Jal Emmanuel - War child: a child soldiers story

WAR CHILD

ST. MARTINS PRESS NEW YORK

WAR CHILD. Copyright 2009 by Emmanuel Jal and Megan Lloyd Davies. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jal, Emmanuel.

War Child : a child soldiers story / Emmanuel Jal and Megan Lloyd Davies.1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-38322-0

ISBN-10: 0-312-38322-3

1. Jal EmmanuelChildhood and youth. 2. Child soldiersSudanBiography. 3. SudanHistoryCivil War, 19832005Personal narratives. 4. SudanHistoryCivil War, 19832005ChildrenBiography. 5. SudanHistoryCivil War, 19832005RefugeesBiography. 6. Rap musiciansBiography. 7. Political activitiesBiography. I Davies, Megan Lloyd. II. Title.

DT157.672.J35 2009

962.4043dc22

[B]

2008028967

First Edition: February 2009

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

I was a child of war, born in a land without books and writing, a land where history was carried on your mothers tongue and in the songs of your village, a land swallowed up by war even as I uttered my first cry. And so, even the date of my birth was lost when my world was lost to me, just as the names of some of the people whose lives were entwined with mine were. I have given them new ones.

Like other Lost Boys of Sudan, I took the birth date of January 1, 1980, as an adult and have used it for the ages contained in this book. I cannot be sure exactly how old I was nor for how long I was in certain places or exactly when. But I can remember pointers: I was so small, my gun was taller than me; I saw the wet and dry seasons many times when I lived in a refugee camp. The exact dates this book contains are those of events written down in history books, but most of the everyday violence of war never makes it into books, and this one is not meant to be a history of a country to be read by scholars. It is the story of one boy, his memories, and what he witnessed.

WAR CHILD

T HE ROAR OFthe crowd fills my earslike the roar of lions, the roar of a river you know you may plunge into and never escape, the roar of a gun as it sends bullets shrieking through the air. Blood leaps in my veins as I wait in the wings and look out at the audience. Far into the distance, faces are turned toward the stage, and beyond them I can see the hills of Cornwall.

And now we are pleased to welcome Sudanese rap star Emmanuel Jal to the main stage at Live 8, Eden Project, a voice booms out.

I step onto the stage and my legs begin to shake as excitement fills me. I can see faces smiling and hands waving in expectation. The crowd is waiting. Fear explodes inside me and my chest tightens just as it always does when my feelings run too strong. I feel sure I will not be able to sing a note. My breath is dying inside me as I stare ahead.

But suddenly time stands still. The lights, the noise, the colors, bleed into nothing and the faces melt away. I am a child again.

God will look after us, my mother is whispering as we lie under a bed.

She is holding on to my two brothers, two sisters, and me as we hide from a war being waged outside our hut. In the peaceful village we once knew, rockets blow apart houses with families inside, women are raped, and children are murdered. It is genocide and my people are its victims.

I cling to my mother as the sounds of bullets and screams fill my ears.

Hush, little makuath, she says softly, and I breathe in the smell of milk, which clings to her skin. Hush, little darling.

I pull closer to her and listen as she speaks again. Beside me my brothers, Miri and Marna, and sisters, Nyakouth and Nyaruach, move closer too.

One day we will be in a better place, my mother tells us, and we believe her.

But soon I will come to learn that even a mothers fierce love will not protect me. War will rip her away, convince my father to give up his seven-year-old son, and pull me into its bloody heart as I am given a gun taller than I am and told to fight. I will not be alone. I will be one of thousands they come to call the Lost Boys of Sudan.

Yet I will also be lucky. I will escape hell, survive, and learn how to transform the war still raging inside me long after the battlefields have fallen silent.

Staring up, the stage lights blaze white into my eyes as I move toward the microphone. It is time for me to tell my story using the music and lyrics that are my weapons now I have laid down guns and machetes forever. The crowd calms as I stand still. I think of my mother and the songs we once sang in a village far away. For a moment I speak to her.

Now we are in a better place, I say silently.

I start to sing.

M Y STOMACH FELT empty as the truck crawled along. Wed been traveling since sunrise on a dusty road, and I wanted a taste of the tahnia hidden in a box beside me. The sugary paste made of sesame was my favorite to eat with kisra bread. I looked down.

Jal, my mother said with a smile. You must wait until we stop and then we will eat.

Yes, Mamma, I replied.

I looked up at the sky. I wished it were night again and the blackness was filled with fat silver stars and the shining moon. Each night when we lay down on the ground beside the truck to sleep, my older sister, Nyakouth, and I would search for pictures above or listen to the stories Mamma told us as she fed our younger sister, Nyaruach, and baby brothers, Marna and Miri.

To night we know the fox is on duty in the sky because there are so many stars, Mamma said. Thats because the stars are like cowsthe big fat ones are bulls and the smaller ones are their babies. They are safe when the fox is looking after them because he doesnt eat them.

But on nights when there are fewer stars in the sky, then we know the hyena is on duty and he has eaten all the cows.

I looked up at the sky again. I was glad the fox was on duty.

But today there was nothing to see except the sun above and the savanna grass rushing past. Wed left our home a few days before in a convoy of trucks and were going to stay with our grandmother in the south. My aunt Nyagai, who lived with us, was also on the truck, and my grandmother had sent our uncle John to take us to her. I hadnt met him before but was happy when he told us that wed soon see our father. I hadnt seen Babba for a long time.

Youll grow big and strong with your grandmother, Uncle John said. Maybe youll even be able to wrestle lions and one day become a warrior.

I shivered when he told me that. I longed to grow as big as my father.

I stared down again at the box beside me. How long would it be before we stopped to eat? Looking up, I saw staring at me the eyes of one of four men whod also bought places on the truck. I felt strange. He and his friends were Arabs. I knew that because they looked different to ustheir skin was lighter and they wore white scarves on their headsand they were also Muslim, whereas we went to a Christian church. I also knew they didnt like being on the truck with us. The man looked at me angrily whenever my eyes met his, and his friends spoke softly to each other as they stared at us while the truck crawled along the roads to the south. We had to go slowly in case we were attacked by the Sudan Peoples Liberation Armyrebels who ate people and stole children. They had killed many Arabs and government troops.