Seed of South Sudan (20 page)

All my family was there—my mother, my younger brother Abol, my mother's sister, other aunts, uncles, cousins, and many other people. I immediately missed my grandmother, even though she had passed 20 or more years before. She would have been proud that, despite all the tragedy and hardships of the war, I finally made it home.

My grandmother, who predicted the war with the Arabs, died before the war, but she did not die violently. She became very ill and that's how she died. So she did not become a victim of the war, although hundreds of others in our village and neighboring villages did. But there were numerous other relatives to meet again, or to see for the first time, as my brothers and sister all were married and had many children.

Majok's sister Lela's daughter Cholhok Mamer Tur in Rumbek after water-bucket bath.

“We were looking for a little boy,” one of my relatives said when I arrived. “When you left you were this high,” he said, holding his hand at his waist. “Now you are tall!”

The first big change I noticed is that my brothers have satellite phones. Since there is no electricity there in the bush, they charge them by means of a generator fitted specially for satellite-phone batteries. The generator runs on gasoline that is transported from Rumbek. They use a card they pay for and load minutes to pay for the calls. The calls are very expensive, but they are the only means of communication other than traveling to another location to give news verbally.

Some changes in our area, such as the availability of the satellite phones, were required by the Comprehensive Peace Agreement that ended the civil war; it was an attempt to make up for the extreme lack of development throughout southern Sudan. The satellite service and the water services were to be provided from Uganda and Kenya. The bottled-water service is still not in the villages, but only in the larger areas like Rumbek. So I was disappointed to see that my mother and my sister, when she was staying in Pulkar, and all the other women in the village still have to walk four to six miles one way for water.

One of several goats slain upon Majok's return to Sudan. Stepping over a slain animal is a Dinka ritual to mark the return of a person long separated from his people.

After much rejoicing, a feast was held, and a goat was killed in my honor, as is tradition when there has been a long separation. As I stepped over the goat, I prayed for all those who did not make it home like me. There were many bodies that lay along the trail from Sudan to Ethiopia, back to Sudan and then to Kenya. Their sacrifices are why I am writing this book, and they are always with me.

I had many opportunities to tell what happened to us on our journey. My uncle, Dut Machoul Beny, was there, and he told everyone about the long walk to Ethiopia. I have not heard about his experiences in Pinyudo, as we did not see each other much once we arrived there. He had walked home when we fled Pinyudo. What he found when he arrived in Adut Maguen was bush. Once everyone fled the village under fire during the war and relocated in other places, the brush and grasses took over. (In Sudan, if you live somewhere seven years, and then you leave it for a year, then it is no longer yours. Even if the family wanted to return after having been away for a year, they would not be able to settle at the old site of Adut Maguen. And the bush had taken over with wild growth.) So my uncle had to look further to find everyone, and he did find them in Pulkar.

There were other relatives to discuss and learn what had happened to them, like Kolnyin Nak Goljok, my mother's older sister's son, another Lost Boy, who had gone on to San Jose, California, after leaving our traveling party at JFK airport in New York City during our Kakuma-to-America flight. I told them of my conversations with him, as we talk often by phone when I am in Atlanta. He works in the evening at Home Depot there.

It did not take long for my family to let me know what my next step must be: to come back home and marry a Dinka wife. It was clear to me that I could not return home permanently at this time, as I had not yet achieved my education. But a marriage to a Dinka wife? There are many important and very old traditions with marriage in our culture, traditions that bear explaining.

In Dinka culture, the first brother gets married, and then the second, and so on. The war had interrupted the families' lives—indeed, some families were wiped out, and others continued to be dislocated all around southern Sudan. Still, the order of marriages needed to be honored, my family felt. And I was not alone among Lost Boys in learning about our families' concerns about this. Even those who had not seen their families in many years were being reminded of the obligation to the family to marry, and, before marriage, to acquire a significant bride-price to enable the marriage. So no matter what one's circumstance, this was a focus, in addition to all the other matters we were dealing with back in America. It's almost like we had gone from singing the songs we made up along our route to Ethiopia about the girl we would marry to now putting aside savings so we could look forward to that day when we sang the young girl the song as we took her as a bride.

The same year that I was reunited with my family, there were two marriages among the Lost Boys I knew in Atlanta. Among my Lost Boy friends in Atlanta, Chier Malual married a woman who was originally from his village. He met her in Kakuma Refugee camp, as she was a Lost Girl. While he resettled in Clarkston, she resettled in Australia, and they kept in touch. Judy Maves helped her with the paperwork for her entry into the United States, as the girl had an Australian passport. But she was able to come to Georgia and they married; they now live in Clarkston. Chier works for a company that supplies guttering to businesses in the area.

