’s family visited, the young soldier was completely willing to marry Idwa. Of course, he knew that judging by his background, character, and means, he couldn’t have been able to afford the dowry of a girl of Idwa’s beauty and decent background.

Idwa remembered the frustration and pain of having to live with the man she never liked, the man who denied her the opportunity of getting the education she so much desired, the man that molested, violated, and raped her. She most probably would have been as far away as possible, with the situations and hard times that had characterized her life with her children, just like her stepbrothers and sisters who were living in different parts of the world with their families. Even her direct sister, Ihiju, was able to fly her family to safety.

It was Okuye who took Idwa to his hometown, Ifotu, from Kitgum, when the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement/Army (SPLM/A) were at the peak of their rebellion. It was there that Idwa gave birth to her identical twin daughters, Iholong and Ihure. He eventually took them to the Adjumani refugee camp in Uganda again, when Torit fell and was taken over by the government army, and Ifotu received a lot of bombardments.

When Okuye was killed by gun shots, a few years after marrying his wife, Idwa had to face another storm. Culturally, she was passed on to Otim, who was Okuye’s only surviving brother. Otim was a few years younger than Idwa and had nothing to do to support the family. Idwa became the sole provider of her family from that moment. She had to accept and live with all that, it was their culture, their way of life, after all.

Idwa looked toughened by her life experience. She thought of the sons she had lost. Their father was the first to be killed. Even though she never loved him, nor did they have much connection, except that they had lived together for about fourteen years before his death, she still mourned his death. He was the father of her children.

She was angry when she recalled her experience living with him as a husband. He only came to her when he needed sex and left as soon as he got his satisfaction. A senseless culture, where a nonentity can have as many women, simply because his brothers have paid the bride price, she muttered. She remembered her daughters. Ihure was violated right before her. She was raped by the uniformed men. Soliloquizing in a murmur, she was asking questions that no one was there to answer. Why are they called just uniformed men? Is it because their identity is unknown and cannot be ascertained, or because none of the groups want to claim responsibility?

There were always counter accusations whenever atrocities were committed. The government would accuse the rebels and the rebels would accuse the government, and the poor ordinary people of South Sudan, who were the victims, were left to lick their wounds and suffer in between the blames. Her rising anger and pain turned into rage and she began crying.

Not by one man, not by two, but by a group of men, she screamed. Where is she now? Is she pregnant? How will she manage? Has she killed herself? She remembered the first of the identical twins, Iholong. Did they rape and kill her too, or did she survive? Her pains were so much and deeply seated in her heart. She started praying, asking God to keep them alive and protect them if they were still alive. Will they ever meet again and be reunited as one happy family? She knew that they might never meet again. She looked at her youngest daughter who was with her and wished it never happened.

She looked up and asked God questions, "Rabuuna, ita fi fogo hinaak? (God, are you up there?) Does it have to be like this again? What did we do wrong to deserve this? What have we done? Last year, we prayed for rain when famine and hunger raged. We killed our rain makers. This year we have the rains. We planted for a while, dropped our hoes and machetes, and picked up guns. When will this senseless war end? When will our children live in their homeland without wars, threats, violence, violations, and killings?" Part of her thought was an identical reflection of her eldest daughter’s thinking.

***

Chapter Five

Ihure was smiling to herself as she sat in front of her tent in the UN POC site for the internally displaced people (IDP). She was holding the book, Animal Farm, with a broom stick to mark the page she was reading. She looked at the little children playing and laughing aloud, their bodies so emaciated that one could easily count their ribs. The children were her pupils who were on recess after some hours of teaching. She had enrolled with a group that tried to give basic education to the children in the camp. She was in her final year in senior secondary school with her twin sister, when the recent war and violence broke out.

One of the boys named Taban, who was of the Nuer tribe, ran up to her. "Auntie! Auntie! Welid de gi shakila ana. (This boy is fighting me.)"

Ihure called out to the boy whose name was Wang, a Dinka boy, "Malu ita?"

The boy, who had his eye fixed on the ground, responded, My father told me that I only become a man if I’m able to kill a Nuer man.

Ihure was shocked to the marrow. When will this hatred end? She asked. Even supposed leaders are using this to fuel their political ambition. The more they divide us and tell us that we are enemies, the more we fight and clear the road to their ascendance to power. How did we get here?

She remembered how happily they lived in their family. They had three huts in their compound. One was for their father, which was later taken over by their uncle Otim whenever he came around. There was one for their mother and one for them, the children. She remembered how they swept the compound twice a day and made sure it was sparkling clean. She missed their waking up early to go to the stream to bathe, fetching water and hurrying home to get ready for school. By the time they got home, their mother, who desired, more than anything, to send her children to school, would have fixed breakfast of tea and esh (the locally made unleavened bread) for them, because they had to go for the morning Mass and shake the priest’s hands before going to school.

