Reflections in fiction, stories of struggling to survive. BM, MT-2, MJ-2
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.
BM
He knew nothing of holding a small child. He knew nothing of
rocking, cradling, singing, or caressing an infant.
He was the second born of four, the same mother but each
with a father all his own. His mother deserted him early on to be with yet
another man. His grandmother, a wily, promiscuous woman in her own right, had
raised him, had been the only true mother he had ever known.
His sense of responsibility was greater than most, seeking
to fulfill all of his earthly obligations, to provide for his wife’s and
children’s needs, to provide shelter and clothing, school fees, and food to all
the 15 people at his compound that were under his care.
His burdens were great, his resources few. He showed his
love by providing. At the age of 13 he quit school to farm the land, to eek out
an existence for his family. His childhood gone, his innocence extinguished, he
learned to survive by the work of his own two hands. And now, by 21 years of
age, he had his own compound, he was the ‘Head Man’ over the 15 people that
stayed with him. He had a wife and two children, the youngest a boy, his pride
and joy, his future. Yet he knew nothing of caring for the children. He feared
them, strange but true. He loved them, but he lacked the where withal to
interact with them. He had never held his own son, now nine months old and
starting to stand. His intense fear was hidden deep within.
MT – 2
The ululations shrill and clear, each woman producing a
distinctive call, filled the air as the dust continued to rise under the unclad
feet. The barren earth trampled upon as the deep, rhythmic sounds emanated from
the cow skin drums.
Pounding, pounding, pounding in trance-like motion, the
middle-aged men produced the pulsating beats and the women shook their
crème-colored gourds with their ‘shook, shook, shook’ like sounds. The sun was
casting its hues of orange, blue, and red upon the sky as they mingled with the
ever-increasing dust enveloping the crowd in a fog of energy, sweat, rhythm,
motion, and life.
MJ – 2
He was returning to a place unknown, yet so very familiar.
The previous four years had been spent in the same community, learning language,
building relationships, preaching, teaching, healing, equipping. But somehow
things were different now, as the once familiar surroundings now seemed
foreboding, distant, and painful.
The people, their faces, actions, the rise and fall of their
voices, their tattered and torn clothes, the rhythms of their gate, it was all
too easily recognizable, but somehow the war had changed things. The never
idyllic life style, but sense of hope and optimistic change none-the-less, the
short-lived peace, all but gone now. The community, the people, the very land
all groaned in agony as they slipped back into the familiarity of war. The
horrors of the past were resurfacing again.
