but we had come to understand that they were necessary.
When at last each unit had completed eighteen houses, arranged in a circle around a kitchen, as well as a teachers’ house near the storeroom, we were told to build ourselves two classrooms. Units competed feverishly to finish ahead of one another, as the first school to open would receive the pick of the new equipment and materials delivered by the UNHCR. We were kept running all day as by now we had to walk long distances to find suitable grass, and often left at dawn in order to be back before the sun and thirst would affect us too severely. Soon our enthusiasm was waning. Some of us were simply too exhausted to continue working. Boys who performed other jobs refused to fetch water as well. I was part of it all. Lugging jerry cans of water was hard work and the older boys who accompanied us wouldn’t let us rest along the way. Instead, they would beat those who were slow or reluctant; they pushed us on until we were too tired to care.
Finally, the school buildings were completed. Visitors expressed their amazement that such fine sleeping quarters and classrooms could have been built by the boys themselves.
When school resumed, we were all put in Grade 1. This time there were exercise books and pencils for all, and we could once again practise our As and Bs. After school we still had chores to do, but we were also allowed to play games like football with balls we made from rags and plastic bags tied together.
In the evenings we would go to bed covered in dust – such was the life of kids who had no mothers to make them go down to the river to wash.
One of the lessons we were taught was a grim one. We were excited when all the boys were ordered to gather in the camp one day. Something important was going to happen. There were SPLA soldiers everywhere; their commanders looking very impressive in their smart uniforms. They had brought loudspeakers and tied them to the branches of trees. We sat in our units, waiting. Then six men were led past us. I was sitting too far back to actually see the firing squad, but I heard the shots. And I heard the gruff voice coming from the loudspeakers: “Let this be a lesson to you!”
Later we learned that two of the men had been executed for stealing guns and ammunition to sell to the bandits. Two others had apparently been accused of raping a mother and daughter in Panyido. They deserved death, we told one another. Until a week later, when a cloud mysteriously appeared – in the middle of the dry season. There was a single flash of lightning. It struck the hut in which the mother and daughter were sheltering. The hut caught fire but the two women survived.
I recall the good times we had too, times I always associate with one boy, Cyer Maror. He was older than me, tall and thin; a funny, sociable boy who, after supper, used to entertain us with jokes and impersonations. He made us laugh at ourselves. His stutter was never seen as a handicap. In fact, it made him rather unique.
Then the market came! Near our camp some Ethiopians had set up stalls – the first we had ever seen and a great temptation to young and old. The boys were soon loitering in every corner, gazing at the food and the great variety of articles for sale or running off with a titbit they had snatched. The traders introduced us to their traditional dish, endjira – a large rice pancake served with a variety of spicy meat and vegetable dishes. You tore off a piece of pancake, gathered up some of the fragrant filling, shaped it into a little bundle and put it into your mouth. The main attraction, however, was the fried maize-meal cakes. They were crisp and tasty, and the traders were willing to exchange them for sickles or axes from the camp, or the blankets, soap, cooking utensils and cooking oil we were regularly issued with. The minors’ camp was raided for articles we could barter. It was turned upside down. School was forgotten.
When the teachers realised what was going on they instructed one hundred and fifty boys from each unit to patrol the footpaths leading to the market, and threatened to punish any boy caught near it. I knew this, but one day when I saw a group of older boys returning from the market, chewing what they called alawa-luban (bubble gum) and smoking cigarettes, I could no longer resist the temptation. I managed to sneak past the monitors unnoticed, clutching the bar of soap I had been given for washing my shirt and shorts. An Ethiopian trader saw me crossing the dusty road, grabbed me and pulled me into a gap between two stalls. He took my soap and pressed two silver coins into my hand. I had never seen money before, but I took the coins and ran to the stall opposite his. Before I could explain to the shopkeeper what I wanted, though, the security boys appeared, confiscated my money and took me to a tree where I joined a group of captives who looked as miserable as I felt. And so we returned to the minors’ camp – and to the detention centre behind the area occupied by Group 6 – each boy holding on to the shirt of the one ahead.
As punishment we spent a night and day without food before we were all given ten lashes with a stick and released. I never attempted to visit the market again.
Chapter 6
It was in Panyido that the animists among us – I was one of them – first came into contact with Christianity. Those in the camp who knew about Jesus started sharing their faith with those who did not. There were two denominations: Roman Catholic and Protestant. Each group marked out a chapel under the trees and brought benches for their parishioners to sit on. From the start the Protestants – with their singing – drew the larger number of followers, although the Catholics – who established a clinic to provide for the sick and injured – were also popular.
Prayer soon became an everyday way of speaking to God, of communicating to Him our sorrow and the suffering of our fatherland. Sunday services were well attended, by both those who had already committed to Christianity and those who had not. I chose to attend the Sunday prayers held by the Catholics, but did not join the catechism class.
In 1990 a baptism was organised by the Protestants. When the fateful day arrived a great number of boys gathered under the trees, singing the rousing songs they had been taught in the Dinka language to celebrate the occasion. I could not stay away – I had to go and see.
I was watching from a distance with some others when the boys were lined up under the trees. While the boys who were to be baptised were being organised, prayers were conducted by the pastors. I was fascinated and longed to be part of it. Eventually – the queue was long and moved slowly – I went up to one of the organisers and asked him if I could also be baptised. “I’ll have to find out for you,” he replied. “These boys have already completed their catechism.”
He went off to speak to some higher authority, then returned to announce that, as there wouldn’t be another baptism anytime soon, anyone who wished to be baptised that day was welcome to attend the ceremony. We could attend catechism classes afterwards, he told us. I was delighted and quickly joined the line to register.
At last it was my turn. “What’s your name?” a man asked me.
“Aher Arop,” I said.
“I mean your Christian name. A name like Abraham or Daniel or Jacob.”
“Oh, I want to be Santo,” I told him.
“No, sorry. Santo isn’t a Protestant name,” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t be Santo.”
“If I can’t be Santo, I don’t want to be baptised,” I replied.
“Look, here’s a list of names.” He read some out to me. “Just choose one of these.”
But I was adamant, and, eventually, he relented. “All right, then, you can be Santino,” he said, writing the name on a small piece of paper so that I would never forget it.
And so it came to pass that I was baptised Santino.
But who was I, actually?
