Being forced to leave home and not knowing where you’re going or when you’ll return is a nightmare. It’s like those dreams where we see ourselves being chased, but no matter how hard we try, our legs won’t move.
This is my second time returning to the country of refuge. The difference is that the first time, I was carried as a baby, and now I am walking there myself. Before crossing the border, we had already heard many rumors about the challenges faced by our people, especially in the refugee camps. To avoid being sent to one of these camps, I obtained a visa and crossed the border into Uganda.
When I arrived in Koboko, my childhood town, memories flooded back to me. I had attended kindergarten here and considered it my hometown until I learned that I was actually Sudanese (before South Sudan became a country). As a child, I didn’t know that I was a refugee living in a foreign country. My parents didn’t discuss it with me, probably because they already had enough burdens to bear. During my first few years of schooling, I thought I was Ugandan. We lived with Sudanese neighbors, and I admired hearing them speak Arabic.
One day, I saw some unusual excitement in our house, despite living in poverty and my mother working hard to earn money to feed us. It was a rare moment of happiness that did not come easily. So, I left my friends to find out what was happening and learned that my father had sent a letter with many greetings and lovely messages for his son, Sam. It was my first time learning about my father and his whereabouts. I was ecstatic and ran to my Sudanese neighbors to tell them the good news that I was also Sudanese. It was a joyous moment for us all.
Many years later, I find myself in a refugee camp with my son growing up like I did as a refugee. But back to my story, when I arrived in Koboko town, I started searching for the home where we used to live. One of our relatives still lived there, but I was not familiar with the directions and needed a phone to call. However, since I did not have a Ugandan sim-card, I could not make the call. So, I asked a young man for help, and he not only let me use his phone but also invited me to his home, gave me water, and escorted me to my destination. What a welcoming gesture!
The young man, whose name I cannot remember now, said to me that I was his brother and that Uganda was home to me, just like South Sudan. I not only met a friend but a brother in him. The following day, I walked to his place again since he was the only person I knew in town. His family once again made me feel at home. Since my new friend liked to move around to buy goods and run his business, he entrusted me with his shop. I worked there and stayed with his family for a week. However, I started feeling unsettled, so I told him that I had to leave. They were sad but took my number, and we parted ways.
I moved to Arua and was fortunate to reconnect with a Ugandan friend who used to provide secretarial services in my hometown in South Sudan. He had returned home and opened a similar business in Arua. He welcomed me warmly and showed me around the city, and I stayed at his secretariat office with his assistant. I helped out with small tasks as I pondered my next moves.
However, there was confusion over how long we were meant to stay in Uganda. When we left South Sudan, we received vague assurances that we would return home soon, possibly within two months or less. But after a month had passed, I heard that more people were leaving South Sudan and that my younger siblings and entire family had been taken to a refugee camp. The realization that we might not be able to return home anytime soon weighed heavily on my mind and caused me great distress.
As I couldn’t afford to stay with my friend for long, I decided to join my family in the camp. My friend kindly gave me 50,000 Ugandan shillings (equivalent to around 14 USD) to help me travel to the refugee camp. I left with a heavy heart and a sense of loss, knowing that my dreams were on hold indefinitely. Rest in peace, dreams.
As I depart, my friend bid me farewell with a heavy heart. Yet, amidst the sorrow, there was a glimmer of hope in his smile – a hope for resurrection, for the possibility of dreaming once more of a better tomorrow. I am grateful to Geoffrey Etrima and his wife Scovia, for their warmth and kindness, and for sharing their food with me. Their generosity has left a lasting impression on me. I am also indebted to my friend in Koboko, who welcomed me with open arms upon my arrival. Both of these individuals embody the spirit of Uganda, a country that has opened its doors to refugees like me, and demonstrated remarkable compassion and generosity. Thank you, Uganda.
Due to the circumstances surrounding my crossing into Uganda, I cannot recall the specific dates or months of my journey, nor do I feel comfortable writing about the events that led me to seek refuge in a neighboring country. Suffice it to say that those were difficult and heartbreaking times. I arrived with only a suitcase containing my documents and was dressed in shorts, a red t-shirt, and sandals. Despite all these, I am grateful to be alive today. Interestingly, my brother Jaiksana’s music album, “I Am Still Alive,” resonates with my experience. The album features moving tracks such as “Where Is Home” and “Ran” that capture the emotions of a refugee. I highly recommend giving them a listen.
