to the next group of marks. “Does this look like the first word?”
A chorus of voices shouted, “Yes.”
“Right. Now repeat after me: Wel-come, wel-come.”
“Wel-come, wel-come.”
After teaching them to say American congressman, the man said, “Now some time tomorrow the congressman from the United States of America will be here. When the men hold up this banner, we will all shout out the English words you have learned. Now go practice saying these words to each other: Welcome, welcome, American Congressman.”
The boy who seemed to know English turned to Ayuel and offered his hand, “My name’s Emmanuel Jal.”
Ayuel shook his hand and introduced himself. “Am I saying it right?” He repeated the words they had just learned.
“Almost. It’s like this.” The boy practiced with him a few times until a bunch of his friends came by. “See you later, Ayuel.”
The next day, Ayuel—as well as the whole camp—watched with curiosity as long metal poles with some boxes atop rose at the place where the trucks usually stopped. Late in the afternoon some extremely bright lights shone from the boxes. Like the sun, they were too bright to look at directly. Donayok put Ayuel up on his shoulders so he could tell the others what was going on.
“They’re setting up a shade for the congressman, sort of a shelter with four wooden poles and a roof. Now a whole line of vehicles is coming toward the lights,” he reported. “But only one is a truck. The others are low with tops on them. I see people inside.”
“They’re called cars,” Donayok said with a laugh. “I’ve seen them in Bor.”
“Well, there is one that is very, very long with lots of windows. It has little flags on each side and it’s black and shiny. They’ve stopped by the lights and the shelter now. Two men are getting out of the long one—the long car. They look very strange, wearing funny clothes with sleeves that come down to their hands. Their skin is pale, much lighter than any Arab.”
“They’re khawaja, white people,” someone said.
“Now what are they doing?” asked Madau and pulled eagerly on Ayuel’s foot that hung over Donayok’s shoulder.
“Someone is pointing something big—I don’t think it’s a gun—right at the two pale men, the khawaja.”
“That’s a TV camera,” an older boy from another group said. “They can make pictures that move with it.”
How can pictures move? That’s not possible.
“Some of our men are setting up a tall desk, like a church pulpit, under the shade.”
“Here comes the banner!” shouted Madau.
From his high perch on Donayok’s shoulders, Ayuel scanned the crowd for Emmanuel Jal, but never saw him.
As two men held up the banner, a man from the Ethiopian government jumped into the back of the truck with a microphone. Pointing to the banner, he began the chant: “Wel-come, wel-come!”
“Welcome, welcome! American Congressman,” yelled the crowd over and over, not so much to welcome the congressman, but to show off their new knowledge.
“Very good,” said the man at the microphone. “Okay, okay. That’s enough. We do heartily welcome the congressman who has come all the way from the United States of America to talk to you.” He handed the microphone to one of the white men and clapped enthusiastically along with the crowd. The government man said the name of the congressman but it sounded so strange that Ayuel and his friends couldn’t remember it.
“Let’s move over where we can see better,” suggested Gutthier. Ayuel slid down from Donayok’s shoulders, and they found a spot in the middle of the assembly. The crowd grew silent and sat down to hear what the man would say.
The congressman got out of the long car and stood under the shade behind the pulpit. He spoke a few words over the microphone in a strange language that Ayuel guessed was English like “welcome.” Then the Ethiopian man repeated them in Dinka, for that was what most in the camp spoke.
“Thank you for your very kind welcome,” the congressman said. “I am happy to be with you this evening. The government of the United States of America has heard of the terrible situation here, and I have come to see for myself. It is, indeed, worse than I ever imagined.” He took out a white cloth and wiped his face.
“I have let the United Nations know about you. Shortly they will send you food, clothing, soap, tents and blankets for cold nights.” The assembly of thousands roared with applause. “Then we will set up medical clinics and burial grounds. You will have schools and teachers.” More applause.
The congressman talked on for a very long time. Much of what he said Ayuel and his friends didn’t understand, but they understood what meant the most. Their lives were going to be better. The whole world would help them.
One week later, a convoy of trucks brought food and clothing. They brought shovels and machines to bury the dead. Ayuel made a rag ball from his torn and ragged T-shirt. It would be good for playing pitch. His new one had been worn by someone before and had words on it, but it smelled clean and felt soft against his dry skin. His new shorts wouldn’t stay up over his thin body so he tied a vine through the loops, but he kept his old mutkukalei on his feet. They had served him well.
Life became better. Aid workers from various countries came to help the sick. Men with razors came to shave off the children’s orange and brittle, lice-filled hair. More bags of clothing arrived, marked “U.S.A.”. Each group received a chunk of soap for bathing and washing out their cooking pots, containers for storing grain and a bucket for carrying water. Now, in addition to maize, the food rations included beans, oil, sorghum and wheat flour. In the wooded area near the river, the boys often found mangoes and other wild fruits.
A few days later the people were ordered to form several lines, each in front of an official of some kind. After standing long hours in the hot sun, Ayuel arrived in front of a man who squatted down to question him.
“What is your full name?” he asked. “And you are from which clan?”
“Ayuel Leek. Dinka, sir.”
“How old are you?”
“I think, sir, I am still seven.”
“Do you have a mother or father, sister or brother in Camp Panyido?”
“No, sir.”
“To your knowledge, do you know if anyone else in your immediate family is living?”
“I don’t know, sir. I hope so.”
“Name any half-brothers and sisters, cousins and any relatives that are here in camp.”
Ayuel mentioned every relative he’d met on the journey, including his uncle, the SPLA officer, even though he’d never found him in the camp. Of course, he mentioned Gutthier and Madau.
“Ever been to school?”