She recalled how they had grown to teenagers with lots of hopes. She remembered the dreams they had and shared. She thought of the priest who had encouraged them so much. Father Mukasa was their hero. He encouraged them to jettison early marriage from their mind and acquire education first. Through the association of the Pontifical Holy Childhood, which he started when he came, he was paying their school fees and giving them free lunch. Her eyes were wet when she thought about Fr. Mukasa. He was a very handsome man of an average height, about 5.7 feet. He was well built and had toned muscles. They used to work out with him at the Freedom Square on Saturday mornings. She just realized how much she missed him. She wondered whether he was still in Torit. She was convinced he was alive and safe. The priests were usually not the targets, except when they were caught up in exchange of fire.

"Our leaders! Our leaders! When will you give us peace? When will this war of personal interest and personal ego end, so that the common people of South Sudan will live and build their country peacefully? When shall we plant and reap without obstructions and distractions? When shall we go out and be sure to get home unharmed? When will our young men get old and die natural deaths and not by gun shots? When will our women stop living with the traumas of rape and sexual violation? When will our children eat well and have balanced growth and development?"

She was silent, looking at something far away, lost in her thought. "Huwo batal shedid. (It is very bad.)" She screamed, as she came back to herself.

As she watched the children play, the thought of how she ended up in the camp came to her. She still heard her mother’s voice calling out for her, "Ihure! Ita wen? (Ihure, where are you?) After the men in uniform killed her two immediate younger brothers and stepfather, they got her, her mother, and her 10-year-old youngest sister raped, beaten and violated. While the mother was still groaning, she had summoned some strength and went in search of her twin sister Iholong, who had run away. She actually thought they killed her too, but when she looked around and couldn’t find her nor her corpse, she started calling out, Mami! Where are you? Please, come out! Come here! Humon ruwa kalasu. (They have gone.) Ita wen? (Where are you?) Mami! Mami!" Tears flooded her eyes as she called out. She was checking around, entering the nearby compounds, some of which were already deserted. Others were picking the things they could gather, tying them in pieces of clothes or sacks, amidst the raging bullets and artillery shells. She stumbled over corpses that were either hit by bullets or hacked down with other weapons. As she kept calling and searching for her sister, the other women were also calling their children and pushing those with them ahead, as they ran for their lives. Older siblings were calling and dragging their brothers and sisters along. Some were on the phone talking and holding their breasts. The men who remained, all went into hiding and disappeared, since they were the immediate targets of the shooting.

When she returned from her vain search for her twin sister, the house was empty and quiet, except for the shootings some distance away. She entered each of the huts and discovered that the valuable things in the house were all gone: the television set and DVD player, the tables and chairs, their box of clothes, the foodstuffs. She became afraid when she didn’t see the mother and her younger sister. She called out to the mother, "Uma tai! Uma tai! Ana rijaa. (Mother! Mother! I have returned.) She looked around again, came outside and waited, hoping to see the mother or anybody at all. She looked at her two brothers and father still lying dead and wept bitterly. She knelt in between them and shook each of them, calling their names and wishing they would answer. She sat down for a while, crying. Otenyi! Ongejuk! She called each of them again. She got up and called out louder, with tears covering her face, Uma tai!" She felt dirty and uncomfortable in her body. She was no longer afraid of death. She was angry that Iholong did not come back for her.

Her friend Ifuho, who saw her crying and wailing as she was running away with her mother and siblings, went to her, embraced and raised her up. "Kalasu, Kalasu, (It’s enough, it’s enough,) she whispered in her ears, trying to console her. She raised her up and whispered in her ears again, Arakumtum."

Ihure asked with a very low tone, which betrayed how tired, exhausted, and traumatized she was, "Uma tai, Uma tai wen? (My mother, where is my mother?) Iholong, ita wen? Ita woduru wen? (Iholong, where are you, where have you disappeared to?) You left me alone here. She sobbed and looked around disappointedly. She looked again to the brothers and her stepfather lying dead and spoke to them, Malesh ya akwana tai wa abuuy, (Sorry, my brothers and father,) we couldn’t save you from dying and now we cannot even bury you well."

Ifuho added a little more force and pulled her up. Let’s hurry, maybe we will meet your mother and siblings on the way.

"Mna gi rowa wen? (Where are we going?)"

"Ana ma arufu, (I don’t know,) wherever the hands of fate take us." It was just then it dawned on her, that she was about to leave her home of many years without nothing. She went inside quickly and carried out the photo album that had fallen on the floor from its place on the wall cladding.

On their journey, she kept looking out for her sister, her mother, or any of her cousins. She kept asking everyone she knew if they saw her mother and showing their pictures to others who did not know them. When they got to the Ugandan soldiers who were evacuating their citizens, she showed them their family pictures, asking if they saw them. Many South Sudanese who could speak Baganda, because of their stay in Uganda during the twenty-one-year war, pretended to be Ugandans and were taken along with them. Her friend Ifuho was fluent in Baganda, just as her mother. Ifuho quickly joined the Ugandan evacuees in one of their trucks and called Ihure to join. When the Ugandan soldiers could not guarantee her that her mother and siblings joined any of the trucks they used for the evacuation, and after asking and checking around with their pictures at hand, she refused to join the truck, but with Ifuho’s pressure, she joined. When the soldiers were cross-checking, she was one of the very few singled out as South Sudanese and asked to vacate their spaces for the Ugandans. With eyes full of tears, she got out of the truck that she never wanted to enter with few others like her. Despite the risk, she joined other people as they made their way to an IDP camp located a bit outside the town. They had walked for a while before the peacekeeping troop escorted them.

