A Long Walk to Water (9 page)

Years before, when he was leading those boys on their walk from the Ethiopian refugee camp to the one in Kenya, he had called a meeting every morning and evening. The boys would line up facing him and he would talk to them about their plans.

All those eyes looking at him ... but every face interested in what he had to say. It was the same here. The audience had come to the school cafeteria because they wanted to hear him. Thinking of that made him feel a little better, and he spoke into the mike again.

"Hello" he repeated, and this time only his own voice came from the speakers. He smiled in relief and went on. "I am here to talk to you about a project for southern Sudan."

A year passed, then two ... then three. Salva spoke to hundreds of people—in churches, at civic organizations, in schools. Would he ever be able to turn his idea into reality? Whenever he found himself losing hope, Salva would take a deep breath and think of his uncle's words.

A
step at a time.

O
ne problem at a time—just figure out this one problem.

Day by day, solving one problem at a time, Salva moved toward his goal.

Nya waited her turn in line. She was holding a plastic bottle.

The well was finally finished. The gravel had been put down to make a foundation, the pump had been installed, and the cement had been poured and left to dry.

Before the pump was used for the first time, the villagers all gathered around. The leader of the workers brought out a big sign made of blue canvas. The canvas had writing on it. The writing was in English, but the leader spoke to Nya's uncle, and Uncle told everyone what the sign said.

"'In honor of Elm Street School,'" Uncle said. "This is the name of a school in America. The students at the school raised the money for this well to be dug."

Uncle held up one end of the sign. The workers' leader held up the other end. Everyone else stood around it, and one of the workers took their picture. The picture would be sent to the American school so that the students there could see the well and the people who were now using it.

Then the villagers all got in line to wait their turn for water from the new well.

When Nya reached the head of the line, she smiled shyly at her uncle, who paused in his work for a moment to smile back at her. Then he began moving the pump handle. Up and down, up and down...

A stream of water flowed from the mouth of the pump.

Nya held her bottle underneath the pump mouth. The bottle filled up quickly.

She stepped aside to let the next person fill a bottle. Then she drank.

The water was delicious. It wasn't warm or muddy, like the water from the pond. It was cool and clear.

Nya stopped drinking and held up the bottle so she could look at it. Funny that something without any color at all could look so nice.

She drank a few more sips, then glanced around.

Everyone had a bottle or a cup. They were drinking that lovely water, or waiting in line for more, or talking and laughing. It was a celebration.

An old granddad standing not far from Nya shook his head. In a loud voice, he said, "This is where we used to gather for our bonfire celebrations. I have been sitting on this ground my whole life. And all those years I never knew that I was sitting on top of this good water!"

Everyone around him laughed. Nya laughed, too.

In a few more days, the school would be finished. Nya and Dep and Akeer would all go to school, along with the other children. Next year there would be a marketplace where the villagers could sell and buy vegetables and chickens and other goods. There was even talk of a clinic someday—a medical clinic, so they wouldn't have to walk so far to get help, as they had to when Akeer was ill.

It was the well that was bringing the village all these good things.

But the well was not for their use alone. People would come from miles around to fetch the good clean water. Nya knew from listening to the grownups that the crew leader had made many arrangements concerning the well. No one was ever to be refused water. Some of the villagers would be responsible for maintaining the well. They would be busy with this new work, so the entire village was to help them with their crops and cattle. Other villagers, including Nya's uncle, would resolve any disputes that arose.

The well would change their lives in many ways.

I will never again have to walk to the pond for water,
Nya thought.

She wandered around a little, sipping at her cool, fresh drink. Then she caught sight of the crew leader. He was standing by himself, leaning against one of the trucks and watching her uncle work the pump.

Dep saw her looking at the man.

"That man, the boss of the workers," Dep said. "You know he is Dinka?"

Nya looked at Dep in astonishment.

The Dinka and the Nuer did not look very different physically. You had to look at the scar patterns on people's faces to tell the tribes apart—Dinka scar patterns were different from those of the Nuer.

But the crew leader had no scars on his face. Nya had heard some of the teenage boys talking about that—wondering why he had no scars when clearly he was a grown man. The leader's assistant was Nuer. So were most of the crew—they all had Nuer scars. Nya hadn't thought about it much, but she realized now she had always assumed that the leader was Nuer, too.

The Dinka and the Nuer were enemies—had been for hundreds of years.

"Why would a Dinka bring water to us?" she wondered aloud.

"I heard Uncle and Father talking about him," Dep said.

"He has drilled many wells for his own people. This year he decided to drill for the Nuer as well."

Dep had not really answered Nya's question.
He probably doesn't know the answer,
she thought. But now Nya felt there was something she had to do.

She walked over to where the man was standing. He didn't notice her at first, so she waited quietly.

