Alweel’s smile shone and her voice chirped Arabic as she told her story deliberately and in deep detail. We took breaks for chocolate and tea after difficult episodes. It took two days for her to unfurl all of her experiences, reaching back to the village in South Sudan where she was born, to the Nile in Khartoum and then, years later, following the river north to Cairo. Listening to her speak, it was difficult to comprehend how this beautiful, gracious, intelligent woman had undertaken such a journey. But Alweel remains luminous.
I can close my eyes and paint a picture of Mulmul, the village where I was born. I can see houses made of straw and children playing on the way home from school. I remember how much I loved school – I was an excellent student and my teachers loved me. I loved math and English the most, and I can picture the English books. I would read the English words out loud, even if I didn’t understand their meanings.
I remember playing with my dolls. I put a cloth on a brick to make a bed for the doll. Some of my cousins were lazy, but I was always helping in the house, washig and carrying things for my mother when she would take her cooked foods to the market. I can hear myself singing all day long, dreaming of being a famous artist and celebrity.
I remember my large family, my parents, my two brothers and five sisters, my aunts and uncles. My two parents were Muslims, but the town was Christian. When we were growing up, my friends would go to church and I would go with them. I would go every day, and they would tell us stories about Jesus and the crucifixion. I used to have my cross to wear, and we used to pray before meals. My father was a very democratic man. He used to say it’s a choice, and you choose your belief, and everyone should go with what his heart believes. I believe that God exists and he loves me. I like the story of the crucifixion. Everyone was standing around Jesus waiting for something to happen, and he said, “Please, Father, forgive them, because they don’t know what they are doing.”
My father was big and tall, but he was a kind man who would laugh and play with us so much. He would solve people’s problems. I don’t remember much else about him. My mother was always a very sweet person who took good care of her children.
I remember that there was a cat in the village named Endewah, and I used to get upset when the children would tell me that my eyes looked like a cat’s eyes and call me Endewah. I used to cry every time! But I would go to my mother and she would help me. She would remind me, “No, you are not Endeway, you are Alweel.”
SOMEWHERE ELSE
I lost my parents in 1985, on the day when people came to our village and burned it. My father and uncle died that day, and I lost my mother.
I was only ten years old, so I didn’t know anything about a war. One evening, armed men came to our village to catch certain people. They attacked our home, tied up my father, and threw him to the ground. I saw him get killed. My uncle was killed after my father, and then my aunt threw herself on my uncle’s body and they killed her, too. There was so much blood everywhere, and I was so scared. My mother used to tell me to become a doctor, and I hated the thought because I couldn’t deal with blood like a doctor should. But when I saw my father get killed and I saw all his blood, I couldn’t think about anything else except blood.
My mother was far away from home, at the market in Abyei. They took me and my two brothers, Farid and Deng. They put us in a Land Rover car and inside were other children I had never seen before. They told us that the one who runs awa will be shot. They drove for an hour or so. They took us to a faraway place with tents and houses made out of hay and with lots of other kids. It was a camp where they kept many cattle and many children. There were policemen in charge of the place. They wore uniforms and called themselves officer and sergeant.
They made us herd sheep and small cows. When they took me to the cattle, I asked, “Where are those other children running?”
The man said, “They are running to go to school.” I did not believe him. Of course not. These men had killed my father. I knew at that time I was not safe.
At night they put us in a big tent so full of children. They served us very bad food and gave us blankets like the ones from relief workers. They separated me from my brothers. I had no idea where my mother or my sisters were.
I stayed like that for maybe ten days. Then a cow stepped on my foot, and it started swelling; then I wasn’t walking, I was limping. We had to walk early in the morning and come back at night with the cattle. There was no medication for me, and I showed them my swollen foot and they didn’t do anything. They pushed me to the floor. I found a couple of stones, a small pile of hay, and salt, and a small pot of water. I heated the water and the salt, and I started putting the water and the salt on my foot. In a couple of days it became better. I had learned this from my mom. I saw her doing this.
When my foot healed, I ran away. There was a family traveling with their camels; I saw thm, and I walked up behind them. They were riding their camels and I was walking on foot, but when I came close, they knew there was a child behind them. The man saw me, and I told him my story and he was kind to me. He took me to his children, and they gave me milk and food and my stomach felt so good. I remember the son’s name was Almer, because he was so nice to me and so cute, and didn’t make me feel like a stranger. They took me to the city of Abyei.
The sultans in town – the local leaders – told me that they knew my story and they knew about the people who died in my area and about my father. They knew stories about people being taken, like me. I told them I wanted to go somewhere else. They put me in a truck and gave me money in case of trouble, and they gave me a letter to give to the church in El Obeid to the North. El Obeid was the biggest place I knew, so I went there. I was trying to find my mom.
The truck drove for many hours. I wasn’t afraid of those I was traveling with in the truck. I was afraid of the people who attacked me before. I was afraid they would come and take me again.
I went to the church and there was a missionary and a priest; I talked to the priest and I talked to the missionary and told them my story. They listened to me. They gave me two choices – either they would send me to Khartoum or take me to school here. At the time, I did not know what a “Khartoum” is. We had it in the books, but I didn’t know what it is, so I asked. They said it’s a big, big city. They have many churches and organizations, and there are many priests there and it’s a bigger city than here. I chose Khartoum.
