uncle Atem survived too – the uncle who had carried me all the way to the camp. He took responsibility for me and made rules I was not allowed to break. “When you are very thirsty,” he cautioned, “don’t drink more than a small mouthful when we get to water.”
He told me to drink water only when he would provide it – usually three times a day: in the morning, the afternoon and the evening. I was not allowed to drink the water our neighbours kept offering me, as he feared it might be polluted. Our water he filtered through his shirt – to trap the silvery dust in it – before storing it in a jerry can. Every morning he would ask me if I needed a drink, and then, as we had no cup, he would tilt the can for me to drink from. When food was scarce, he would forbid me to drink too much water until he had found me something to eat, and after I had eaten some maize, he would only ever allow me one sip. I used to complain, to cry out for my absent mother, but to no avail.
My uncle was also always careful when portioning out the maize. He’d give me a few kernels at a time, saving the rest for later. Often he would go without food himself, so that there would be some left for me the next day. Still, I kept whining about how hungry and thirsty I was. It was only when I was older, and had explored the surrounding countryside myself, and met the local people, that I realised how far my uncle must have walked to find villagers who would still be willing to part with a little maize, and how much effort must have gone into boiling or roasting the kernels for me. And when I saw so many die after eating too much dry maize, or drinking water with that silvery film on it, I understood that my uncle had saved my life.
Every evening, when it was a little cooler, Uncle Atem would take me and my cousins, Dut and Yaac, down to the river. We would go upstream, to avoid the crowds – the swimmers and the sick – and the pollution. I still remember how clear the water was – when you stood in it up to your waist you could see your toes and the silvery dust sparkling like diamonds on the sand below.
“Be careful!” my uncle told Dut and Yaac. “You don’t want to disturb the water when you fill the jerry can. It’ll cause that silvery stuff to rise.”
I remember how he used to wash me, and, back at the camp, cover me with a sack – the only one we had – when he put me to bed.
Chapter 3
The tractors continued their daily deliveries, but it was not enough to feed everyone in Panyido, and men, women and children continued to die every day, every hour of every day. I remember the hungry and the sick wailing in agony, crying out the names of family members who had been lost in the war, or who had died of starvation in the camp. One old man kept saying that he wished that he had died before the war had started. He begged God to take him away so that he would no longer see others suffering. Later that same day I heard people talking about his death. “He willed it,” they said.
The tractors brought no peace to the camp. Day or night you would hear people crying out in pain until they fell asleep or died, and then another would take up the lament. In the middle of the night the dead would be collected so that the next day the bodies could be taken to the forest to be buried in a shallow grave, but despite this the stench of rotting bodies was everywhere.
It was hard for relatives to help the sick. Many were so weak that you tried in vain to understand what they were saying. Starving relatives could only hold the shrivelled hands of the dying and listen to their mumbling. These people understood that the war had caused their suffering, and that they were unlikely to survive. They accepted it.
Then one night something remarkable happened. Above the mournful moans of the dying I suddenly heard the sound of applause. People were clapping their hands and laughing! I saw a dying man rise to his knees to clap his hands, then another.
“What is it all about?” someone asked.
“I don’t know,” someone else replied. “Where did it start?”
It may have been a story someone told. Perhaps a conversation some neighbours overheard. Whatever it was, that night the camp was a wonderfully joyous place and we all thanked God for letting us share in such happiness.
At noon, three days after this incident, we were amazed to see a truck arriving instead of the tractor. It could carry a much greater load and it returned three times each day. We were still hungry, but no longer starving.
The survivors recovered slowly. The leaders of the different communities now started organising themselves. They would wait for the trucks to come, receive the food and then distribute it to the people – making sure that the ones who were not strong enough to compete for their share also had enough to eat.
Then one day a party of Ethiopian relief workers in two Land Cruisers paid us an unexpected visit. They were visibly shocked at what they saw – the conditions such a large number of people were living in; the hunger and the suffering. But apart from giving the little food they had with them to some particularly hungry-looking individuals there was little they could do that day. They left without comment, but the next day a convoy of seventeen long vehicles came, laden with all kinds of food.
Life was good again! As the first drivers made their way through the throng and found a place to park, people pressed forward to open the containers. There were all kinds of tinned foods and fruit! Mangoes! Even peanuts! But as hundreds of hungry men jumped onto the trucks, the feeble were once again pulled down and some were crushed.
Later, men, women and children who had been starving died of feasting. Many didn’t realise that eating too much after a long period of starvation could result in severe stomach disorders, even death. In addition, eating causes thirst, and in their excitement some disregarded the threat of cholera. Again, it was my uncle who saved me and my cousins. He had often advised us about life in the camp: “God Himself will send us supplies,” he used to say, “but we have to be responsible. God helps those who help themselves.”
He would even tie me up whenever he had to leave the camp, with strict instructions that my cousins should not allow me to eat anything while he was away. They took their duty seriously and I had to beg very convincingly before they would allow me even a sip of water.
Once there was enough food, the relief workers turned their attention to the question of hygiene. They established three clinics. Spaces were cleared under some big trees and the sick and malnourished who had no one to care for them were carried into the shade. Two containers of food had been reserved for them, and these were now opened. Special cooks were appointed.
At last there was ample food for the sick but, sadly, too few helpers to feed them, or to attend to their other needs. Abandoned, they lay in rows like firewood; the living among the dead. Burials were organised by a division of soldiers whose camp had been set up not far from ours. They would appear every morning, collect the able-bodied men and make them remove and bury the bodies – two men to a body. This was not a task they carried out willingly, but it had to be done, the soldiers insisted, for the sake of hygiene.
The relief workers were doing their best to improve our lot, though none of them stayed in the camp with us. Convoys kept coming. There was maize in abundance. But cholera and other diseases were still taking their toll. A large number of huge white tents were supplied to the clinics, but only a few were ever erected as it was not the rainy season when they were delivered, and the shade of the trees was deemed sufficient protection.
The constant supply of food and the good relations between us and the Ethiopians now enabled the elders to make arrangements for the large number of orphans and children who had become separated from their parents when their villages had been attacked. They decided to separate all unaccompanied children from the rest of the refugees so that they might be protected and cared for until the fortunate among them could be
