I led Dut and Daniel into the kitchen. I introduced them to my kids before the children left to go play. The four of us settled in at our kitchen table. I returned thanks for our meal. Dut was quite comfortable with me praying I noticed.
"So how do you and Daniel know each other?", I asked.
Dut explained how he and Daniel been roommates the previous summer in Richmond. Daniel worked as a volunteer for an organization that helps with refugee resettlement. Daniel decided he wanted to live in the community of refugees he would be helping. He, Dut and another Sudanese man shared a house together. Daniel, who is gifted in languages, had even learned to speak a little of Dut's Sudanese dialect. I tried a few words out myself. Dut said I did okay.
"So tell me your story", I inquired, as I plunged my fork into my spaghetti.
Dut smiled. "It is a long story", he laughed. "That is okay", I smiled, "I want to learn the story of the lost boys".
Dut nodded and started in. He has a distinctive, low voice. It is the kind of voice that draws you in. I leaned forward on my seat and listened intently.
"I am from the Dinka tribe", Dut said. "I was born and lived in the southern part of Sudan."
I glanced over at a map of the world we had nearby. I focused in on Sudan. It is an enormous country. I never really considered how much larger it is than it neighbors ... Ethiopia, Kenya and Uganda.
"In 1986, our village was raided. I was nine years old. My brother was eleven. My father, like many of the men from the village, was gone fighting in the civil war. My mother told us to flee into the countryside. If we had been captured, we would have been taken as slaves and eventually killed ... probably when we turned fifteen."
Dut tried to explain the dynamics of the civil war taking place in his country. It was terribly confusing and I had trouble following. Basically, the Islamic government in the north holds the power. They subdued the southern part of the country through intimidation by using militia thugs. Dut's village were mostly cattle farmers. The raiders would typically come into villages like his and steal cattle, take slaves and murder anyone who resisted. The government turned a blind eye. In addition, to get an education in Sudan and access to public services, Dut explained, you had to convert to Islam. If you did not convert, you suffered the consequences. Dut's tribe was neither Muslim nor Christian. They were easy targets.
"My brother and I went into the countryside, thinking we would go back the next day. But, we could not. We had to keep running. The militia keep going from village to village. They burned villages. We felt they were chasing us. We just kept running."
Dut and his eleven year old brother fled from village to village, begging for food. The surge of refugee boys grew. Dut was not sure how many boys there were, but the numbers grew. The older boys in the group, probably fourteen and fifteen year olds, became the leaders. Some of them knew a little bit about geography, and decided to flee for freedom east toward Ethiopia. Languages were a problem. There are many dialects spoken in Sudan. Dut spoke a little Arabic plus his own dialect, but he had difficulty understanding boys from other tribes.
My wife I were spellbound at this point. We hung on every word.
A new threat, more dangerous than the militia, emerged as they journeyed toward Ethiopia. Dut explained, "as we went out into the wild country, we encounted lions and leopards." He paused, and shook his head. "Lions would attack at night. Many boys died." Thankfully, he did not elaborate.
"Food and water were a problem. We would eat whatever we could find. If we found a dead animal, we would eat it ... even if it had been dead for days. It was dangerous, and some would get very sick. But we were starving and thirsty. I won't share with you what we had to do for drink. It was disgusting and some refused to do it ... and they died."
He just shook his head sadly. "Very sad", he repeated twice.
I was stunned. I tried to reflect back upon my childhood. What was I doing when I was nine? I can scarcely remember. Dut, however, had photographic images of his childhood. He could recall things in intricate detail.
The two brothers had one more dangerous peril to face. They had to cross rivers. They could both swim good enough to make it. Others, however, could not swim. Some perished by drowning and others were victims of crocodile attacks. I shuddered at the thought.
Dut and his brother survived. Their journey was six hundred miles on foot and took over three months. They crossed over into the Ethiopian countryside. They discovered many other Sudanese boys there … refugees, like themselves. Dut estimates that these war orphaned boys numbered over 10,000. They lived off the land as best they could, and huddled together for survival.
Disease took its toll. During that first year, Dut's brother, mentor, and father figure became ill. Dut recalls, "they took my brother and placed him over under a tree to die. That is what they would do when you became sick. There were no hospitals."
Dut recalls his brother's final words. "Be good. Have a good life and treat people with respect. Listen to those who are older than you." Dut took his brother's words to heart. Dut's brother died under the tree, like countless others before him.
I was surprised that Dut did not show more emotion. He was sad, but I could tell that he had been hardened by seeing so much death at such an early age.
I expressed my sorrow at his brother's death.
We quietly ate for a few moments. He and Daniel complimented my wife on her spaghetti sauce. Her homemade sauce was extra good that day.
I sensed that Dut wanted to go on with his amazing life story. I had a hundred questions to ask. I thought I would start with an easy one.
"What happened next?", I asked.