Sometimes he felt he was being torn in two by the hoping and the not hoping.
One windy afternoon, Michael rushed over to Salva's tent.
"Salva! Come quickly! Your name is on the list today!"
Salva leapt to his feet and was running even before his friend had finished speaking. When he drew near the administration tent, he slowed down and tried to catch his breath.
He might be wrong. It might be another person named Salva. I won't look too soon.... From far away I might see a name that looks like mine, and I need to be sure.
Salva shouldered his way through the crowd until he was standing in front of the list. He raised his head slowly and began reading through the names.
There it was.
Salva Dut—Rochester, New York.
Salva was going to New York.
He was going to America!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Southern Sudan, 2009
Even though the water spraying out of the borehole was brown and muddy, some of the little boys wanted a drink right away. But their mother's held them back. The men kept on working with the drill. Their leader talked to Nya's uncle and father and some of the other village men.
Later, Dep explained things to her. "Don't worry!" he said. "The water is muddy because it is still mixed with the old water that they were using from the pond. They have to drill farther down, to make sure of getting deep enough into the good clean water underground. And then they have to put in the pipes, and make a foundation with the gravel, and then install the pump and pour cement around it. And the cement has to dry."
It would be several more days before they could drink the water, Dep said.
Nya sighed and picked up the big plastic can. Yet another walk to the pond.
Nairobi, Kenya–Rochester, New York, 1996
The Lost Boys.
That was what they were being called in America—the boys who had lost their homes and families because of the war and had wandered, lost, for weeks or months at a time before reaching the refugee camps.
The aid worker explained this to Salva and the eight other boys he would be traveling with. The woman spoke mostly English. Sometimes she said a word or two in Arabic, but she did not speak that language well. She tried her best to speak slowly, but she had many things to tell them, and Salva worried that he might misunderstand something important.
They rode in a truck from the Ifo refugee camp to a processing center in Nairobi, the capital city of Kenya. Endless forms had to be filled out. Their photos were taken. There was a medical examination. It was all a blur to Salva, for he was too excited to sleep, which made him too tired to grasp everything that was happening.
But there was one clear moment: when he was given new clothes. In the camp, he had worn an old pair of shorts and an even older T-shirt. He had taken as good care of them as he could, but there were holes in the shirt, and the waistband of the shorts was stretched out and threadbare. The camp workers handed out clothing whenever donations came in, but there were never enough clothes for those who needed them.
Now Salva's arms were piled high with new clothes. Underwear, socks, sneakers. A pair of long pants. A T-shirt and a long-sleeved shirt to wear on top of it. And he was to wear all these clothes at the same time!
"It's winter in America" the aid worker said.
"Winter?" Salva repeated.
"Yes. Very cold. You will be given more clothes in New York"
More clothes? Salva shook his head. How can I possibly wear any more clothes?
Salva could hardly believe his eyes when he boarded the plane in Nairobi. Every person had a seat, and they all had luggage, too. With all those people, hundreds of heavy padded chairs, and all those bags, how would the plane ever get off the ground?
Somehow it did—not like a bird lifting off lightly with a quick flapping of wings, but with shrieks and roars from the engines as the plane lumbered down the long runway, as if it had to try as hard as it could to get into the air.
Once the plane was safely aloft, Salva stared at the scene outside the small window. The world was so big, yet everything in it was so small! Huge forests and deserts became mere patches of green and brown. Cars crawled along the roads like ants in a line. And there were people down there, thousands of them, but he could not see a single one.
"Would you like a drink?"
Salva looked up at the woman in her neat uniform and shook his head to show that he did not understand. She smiled. "Coca-Cola? Orange juice?"
Coca-Cola! Long ago, Salva's father had once brought a few bottles of Coca-Cola back from his trip to the market. Salva's first taste had been startling—all those bubbles jumping around in his mouth! What a rare treat it had been.
"Coca-Cola, thank you" Salva said. And with each sip, he remembered his family passing the bottles from hand to hand, laughing at the tickly bubbles, sharing and laughing together....
The journey to Salva's new home required not one, not two, but three planes. The first plane flew from Nairobi to Frankfurt, in a country called Germany. It landed with an alarming thump, then braked so hard that Salva was thrown forward in his seat; the strap across his stomach caught him hard. He took a second plane from Frankfurt to New York City. It, too, landed abruptly, but this time Salva was ready, and he held tightly to the armrests.
In New York City, the aid worker led the boys to different gates. Some would be making the final leg of their trip alone, while others were in groups of two or three. Salva was the only one going to Rochester. The aid worker said that his new family would be waiting for him there.
On the plane to Rochester, most of the passengers were men traveling on their own. But there were some women, too, and a few families—mothers and fathers and children. Most of the people were white; beginning at the airport in Frankfurt, Salva had seen more white people in the last few hours than he had seen before in his whole lifetime.
