Boy Soldier Read online

  CONTENTS

  First Light

  1. Sudan

  2. Ethiopia

  3. Return to Sudan

  4. Uganda

  5. Kenya

  6. Tanzania

  7. Malawi

  8. Mozambique

  9. Zimbabwe

  10. South Africa

  11. Australia

  Epilogue

  Cola Bilkuei was born into the Dinka tribal group in the southern Sudan. After an epic journey through Africa, he was granted official UN refugee status and now lives in Australia where he hones his skills as a DJ, as well as actively helping other Sudanese refugees to find shelter and assimilate in Australia.

  First published 2008 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  This Pan edition published in 2010

  by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  Copyright © 2008 Cola Bilkuei and Malcolm Knox

  The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP Catalogue is available for this title from the

  National Library of Australia.

  ISBN: 978 0 3304 0377 1

  Bilkuei, Cola

  Child soldiers—Sudan—Biography.

  Refugees—Sudan—Biography.

  Refugees—Australia—Biography.

  362.87092

  Typeset in Granjon by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Title typeface by Henry Illingworth

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Boy Soldier

  Cola Bilkuei

  Adobe eReader format

  978-1-74262-337-5

  EPub format

  978-1-74262-339-9

  Mobipocket format

  978-1-74262-338-2

  Online format

  978-1-74262-336-8

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  For Father Dominic Baldwin,

  Jacob Van Garderen

  and

  Dennis Biong Mading

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  TO MY BROTHER, Monyleck Biem, who started me on my series of adventures good, bad and indifferent. Although these adventures were often dangerous, eventually they led me to the freedom of Australia.

  To my mother in heaven, Ajak Arop, who taught me the meaning of love and respect. I thank you for instilling confidence in me – without that confidence my struggle too would have been lost.

  To my father Biem Ngor Bilkuei, who looked after me when I was young despite his own scars and torments.

  Also to my elder sister in heaven, Ajok Biem and my baby sister in heaven, Athien Biem.

  To my elder brother in heaven, Mijok Biem and my little brother in heaven, Thonager Biem.

  To all my Pan–Bilkuei family for their unity and respect of history and keeping the family spirit alive.

  To Philip Ross: we started this project, and my special thanks goes to you for your good heart. I think I owe you a million dollars. Without your support this book may have not been possible. Special thanks to the Blacktown Migrant Resources Centre for all your help.

  To Malcolm Knox: you are a wonderful, loving person on the Earth! You are the person who opened the way forward for this piece of work. I know there are millions of people out there who have similar stories, but it was through God’s work that I was given your email address by good Samaritan Dr Ralph Sawyer at a private function in Sydney. You have continued to feed me and accommodate me during the time of our writing together. Of course I also thank your lovely wife Wenona, and your kids Callum and Lilian; you have all welcomed and supported me and shown me love from the drafting to the finishing of this book.

  Anthony – you are the best friend I have ever made.

  To Tony Chappel and family – thanks for your great help. You did countless things for me, like paying school fees, pocket money and tours. You are a great guy and a leader, who always looks after people from disadvantaged backgrounds, no matter their race.

  Karen Du Plessis and your kids Simon and Lukas; Irma Du Plessis; Andriaes Benzuihout; Sophie Marrie; Deon Garderen; and Sarin Garderen.

  Dr Francios Deng and Dorothy Deng; Daniel Jok Deng; Steven Boakye; Max Lucas; Mavis Smith; Lt General Oyei Deng Ajak; Uncle Louis Mayar Bilkuei; Chief Seji Makuei; Chief Deng Mayar Bilkuei; Uncle Chol Bilkuei; Uncle Panom Cothcoth; Uncle Majak Dau; Uncle Deng Maker Bilkuei; Mabek Lang, the Panaruu Commissioner.

  Beny Wian, our community spiritual leader in Baal Sudan; Dr BM Benjamin; Dr Mark Awouro; Uncle Ajang Chiman; Uncle Deng Ngor; and Dr William Biong Deng Kwol Mading Deng.

  To Mr Dermot Donnors, the senior Veritas Principal, the teachers and lovely staff, and students who showed me and Bol Bol a great love. Your teachings gave me a great motivation that has really kept me going.