***

Chapter Six

The family of Augustine Okuye Atari and his wife, Lugina Idwa Atari, was a considerably happy family. Although the beginning was difficult for Idwa because of the way her marriage was contracted, she grew to love her life and her marriage. The presence of Okuye sent a deep shock of fear to her spine, because of the way he violated her womanhood before marriage. Sex for her was never love making, but just sex; a mechanical process of procreation. However, she loved her children. They were, for her, the best any woman could desire. The girls were tall and beautiful with little gaps in between their upper incisors, which was considered the punctuation of beauty in Otuho culture. Her boys were handsome, intelligent and submissive. They all did well at school and were always at the church to pray and render their service to God. Though Idwa’s school was cut short by the rape and the eventual marriage to Okuye, she went back to school and struggled to finish her education up to senior secondary four. That was a confident level of education in a newly emerging country, South Sudan. This placed her at an advantage over so many women. She became a primary school teacher in Our Lady’s Primary School, owned by the Diocese of Torit. She also doubled as both a catechist and a women’s leader. With these, she was able to provide for and took care of her home. She hoped to fulfill the dream of making sure that all her children got good education. Even when, against her will, her husband’s younger brother inherited her as a wife after her husband’s death, she struggled to overcome or suppress her feelings. After all, she had never experienced the pleasure of sex, because she had always given herself to the men she wouldn’t have, if she had a choice. Culture and the circumstance of her growing up hugely decided her fate.

Idwa and her five children were one big, loving and happy family. People pointed to them as an exemplary family. Apart from her works as a teacher and a catechist, she had a herd of goats and sheep of her own and cultivated in her farms. There were always groundnuts and sorghum in her local silos all year round. Even when some people were omitting farming in a year following a proper and plentiful harvest, because of lack of storage facilities and market for them, Idwa always cultivated. She seemed to enjoy her harvest fresh.

Augustine Okuye, like many Otuho men of South Sudan, had a polygamous family. He had two other wives, Abuk who was a tall, beautiful ebony Dinka woman, and Eiyo, who was also beautiful but the shortest of the three. Okuye was said to have used all the proceeds of his life’s work to marry Abuk. The Dinkas who were the most populous tribe in South Sudan, were also the most revered. They saw themselves as the superior tribe and the natural leaders of South Sudan. The dowry of a Dinka girl was a herd of cattle. It was said that it took a whole village to marry a Dinka girl by a man of another tribe. It was only high ranking military men and very rich men who were able to afford it. Okuye married Abuk out of pride. He wanted to show his people that he was, then, one of the few Brigadier Generals from Otuho land, and to show the Dinkas that their ladies were not beyond what an Otuho man could afford. It was usually the Dinkas marrying Otuhos and some other tribes in the Equatoria region of Southern Sudan. Though Okuye loved Eiyo as his handbag and the youngest love, and adored Abuk because of her tribe and beauty, it was Idwa he revered and had the utmost respect for.

The wives, apart from knowing that they existed and were married to the same man, lived their separate lives with their children. They also lived far away from each other. Idwa was shuttling between Torit, where she taught, and Ifotu, their village. When the School was in session, they stayed more in Torit so that they could have easy access to school. During the holidays they stayed in Ifotu. Abuk was based in Juba with her children. She worked with the finance department of the SPLA in BILFAM. Eiyo stayed in Nimule, the border town between South Sudan and Uganda. Okuye visited each of the wives occasionally in turns, since he had to share his limited time between the wives.

When he married Idwa, it was simply the culture prevailing over the wish and life of the woman. Idwa was a beautiful girl. She was the tallest around, of the girls in her age bracket, and had the best body. She had fine black eyes and one-sided facial dimple on the left cheek. She had sparkling white, but small-sized dentition, with a tiny gap at the center of the upper incisors, which was seen as the punctuation of a woman’s beauty. Her hair was full and long, and lips, full. Her facial formation made her appear to be always smiling. Her legs were long and a little bowed from the knees to the ankle, like that of a supermodel. She had a shiny black complexion. At the age of thirteen, her shape and cleavage, though not too prominent, were already beginning to show. She was an excellent dancer with an angelic voice to match. She had that personality that stood her out among her peers. She radiated an aura of pride and confidence, with a good brain to garnish it. Her mother, Natinga, had only her and her younger sister Ihiju. She was given birth to in the garden, thus the name Idwa, which meant garden in Otuho language. Her mother did not have a male child, leaving them apples of their mother’s eye.

Idwa’s father, Afore, eventually had three other wives and twenty other children. Among the other ten girls, Idwa stood out as the epitome of beauty and grace. She was looked upon as the one who would bring in a huge dowry for the family. The father loved her mother Natinga very much for giving him such a beautiful daughter. Afore was ready to give her a considerable education to heighten her dowry. Otuho culture considered early marriage as advantageous for the girl, because she would still be fertile and the children produced from such marriages healthy with high immunity. However, they also considered basic education given to