He tried not to stare, but he couldn't help studying the families closely. Thoughts kept looping through his mind.
What if my new family isn't there? What if they have changed their minds? What if they meet me and don't like me?
Salva took a deep breath. A step at a time, he reminded himself. Just this flight to get through, for now....
The plane landed at last, its wheels screeching, while Salva gripped the armrests and braced himself for what was to come.
There they were, smiling and waving in the airport lobby—his new family! Chris, the father; Louise, the mother; and four children. Salva would have siblings, just as he had before. He felt his shoulders relax a little on seeing their eager smiles.
Salva said "Hello" and "Thank you" many times, for in his fatigue and confusion, these were the only words he felt sure about. He could not understand what anyone was saying, especially Louise, who spoke so quickly that at first he was not sure she was even speaking English.
And yes, they did have more clothes for him!—a big puffy jacket, a hat, a scarf, gloves. He put on the jacket and zipped it up. The sleeves were so bulky that he felt as if he couldn't move his arms properly. He wondered if he looked very foolish now, with his body and arms so fat and his legs so thin. But none of the family laughed at him, and he soon noticed that they were all wearing the same kind of jacket.
The glass doors of the airport terminal slid open. The frigid air hit Salva's face like a slap. Never had he felt such cold before! In the part of Africa where he had lived all his life, the temperature rarely dropped below seventy degrees.
When he inhaled, he thought his lungs would surely freeze solid and stop working. But all around him, people were still walking and talking and moving about. Apparently, it was possible to survive in such cold temperatures, and he now understood the need for the awkward padded jacket.
Salva stood still inside the terminal doors for a few moments. Leaving the airport felt like leaving his old life forever—Sudan, his village, his family....
Tears came to his eyes, perhaps from the cold air blow
ing in through the open doors. His new family was already outside; they turned and looked back at him.
Salva blinked away the tears and took his first step into a new life in America.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Southern Sudan, 2009
After the excitement of seeing that first spray of water, the villagers went back to work. Several men gathered in front of Nya's house. They had tools with them, hoes and spades and scythes.
Her father went out to meet them. The men walked together to a spot beyond the second big tree and began clearing the land.
Nya watched them for a few moments. Her father saw her and waved. She put the plastic can down and ran over to him.
"Papa, what are you doing?"
"Clearing the land here. Getting ready to build."
"To build what?"
Nya's father smiled. "Can't you guess?"
Rochester, New York, 1996–2003
Salva had been in Rochester for nearly a month and still had not seen a single dirt road. Unlike southern Sudan, it seemed that here in America every road was paved. At times, the cars whizzed by so fast, he was amazed that anyone on foot could cross safely. His new father, Chris, told him that dirt roads did exist out in the countryside, but there were none in Salva's new neighborhood.
All the buildings had electricity. There were white people everywhere. Snow fell from the sky for hours at a time and then stayed on the ground for days. Sometimes it would start to melt during the day, but before it all disappeared, more snow would fall. Salva's new mother, Louise, told him it would probably be April—three more months—before the snow went away completely.
The first several weeks of Salva's new life were so bewildering that he was grateful for his studies. His lessons, especially English, gave him something to concentrate on, a way to block out the confusion for an hour or two at a time.
His new family helped, too. All of them were kind to him, patiently explaining the millions of things he had to learn.
It had taken four days for Salva to travel from the Ifo refugee camp to his new home in New York. There were times when he could hardly believe he was still on the same planet.
***
Now that Salva was learning more than a few simple words, he found the English language quite confusing. Like the letters "o-u-g-h." Rough ... though ... fought ... through ... bough—the same letters were pronounced so many different ways! Or how a word had to be changed depending on the sentence. You said "chickens" when you meant the living birds that walked and squawked and laid eggs, but it was "chicken"—with no "s"—when it was on your plate ready to be eaten: "We're having chicken for dinner." That was correct, even if you had cooked a hundred chickens.
Sometimes he wondered if he would ever be able to speak and read English well. But slowly, with hours of hard work over the months and years, his English improved. Remembering Michael, Salva also joined a volleyball team. It was fun playing volleyball, just as it had been at the camp. Setting and spiking the ball were the same in any language.
Salva had been in Rochester for more than six years now. He was going to college and had decided to study business. He had a vague idea that he would like to return to Sudan someday, to help the people who lived there.
Sometimes that seemed like an impossible notion. In his homeland there was so much war and destruction, poverty, disease, and starvation—so many problems that had not been solved by governments, or rich people, or big aid organizations. What could he possibly do to help? Salva thought about this question a lot, but no answer came to him.
One evening at the end of a long day of study, Salva sat down at the family computer and opened his e-mail. He was surprised to see a message from a cousin of his—someone he barely knew. The cousin was working for a relief agency in Zimbabwe.