  To Terry Hick, in Johannesburg – you were my boss, who employed me in a country where millions and millions of people go searching for jobs every morning. Today I find it easier to interact with other employees at my workplace and have respect for team leaders, managers and directors, thanks to you.

  Williams Agar; DJ Victor Lopez; Antony Lopez; DJ Samrai; DJ Demize; J Smoove; Charles; Melissa Uttley; Tha Mic; F2 and C2; and Eyob Yesus from Luscious Entertainment.

  Mr Zux from Big One Productions, my best friend on the music side for a long time; you are a great man with great studio skills, one of the best African rappers, a DJ and producer, putting your full force into helping African youths to record their music. Your vision to help these kids stay away from crime and keep them busy with the microphone is indeed a great help to their families personally, and to the safety of the community.

  Bilkuei Productions and its staff work hard to support our artist Hot Dogg throughout his involvement with the Darfurian non-governmental organisation in Winnipeg, Canada to raise funds for Darfurian children in Sudan.

  Bonabas Deng Yel; Todd Williams from Merrylands Youth Centre; and Mijok Lang aka Hot Dogg.

  Mayoum Mijok and family for your support throughout my process of coming to Australia, the promised land. And to your lovely wife, Martha, whom I to used to wake up sometimes at 2 am or 3 am when I called from Africa. I now know how getting the time right is so important in the Western world!

  Plath Miaker; the Nyok Dau family; Monyjok Bogout; Sister Louise, director of JRS Pretoria; Jing Thomas; Benjamin Bol Bol; Angelo Kuot Garang; Charles Akuei; Cirelo Cier Jel; Jackson Mijok; Atok Dan; Thomas Wour; Ma
yak Seji; Emmanuel Hubbi; Kabelo; Ryan Bowers; Martina Mthembu; and Ronnie Vyslouzel.

  Russell Beaten; Santino Aher; Peter Deng; James Makur Mijok; Atak Deng Akol; Biar Deng Dut; Daniel Magot; David Poundak; Ring Kolang; Martin Kadit; Ayak Makueth; and Malual Madut.

  G Rida, Olivier Strobel, Alice Deady, Major General Michael Char, Rev Joseph Ayok, Afrocent, Tera, M Phasasi, Machodi, Alex Llavero, George Giannopoulos, Dr Angok Kuol, Atok Majok, Alang Majok, Chief Miaker Dau, Chief Malual Miyniel, Bul Miyoum, Bith Are, Danny Beaten and the Beaten Family, James Tut, MD Andrea, Dre Chol, Akol Kiir, Chan Dut Kon, Ali Garang, Dut Yaak Dut, Mayak Seji, Ajang Jok Ajang, Akim Majak, Anyuop Majak, Tabau Dau, Christina Adau Miaker, Pual Miyoum, Mr Tong Jel, Garang Yaak, Arakangelo Nyuol Madut, Phillip Tole, Sr Gemma, Sr Anita, Sr Sophia, Sr Rita, Mr Angelo Diing, Lam Buot.

  To all my colleagues who were in Zimbabwe.

  And to all my new friends whom I made in Australia who have shown a great love in me as a person, I deeply thank each individual.

  FIRST LIGHT

  Near dawn, when all is still, my ancestors come to me. They bring me the taste of the land: ripe new corn stalks against the dampness of the River Nile; the sound of crackling fire; the scent of cattle and the fresh milk that filled my belly every morning. Most of all they bring the feeling of safety that came from my mother’s warm embrace. As I close my eyes, the sounds of fire are layered with the sounds of singing and drums beating to rhythms that I have not heard since I left my homeland.

  I left when I was a child.

  My land was rich, maybe not in a Western sense, but rich in history. My people weren’t just connected with their culture, they lived it . . . and then there was war. The land, the people and the history are all still there, but now I open my eyes to a new world. As a refugee I have my memories and it’s up to me and me alone to create a future in which those memories are not lost. I also realise that my new life is just that – a new life that will bring its own memories, experiences and challenges. I’ve had many journeys in my short life and yet I know that I have many more to face before I’m through.

  My great-grandfather on my father’s side was called Bilkuei. He had forty-seven children and eight wives.

