Running for My Life: One Lost Boy's Journey From the Killing Fields of Sudan to the Olympic Games (15 page)

We filed into the auditorium and sat down. Televisions had been placed on the stage where everyone could see them. All the talk died down. Everyone stared at the televisions. I recognized New York City on the television screen from when I flew into it back in July. However, New York was nothing like it was the day I flew in, or anything like I’d seen on television since. People on the streets ran in fear. A few stopped and looked up. Most cried hysterically. Up above them all, smoke poured out of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. The television announcers explained that the buildings had been attacked by terrorists. I did not know what a terrorist was, but the images on the screen made it clear what they were all about.

I stared at the television in total disbelief.
How could war follow me here?
When I was in Kakuma, America was next to heaven. Everything I’d experienced since arriving only confirmed this belief. America means peace. Here, you are safe from war. Back in Sudan, war was inescapable. Even though our village was never attacked by government forces, my friends in Kakuma had their villages bombed into extinction. No one in America worried about bombs dropping on their homes, or at least I did not think they did. Watching the scenes from New York, now I was not so sure. I thought I’d left death and destruction behind me. I was wrong.

The school principal kept us in the auditorium for a little over an hour. On the television screen the nightmare grew worse. One of the Twin Towers collapsed on itself. The newspeople said as many as ten thousand people might be in the building. Their numbers were wrong, but no one knew it on this Tuesday in September 2001. About the time the first tower collapsed, the principal walked onstage and said, “Another plane struck the Pentagon. We have decided to dismiss school for the rest of the day. Everyone needs to go straight home. Buses are in front of the school. Go home immediately.”

On the way out of the school building, everyone cried. No one in the school had ever lived through war before, not war in their own country. No one except me.

In front of the school, confusion reigned. Cars and vans jammed the drive along with school buses. I looked and looked for my bus. The bus had a rabbit painted on the side, which made it easy for me to find. I did not see it anywhere. I stopped and asked one of the teachers who directed traffic outside which bus I should now take. He pointed to one, and I climbed on. Thankfully, it was the right bus. Onboard the bus, more kids cried. Looks of sheer terror surrounded me. This could not be America.

No one was home when I got off the bus. I called Mom and asked her what I should do. “Stay inside,” she said. “Dad and I will be there soon.” I turned on the television and watched the news coverage for a little while. The second building collapsed. A chill ran down my spine. I thought back to a conversation a few weeks earlier when Mom and Dad had talked about taking me to New York City. “We will go to the tallest buildings in the world,” they said. They meant the World Trade Center.
We could have been there just a month earlier
, I thought.

I sat and watched the television. Smoke and dust covered New York City. I was scared. This looked worse than anything I’d heard about in Sudan. The home phone rang almost nonstop. Another plane crashed, this time in Pennsylvania. The newspeople said the White House might be the next target. I could not keep watching. I turned off the television and went outside to wait for Mom and Dad to come home. Images of people fleeing New York on foot across the bridges felt far too familiar. I had to get away from it.

Mom and Dad arrived a short time later. Both were visibly shaken. I sensed they too were very afraid. Mom hugged me and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I lied. My new country, my home, had been attacked. I had no idea where New York was. For all I knew, the World Trade Center and the Pentagon could be nearby. Earlier in the day I saw planes flying overhead, which made me wonder if Syracuse might be attacked next.

“Let’s go inside,” she said.

“Okay,” I said. We went inside. Dad turned on the television. I did not want to watch. I’d experienced war. Watching the start of another did not appeal to me. But I did not say anything. Instead I sat on the couch and watched with Mom and Dad.

A newscast showed a scene from the other side of the world. People celebrated. Al-Qaeda claimed responsibility. I recognized that name. They had ties to the people who bombed villages in South Sudan. I felt like I was back there again. Every time we saw a fighter jet in Kimotong, we ran to a cave for shelter. I didn’t know where to run here in Tully. Maybe we didn’t have any place to hide. What, then, were we to do when the planes attacked us?

Dad could tell I was afraid. “You know you are safe here, no matter what you see on television,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” I said.

“We don’t know where all of this will lead,” Mom added, “but it will never be like it was in Africa. This is an isolated attack. You don’t have to worry about an attack around here.”

“I understand,” I said. I watched them closely. Their actions matched their words. Yes, they were upset over the attacks, but they had a strength about them that told me everything would be okay. We watched the news for a while longer. After a while I announced, “I’m tired. I think I will go to bed.”

Mom and Dad both hugged me good night. I went upstairs and climbed into my bed. As bad as this day had been, it was very different from the war back home. Lying there in the dark, listening to the television downstairs, I knew that in spite of everything I’d seen and heard that day, I was safe. However, my illusions about America being a land of peace were shattered. Bad people are everywhere. Unfortunately, that is a part of life no matter where you live.

Over the next few days I discovered how different America was from Sudan. Back home, we had to run and hide. We didn’t have a way to stand up and fight. Then I saw President Bush on television, standing in the midst of the carnage in New York, a bullhorn in his hand. Rescue workers stood all around him. I could hardly understand anything he said, but the image of him standing there was the most powerful thing I’d ever seen. He inspired me more than words can describe. Watching him there, I knew I was safe.

The next day I went to school, a table was set up in front selling T-shirts. I picked one up. There across the front were the words “United We Stand” with an American flag in the background. I bought one. Everyone in school bought one. We all wore them the rest of the week. This was another change for me. I realized the American people love their country and, more important, are extremely proud of it. I had never been proud to live in Sudan. I never knew it was possible to be proud of a country. I was proud of our community, and I was especially proud of my mother and father and all their hard work to provide for us kids. I always walked with my back straight and proud when I walked with my father to our farm or helped him with our cattle. But I had never been proud of my country.

