Reflections in fiction, stories of struggling to survive.

In March of 2014, I wrote a series of very short fictional stories, or more so glimpses into people’s lives, as I was preparing to return to South Sudan. As I thought of the people, my South Sudanese friends and family, their stories continually played over and over again in my mind. By that point I had lived in South Sudan for over four years, and the stories of war, struggle, death, life, living, and joy were all intermingled in my mind. I thought of details, of colors, of sights and smells of the land, of dust and heat, of tragedy and blessing, all combined into the emotional landscape of the place. A history of war, tragedy, and lives lost all faded into the current theme of hope and optimism as South Sudan was seeking a new start, yet those optimistic emotions were crumbling fast as horrific memories of past were surfacing again as a new war started in December 2013, and continues to this day.

Now one year later, in March of 2015, I am once again reflecting on the people of South Sudan. One of my greatest joys in South Sudan was the privilege and honor of sitting with people, hearing their stories, experiencing their way of life and seeing their conditions. Their stories, their personhood, their friendships changed me. I was drawn into their struggles, into their hopes. They lamented the past, and they dreamed about the future. They invited me in to live life alongside them. For them, the people of Mundri, South Sudan, I will always be thankful. My heart will always be missing something, incomplete in some manner, when I am away from those I love, longing to return. This is true of all the places I’ve lived and all the people I’ve loved. Yet thankfulness abounds for opportunities had. My heart, though incomplete, is warmer, larger, more encompassing now because of my experiences. I feel most complete in the company and service of others, trying to reflect the love of one much larger than I, recognizing my own brokenness, confronting rather than denying the brokenness of the world, entering into suffering trying to see God’s face throughout.

As I read of continued conflict in South Sudan, and as I talk with friends there, my heart is weeping for continued struggle, for a darkness that haunts the land, for people hungry and homeless, for people wielding their power and in the process destroying others, for hope deferred, for violence that doesn’t seem to have an end in sight. I pray for my friends and family there, offering my laments and anguishes unto the Lord, trusting that he hears the cry of his people.

As I think and process my role in South Sudan, both past, present, and future, I wanted to share some of the fictional stories I wrote one year ago. These stories, glimpses into other’s lives, are a culmination of stories I’ve heard, experiences that have been shared, laments offered in reflection, real people trying to make sense of this world. Though they are fictional, most stories are based on real people living in South Sudan.

To God be the glory. Even in the midst of suffering.

-sjw

March, 2015

KJ

His eyes slowly lifted their gaze and then he fell back into a deep sleep, as if consciousness was eluding him yet again.

The memories were too great, the burdens too many, and the faces of the dead flickering through his mind too much to bear.

The woman hunched over the chair, eyes half opened, hair tightly woven against her scalp, but still her facial features contorted, worn, wrinkled skin and thick brow. No doubt a woman that saw a lot of suffering, had paid dearly for a life long but harrowingly lived, as she now lay dead, a small bullet wound faintly noticeable over the right temple. Another victim of this great tragedy.

Somehow he had survived. He saw the trail of death everywhere he went, narrowly escaping his own demise too many times to count. Surely the Lord wanted him to live, he had no other offering as to why he was still alive when so many – father, brother, sister, neighbor were all shot down, hacked to death, raped repeatedly, abandoned, left to starvation and dehydration; always the large vultures soaring above, waiting for the next victim. The brutality was beyond what he would have thought possible, too horrific for words to convey, too near, yet too much for him to deny. But still he was here, somehow his prayer of repetition, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus” had carried him those 500+ miles across barren desert, a wilderness of heat, death, decay.

He knew he had no strength to run, no power to mentally think or make sense of it all, no resolve left to fight. All he could muster, every ounce of his very being, repeated, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus” as he struggled repeatedly for months, moment by moment, to lift one leg and place his foot forward and then to repeat again a thousand, or maybe a million times over. The will to survive was stronger than the aching, constant desire to give up, to lay down and join the legions of those left dead along the way.