As I walked in the dark star flooded night, I dreamed of resting my tired limbs in the Dinka village I called home. Suddenly a sound like an elephant stomping it's massive feet to the ground shook me out of my revere, forcing me to look up and witness startling red flashes streaking the night sky. I was immediately filled with a deep fear driving my whole body towards finding my mother and father in this nightmare, yet as I drew closer to my village, the place I called home was consumed in flames and screams of my dying tribe shrieking piercing my memory. I ran to a nearby bush, remembering my fathers words telling me that when the rebels came to destroy our tribe I was to run as far as possible until the gunshots were a distant memory. Picking myself off the ground, my feet took me across the desert in the dark of night, with no direction, only my desperation to live to guide me.
My journey across the desert of Sudan joined me with other 'Lost Boys'. They called us Lost Boys because we had no parents, but survival was all we had in mind. We walked starved, naked and un-sheltered to the merciless sun, many of my brothers simply falling to the ground never to wake again. I soon learned that safety could be found in a nearby place called Ethiopia, where the genocide against my people wouldn't reach us.
After reaching Ethiopia, I felt a sense of slight safety but it was short lived to my devastation. The rebels were after the Lost Boys seeping their trigger happy ways into Ethiopia, forcing me to fight for my life to reach safety again. The Ethiopians drove us out to cross the river Gilo, where on the other side waiting were the rebels keen on finishing the job of killing us all. Crossing the river resulted in scaring memories of drowning kids, screams lost in gunfire and crocodiles taking their share of the bloody fight for survival. I will never forget the smell of blood and sweat given to the river that day.
Barely escaping the river Gilo left me exhausted and scared. I honestly believed that god had given up on us, but my hope was revived when we Lost Boys discovered a refugee camp in Kenya, where I would be spending the next 11 years of my life in a makeshift 'village' on rationed food, Christian donations, little education and a chance to be let into America for a new life. America was all I ever wished for, my entire village believed it was the land of gold and hope, a land where we victims of Sudan could teach the Americans of our brutal life, inspiring the desire to stop and fix our never-ending conflict.
The news came with an English speaking lady who placed a single slip of paper on our notice board, leaning in to search for my name in desperate hope, I felt my whole heart lift in a burst of hope for my people: I was going to America!
The day arrived of my departure, leaving many of my village members in tears for another vain chance that we could bring an end to this devastating war. My village elder walked me towards the plane, yet stopped me to speak the words that would taunt me every day I lived in America: "Peter, you have been given a chance to live a new life, yet never forget where you came from, be proud to be of the Dinka tribe." If only I had known just how 'golden' America was going to be, I might have just turned around and refused to even board that plane.
My first few months in America proved to be the most alienated, culture shocking time of my life. Many pushing factors broke down my hope for a great life in America. I was treated with no respect, lived in a neighborhood where I was stolen from, always looked upon as a thief or gangster leaving me with little chance to even get a job with enough pay to feed myself. I had never used electricity until now, this place was completely upside-down... How was I supposed to cope? For this time, I lived in Houston, Texas, yet some part of me knew I could do better, I needed an education, but Houston wasn't going to provide it for me, I had to began anew again, all alone, in a new city.
Kansas gave me the fresh start I was searching for. I applied for a high school and even tried to make the basketball team. My fellow brother Santino was still struggling in Houston, which I did feel sorry for, but no-matter where I was, I always felt lonely. No family and little friends to relate to, America seemed like I was a poor child surrounded by rich aliens who knew more about this place than I would ever grasp. I could drive, which let me explore Kansas more, slowly becoming what the Americans called 'assimilated' into their country. I could rarely find the time to donate money back to Sudan, how could I explain to them that I had no time, or money? All they knew was that America was a place of dreams, not this alien world, I had the burning desire to tell them the truth, but my heart was in my head.
Life continued on in Kansas, improving as I became more accustomed to the culture here. I made a few friends within my school, strove for getting into college and even tried to impress the girl I liked. My differences would always stand out, apparently catching birds isn't a good way to impress a girl... but I know it's better than the war stricken country I had the chance to escape from, even if I was lonely. During the celebration of the Lost Boys migration to America, I celebrated with my Christian friends, it was fun, yet I still felt that sense of longing for the family I had left behind.
After a year in America, I was joined by hundreds of other assimilated Lost Boys to join in on a 'camping' trip in Washington to relax and enjoy our lives in America without the stress of our new lives for the first time in a very long while. Being surrounded by those who knew just what it meant and felt like to be a Lost Boy I felt a sense of bonding and understanding for all my fellow brothers around me.
When I returned to America, I continued to improve upon my life everyday, some days harder than others, but as I grow up in my new life, I know deep down inside, this is where I can do my best, for the sake of my people in Sudan and for my own benefit too.
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