Now I was. I would not become a citizen of the United States until 2007, which was the earliest I could become a citizen, but after September 11, I was an American. The terrorists’ attacks bonded the country together, and it made me a part of it as well. This new place was now my home, a home I loved and was proud of, a home I hoped to represent someday and make my home proud of me as well.

There was another casualty of the September 11 attacks that very few people knew about at the time. In the wake of the attacks, the United States halted the program that brought me and many other lost boys to America. Heightened concerns over security left officials wary that terrorists might sneak into the country posing as lost boys. I had friends waiting in Kenya whose entry into the United States was delayed indefinitely.

Although a few boys were allowed into the country a few months later, the resettlement program did not begin again in earnest until 2004. By then, it was too late for many of the boys I knew in Kakuma. The screening process became much stricter. Those who were in line to come over here in 2001 who did not get in after 9-11 found they had to start the process all over again. I have friends who were supposed to come to America, but they never did. That could have been me. Knowing this only strengthened my resolve to take full advantage of the opportunity I had received, not only for myself, but for all the lost boys left behind.

FIFTEEN
They’re Alive?

I
settled into life in upstate New York. My days revolved around school, cross-country practice, and homework. Race days were the best. As part of my pre-race ritual, Dad woke up early in the morning to cook me a special breakfast. He made the usual eggs and toast, but he also had a secret ingredient that he said was the key to running fast. On race days he cooked crispy strips of zebra for me. “This is our secret,” Dad told me. “You don’t want those other guys to start eating zebra and outrun you, do you?” Of course I did not want that. I loved zebra. Every race day morning, I hurried into the kitchen, sat at the table, and ordered “zebra.” Afterward I went out and crushed the other kids. Perhaps I am too trusting, but it took a year and a half before I figured out the secret to my success was really bacon, not zebra.

The weather turned cold early my first fall in Syracuse. At least I thought it was cold. When you grow up in a place that sits just above the equator with an average temperature of 104 degrees twelve months a year, any temperature below eighty feels like an arctic blast. By October the temperature in upstate New York rarely climbs above seventy. I thought I’d moved to the North Pole.

One Saturday we caught a break. The sun came out, the temperature warmed, and it was a perfect fall day. Mom suggested we take advantage of the weather and spend the day on the lake. “We probably won’t get another chance like this until next spring,” she said. The concept of spring was new to me. Equatorial Africa has two seasons, the dry season and the rainy season. We call the rainy season winter. The dry is summer. Spring and fall do not exist.

Dad got the boat ready, while Mom packed a picnic lunch. I found a heavy jacket to wear. A warm fall day still felt cold to me. We loaded ourselves into the boat and pushed out into the lake. Hills rose up from the water on all sides, with every hill covered by a sea of trees. I thought the trees looked amazing in the summer. Now that fall was here, the explosion of colors took my breath away. I did not know it was possible for leaves to turn red and orange and yellow. I sat and stared out at the show as Dad motored the boat out into the middle of the lake. The warm sun felt good against the cool air rising up from the water.

Dad stopped the boat. Song birds filled the air with music. I could not imagine a more beautiful or peaceful place on the planet.

“Are you hungry, Joseph?” Mom asked. She always calls me Joseph. Dad and all my friends call me Lopez.

This was a silly question. I was
always
hungry even though I ate all the time. Mom loved trying to make up for all the meals I’d missed in Kakuma. It was a good thing I ran several miles every day, or we might have needed a bigger boat to float me out into the lake. “Very hungry,” I said.

“Chicken?” she said, holding out the basket.

“Yes,” I said. I plunged my hand down into the basket and pulled out a huge piece of chicken. Mom was a great cook. I couldn’t get enough of her food.

I sat back and munched on the chicken. Dad took a piece. “You know, this is pretty much a perfect day,” he said.

“We never had days like this in Kakuma,” I said. “It was always hot and dry. The wind kicked up dust storms that made it hard to breathe. We didn’t have any grass, only dirt. I don’t know if grass would not grow, or if all the people trampled it down.”

“That had to be a hard place to live,” Mom said. I could tell she had a lot of questions, but she didn’t ask them. This was the first time I had talked about what life was like in the refugee camp. Mom and Dad were very respectful of my past. They never tried to get me to open up about what I’d been through. I didn’t want to talk much about it either. The past was the past. I had a new life in America. Besides, I didn’t dare say too much about my old life. If Mom and Dad found out the truth about me, they would realize that I did not deserve to live in such a nice place.

However, after four months in the Rogers’ home, I realized I was not here by mistake. Mom and Dad wanted me here. A little light clicked on for me during the cross-country season. They came to every single meet. They never missed one. No other parents came to all the meets, or hardly any others did. But mine were always there. And they weren’t just there; they cheered for me and celebrated when I won like I was their real son. That’s when I started to understand that they genuinely loved and cared about me.

“Very hard,” I said. I paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and started talking. I talked for a long time. Mom and Dad sat and listened. I told them how the soldiers stole me from my mother’s arms at church in Kimotong and took me to a prison camp. I told them about escaping in the night with my three angels and our three-day run across the savannah. When I came to America, the Rogers knew nothing about me except for the fact that I was one of the lost boys of Sudan. Now it was time to tell them my story, and I held nothing back. I talked about day-to-day life in Kakuma and how we looked forward to Tuesday trash day for our best meal of the week.