Salva clicked open the message. His eyes read the words, but at first his brain could not comprehend them.
"...United Nations clinic ... your father ... stomach surgery ..."
Salva read the words again and again. Then he jumped to his feet and ran through the house to find Chris and Louise.
"My father!" he shouted. "They have found my father!"
After several exchanges of e-mails, Salva learned that the cousin had not actually seen or spoken to his father. The clinic where his father was recovering was in a remote part of southern Sudan. There was no telephone or mail service—no way of communicating with the clinic staff. The staff kept lists of all the patients they treated. These lists were submitted to the United Nations' aid agencies. Salva's cousin worked for one of the agencies, and he had seen the name of Salva's father on a list.
Salva immediately began planning to travel to Sudan. But with the war still raging, it was very difficult to make the arrangements. He had to get permits, fill out dozens of forms, and organize plane flights and car transport in a region where there were no airports or roads.
Salva, and Chris and Louise as well, spent hours on the phone to various agencies and offices. It took not days or weeks but months before all the plans were in place. And there was no way to get a message to the hospital. At times, Salva felt almost frantic at the delays and frustrations. What if my father leaves the hospital without telling anyone where he is going? What if I get there too late? I will never be able to find him again....
At last, all the forms were filled out, and all the paperwork was in order. Salva flew in a jet to New York City, another one to Amsterdam, and a third to Kampala in Uganda. In Kampala, it took him two days to get through customs and immigration before he could board a smaller plane to go to Juba, in southern Sudan. Then he rode in a jeep on dusty dirt roads into the bush.
How familiar everything was and yet how different! The unpaved roads, the scrubby bushes and trees, the huts roofed with sticks bound together—everything was just as Salva remembered it, as if he had left only yesterday. At the same time, the memories of his life in Sudan were very distant. How could memories feel so close and so far away at the same time?
After many hours of jolting and bumping along the roads in the jeep—after nearly a week of exhausting travel—Salva entered the shanty that served as a recovery room at the makeshift hospital. A white woman stood to greet him.
"Hello" he said. "I am looking for a patient named Mawien Dut Ariik."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Southern Sudan, 2009
"What do you think we are building here?" Nya's father asked, smiling.
"A house? Nya guessed. "Or a barn?"
Her father shook his head. "Something better," he said. "A school."
Nya's eyes widened. The nearest school was half a day's walk from their home. Nya knew this because Dep had wanted to go there. But it was too far.
"A school?" she echoed.
"Yes," he replied. "With the well here, no one will have to go to the pond anymore. So all the children will be able to go to school."
Nya stared at her father. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. When at last she was able to speak, it was only in a whisper. "All the children, Papa? The girls, too?"
Her fathers smile grew broader. "Yes, Nya. Girls, too," he said. "Now, go and fetch water for us." And he returned to his work scything the long grass.
Nya went back and picked up the plastic can. She felt as if she were flying.
School! She would learn to read and write!
Sudan and Rochester, New York, 2003–2007
Salva stood at the foot of one of the beds in the crowded clinic.
"Hello"' he said.
"Hello"' the patient replied politely.
"I have come to visit you"' Salva said.
"To visit me?" The man frowned. "But who are you?"
"You are Mawien Dut Ariik, aren't you?"
"Yes, that is my name."
Salva smiled, his insides trembling. Even though his father looked older now, Salva had recognized him right away. But it was as if his eyes needed help from his ears—he needed to hear his father's words to believe he was real.
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"I am your son. I am Salva."
The man looked at Salva and shook his head. "No" he said. "It is not possible"
"Yes," Salva said. "It's me, Father." He moved to the side of the bed.
Mawien Dut reached out and touched the arm of this tall stranger beside him. "Salva?" he whispered. "Can it really be you?"
Salva waited. Mawien Dut stared for a long moment. Then he cried out, "Salva! My son, my son!"
His body shaking with sobs of joy, he reached up to hug Salva tightly.
It had been almost nineteen years since they had last seen each other.
Mawien Dut sprinkled water on his son's head, the Dinka way of blessing someone who was lost and is found again.
"Everyone was sure you were dead" Mawien Dut said. "The village wanted to kill a cow for you."
That was how Salva's people mourned the death of a loved one.
"I would not let them" his father said. "I never gave up hope that you were still alive somewhere"
"And ... and my mother?" Salva asked, barely daring to hope.
His father smiled. "She is back in the village"
Salva wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. "I must see her!"
But his father shook his head. "There is still war near Loun-Ariik, my son. If you went there, both sides would try to force you to fight with them. You must not go."
There was so much more to talk about. His father told Salva that his sisters were with his mother. But of his three brothers, only Ring had survived the war. Ariik, the oldest, and Kuol, the youngest, were both dead.
Little Kuol... Salva closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to picture his brothers through a haze of time and grief.