Reflections in fiction, stories of struggling to survive. JK #2 & #3

Reflections in fiction, stories of struggling to survive. JK #2 & #3

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 peoples' 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.

JK – 2

As he slowly faded into unconsciousness yet again, he saw a flicker of light, deep within him, barely visible yet undeniable. As his eyes unwillingly shut, he could see the flicker growing, a flicker he clung to from the moment this horror started. A flicker that gave him hope in what appeared a hopeless situation, a hope that saved him, a hope that helped him, a hope that allowed him to carry on, a hope that he had only discovered one year before.

He knew nothing of religion or this power called God. He had heard mutterings of the name, but never understood who or why he was, if he really was at all. All he knew was his culture, his traditions, communing with the ancestral spirits still alive today. He knew the traditional healer had often called upon these spirits, and he himself had always been taught to fear them - to fear their power, to fear that others may call upon them to curse you or your family, to bring sickness or even death.  No joy or hope was to be found in his culture, only fear and anxiety and blame. There was always someone to blame for every misfortune encountered. Nothing was by chance. He longed for something more. He knew there must be more. As he fished in the mighty river, or swam upon its banks, as he ran through thicket along its sides in search of bush rat with bow in hand, he questioned how it all came to be, how he came into existence.

Though he had heard stories time and time again from his ancestors, he always questioned if they were really true. There were too many shortcomings, too many pitfalls for them to be entirely accurate. But he knew of nothing else. His hope remained only in himself, in his own strength, in his own power. He felt so alone amidst a community of kinsmen, a tribe he owed allegiance to, but to which he never fully agreed with. There had to be something more. Or maybe this really was it, the here and now, living in the moment, caring for only himself and his family, seeking to serve no one. Is this truth? He himself struggled to believe.

  

JK – 3

He had seen white men before, but he had never been close enough to hear their words, or touch their skin, or to actually talk with one of them. They appeared occasionally within the town center, but then they were gone as quickly as they came. They never stayed. No one actually believed they cared enough to live with the local people, to learn the tribal tongue, to learn customs, culture, and tradition.

Many white men came, and he had heard that they wanted to be friends with people from the community, but they never sat at the homes of locals or greeted in the traditional way, they dressed ridiculously, and they never footed (walked) anywhere, they always rode in their land cruiser beasts, with windows shut and cameras flashing. They always remained at a distance from the people, the very people they claimed they had come to serve.

He did not think favorably upon these people that seemed to have wealth unending, that seemed trapped in their own comforts to fully engage beyond what they knew, that claimed friendship, but were not his friends. He wanted nothing to do with them.