Then he saw her. "Hello," he said.

Shyness flooded through Nya. For a moment, she didn't think she would be able to speak. She looked down at the ground, then at the stream of water still flowing from the pump mouth.

And she found her voice. "Thank you," she said, and looked up at him bravely. "Thank you for bringing the water."

The man smiled. "What is your name?" he asked.

"I am Nya."

"I am happy to meet you, Nya," he said. "My name is Salva."

This book is based on the true story of my life. I hope that because of the book more people will learn about the Lost Boys and the country of Sudan.

I was born in a small village called Loun-Ariik, in Tonj County, southern Sudan. And just as it says in the book, I stayed in refugee camps in Ethiopia and Kenya for many years before I came to America.

I am thankful to a great many people. The United Nations and the International Red Cross supported my life when I was in danger of starvation. The Moore family, St. Paul Episcopal Church, and the community of Rochester, New York, welcomed me to the United States. I am also grateful for the education I have received, especially at Monroe Community College.

And deepest gratitude to the people who have helped me with my project, Water for Sudan, Inc.—the schools, churches, civic organizations, and individuals all over the country. Special thanks to the Board of Water for Sudan, and to the Rotary Clubs that have worked closely with me. My dreams of helping the people back home in Sudan are beginning to come true.

I overcame all the difficult situations of my past because of the hope and perseverance that I had. I would have not made it without these two things. To young people, I would like to say: Stay calm when things are hard or not going right with you. You will get through it when you persevere instead of quitting. Quitting leads to much less happiness in life than perseverance and hope.

Salva Dut
Rochester, New York
2010

Some of the details in this story have been fictionalized, but the major events depicted are based on Salva's own experiences. I read his written accounts and interviewed him for many hours. I also read other books and accounts by and about Lost Boys. For Nya's part of the story, I was able to interview travelers who have seen the water wells being drilled in villages like hers; I also benefited from examining their video footage and photographs.

Known as the Second Sudanese Civil War, the conflict that is depicted in this book began in 1983. Many factions were involved and numerous changes in leadership took place over the duration of the war, but in essence, the opposing sides were the Muslim-dominated government in the north and the non-Muslim coalition in the south.

Millions of people were killed, imprisoned, tortured, kidnapped, or enslaved; millions more were permanently displaced, unable to return to their homes. Among those displaced were hundreds of thousands of so-called Lost Boys like Salva, who walked in desperation through southern Sudan, Ethiopia, and Kenya in search of safe haven.

Many of the Lost Boys who were able to return home after the war found that their families had vanished Others languished in refugee camps like those Salva lived in. Some were eventually reunited with their loved ones, often after decades apart.

In 2002, nearly twenty years after the war began, the United States government passed the Sudan Peace Act, officially accusing the Sudanese government of genocide in the deaths of more than two million people. Three years later, a peace accord was signed between the north and south. The south was granted autonomy—the ability to govern itself—for six years. A referendum has been scheduled, during which the citizens of southern Sudan will vote whether to secede from the north and become an independent nation.

The war in Darfur, in the western part of Sudan, is a separate conflict, not covered by the peace accord. As of this writing, that war is still being fought between factions who identify themselves as Arabic and those who consider themselves African. The two wars, combined with several years of severe drought, have brought untold suffering to the people of Sudan.

In size, Sudan is the largest country in Africa and the tenth largest in the world.

***

Salva has seen his family in Sudan twice more since the events of this story, including a moving reunion with his cousins, the children of Uncle Jewiir. And amazingly, seven of the Lost Boys who walked with Salva from Ethiopia to Kenya met up with him again when they were relocated to the Rochester, New York, area.

As of June 2010, Salva Dut's nonprofit organization, Water for Sudan, had drilled dozens of wells in southern Sudan for Dinka and Nuer communities. The very first well was drilled in Salva's home village of Loun-Ariik. Salva now spends half the year in the United States raising money for the organization and the other half in Sudan drilling wells. You can learn more about the organization's work at
www.waterforsudan.org
.

I first met Salva several years ago when my husband and I learned about Water for Sudan. In 2008, my husband traveled to Sudan to see the wells firsthand. I am grateful for his help in answering my endless questions: This story could not have been written without him.

My family and I feel very fortunate to count Salva as a friend. It has truly been an honor for me to write this book about him.

Sincere thanks to:
Chris and Louise Moore and their children,
Salva's American family;
John Turner, Nancy Frank,
and the other members of the board of
Water for Sudan;
Jeffrey Meade for the opportunity
to view photos and video footage;
and Linda Wright and Sue Kassirer
of Breakfast Serials, Inc.
Ginger Knowlton, David Barbor,
and everyone at Curtis Brown, Ltd.
And Dinah Stevenson,
for nudges both gentle and firm,
and always in the right direction.