Bol Maliet Komu also married in 2008. He met his wife during the 2005 trip with Gini Eagen and Stephen Bayok. The girl lived in Uganda, although she was from the Equatoria region of southern Sudan, and they met when Bol traveled to Uganda. She has relocated here, so they live in Georgia as well. After working for Walmart, he now works as a security officer for his apartment complex.

Dinka men relocating to the United States will have only one wife, but in Sudan, it is traditional to have more. The reason for this historically is that the Dinka are a warrior tribe. Their numbers are important in discouraging attempts to raid their cattle or otherwise attack the Dinka. This may seem outmoded to Westerners and those not from Africa, but if you become familiar with the history of the African countries, you will see that with none of the inventions like guns and tanks that protected European countries over time, numbers of fierce warriors were the Dinka tribe's protection, just as they were for other tribal groups.

Multiple wives were seen as a way to build the force of warriors. Since a child sometimes died young or at birth, there was a need to assure having large numbers to defend the land. A young boy's training was all directed to learning how to fight with spears and shields, and practices such as the ritual scarring assured he would be brave. Large numbers of these fierce warriors is what kept the Sudd, the swamp that defines so much of the White Nile area, protected from invasions of outside forces, including the Egyptians, the British, and other groups. Additionally, the Arabic traders who eventually settled in northern Sudan were reluctant to take on these groups. In fact, a book about the Agar Dinka published in 1982 describing our people was called
Warriors of the White Nile
. So even just before the civil war broke out, we were considered warriors as well as cattle keepers.

Now, in addition to the building of a warrior force, the value of large families was that the more family, the more marriages, and the greater the number of opportunities to add to the bride-wealth of the family—if you had girls. So a series of traditional views leads to the marriages and having many children.

I went on to marry, which I will write about later, but I will only have one wife. My brothers each have two, but they live in South Sudan where that is customary. As a result of my brothers' marriages and that of my sister, I have many nieces and nephews. My elder brother, Malual Marier Maliet, now has three girls and two boys by his first wife, and two boys by his second wife. My sister, Lela Marier Maliet, has six children. My younger brother, Abol Marier Maliet, has two boys and a girl by his first wife. When I returned to Sudan in 2010, he had a second wife and two boys in addition.

So my family members were well ahead of me in the marriage area. But one does not rush into these matters. While on the 2008 trip, I told my eldest brother, Malual, to be thinking of girls who would be desirable. For the Dinka, the process of marriage is a long, well-thought-out process designed to last forever. If you have a number of girls in mind, then you need to explore one at a time, the desired girl's background, and then the families need to come to agreement on the bride-price. There are family ties to be analyzed through many conversations among many of the elders to make sure that we are not related by blood. This careful inquiry could take a long while, months at least. So while I felt this was a thing I definitely wanted to do, and I'd known it was something I would do all my life, it was not going to be quick.

The second reason it would not be quick is that there had to be significant negotiations among my family members to get their agreement to supply cows in such an arrangement. And I would need to earn money in Atlanta to pay for the cattle I would supply as my substantial part of the bride-price. A Dinka husband can count on receiving back some cattle from the bride's family after a large bride-price of cattle is made to the family—it is a present to him in honor of the marriage—but first he must make a big gift!

So my trip reunited me with my family; I got to tell them all I had been through, and I told them I had written many pages describing the journey. I was reminded more than ever of all the young people and old people, mothers and children, who had died on the way to Ethiopia. My heart was heavy every time I looked at a path through the high grasses around Pulkar. Those grasses all over South Sudan hid bodies on the route to the refugee camps. I was sad, and more resolved than ever to tell the story to as many people as I could.

I was also determined to get my life to the point where I could pursue education so I could make life better for people in Sudan. At that point, I knew we would likely be independent, and I could tell there were so many needs for this new country. I need to get the schooling that will help me make a big contribution.

And I needed to make a marriage. My family helped me see that marrying was important; the war was over, my younger brother had married before me, and that had been out of the normal order. It was time to make a marriage and to raise children who would be part of this very large Marier family, part of the very substantial clan of Agar Dinka I was a member of.

So I left Sudan to return to Georgia. My brother was going to look for girls for me to think about proposing marriage to. And I was going to have to work very hard to buy cows to make all this possible. So I flew back to Clarkston in February 2009. I would not return until I had earned enough for another round trip ticket, but more important, had raised enough money for my brother to buy my cows, my contribution to our family's bride-wealth. That was in 2010, many a long workday later.