  My grandfather was Ngor Bilkuei. He had four wives and fifteen children.

  My father, Biem Ngor, was the firstborn of Ngor Bilkuei and the only child of his first wife. My father had two wives. My mother, Ajak Arop, was his first wife and I was the fifth child of seven. My father’s second wife, my stepmother, had five children.

  I pray for one wife and as many children as can be safe under my protection.

  CHAPTER 1

  Sudan

  I WAS BORN CHOL BIEM NGOR BILKUEI. My friends call me Cola, a name I gave myself in 1999. I don’t know how old I am, as I don’t know when my birthday is. I grew up in a village called Baal in the area of Panaruu in southern Sudan. My people are known as the Dinka, but we are divided into many sub-tribes. Ours, the Panaruu sub-tribe, centring on Baal and a cluster of neighbouring villages, was about 96,000 in number. Our larger tribe is known by different names: we are called the Ruweng, the Ngok, and the Padang people, depending on which of the surrounding tribes you are talking to. The biggest town in our area was called Panrieng, which had about 10,000 inhabitants. My great-grandfather was the chief of this sub-tribe, so my family was important. I grew up surrounded by my parents, brothers and sisters and the 2000 cattle we owned, and beyond that by our greater Bilkuei family and the thousands of people in our Panaruu community.

  When I think about my village and all that my life consisted of, it feels as though I’m looking back at someone else’s life. My new life in Sydney, Australia, is a world away from everything I knew back home.

  My father, Biem Ngor Bilkuei, tried his best to protect us from a world that he saw as dangerous. People called him ‘Biem-dit’, which is a sign of respect, like calling a man ‘sir’. To him, the world outside our village offered more threat than opportunity. Up until the age of about eight, I never ventured more than a few kilometres outside our village. I never saw a white person. There were no roads going through our village, only dirt paths and open spaces where people walked. On the rare occasions that I ever saw or heard motor vehicles, they scared me. At night we could see the lights of lorries passing on a distant highway, but we couldn’t see the trucks themselves. All we saw were their beams in the dusty night air, accompanied by the faraway roar of their engines.

  Once we heard a helicopter and saw it in the distance. I also remember when we were told the Concorde was flying over us. We lay on the ground and watched the white contrail cross the sky. Someone got it into their head that these aeroplanes were driven by white ladies, and they’d cry out, ‘There goes the white lady’s aeroplane!’ My mother said these planes stole children to take them to America, wherever that was.

  I didn’t go to school, so everything I knew I learnt from the people in the village and from my own experience as a herd boy working with my family. My earliest memories of childhood are of time spent with my father working the cattle on land that was shared by our community. My great-grandfather Bilkuei was the clan chief until he died in 1935, and then the title was passed to one of my grandfather’s brothers, Makuei Bilkuei. He was the ultimate judge of disputes and the head organiser. Below him were the elders, who attained their position when they reached a certain age, and together solved problems in the chief’s name. Ranks were determined by generational groups: once your generation came of age, you were marked with knife cuts horizontally across your forehead. The bigger your forehead, the more room for these marks! But they meant you were respected.

  The land we lived on was flat and bare, except for one tremendous tree close to our main hut, which grew many metres high and spread much shade under its wide branches. But despite the heat of the sun, none of us used the tree for shade. It was a sacred place, where we would only go to show respect to our ancestors. Grass grew high around the tree and it was full of snakes. It was at the tree that we would make sacrifices. On special occasions – if it had been very dry and we needed rain, for example, or if an important person was sick – someone would cut the grass and kill or carry the snakes away (Dinka weren’t allowed to kill some snakes, such as pythons, because they were sacred), and the tree would provide a place from which the elders would sacrifice a cow. Normally we didn’t kill and butcher cattle for food. They were too vital for that. We kids would look forward to these sacrifice ceremonies because they meant we would eat well. While the adults ate the flesh of the cattle, the intestines and organs would be cooked for the children. An elder would gather up our share and feign throwing it one way, then the other, and then throw it up in handfuls; we would fall over ourselves trying to get to it.

  Also on these occasions, after we had eaten, the elders in my family would tell stories. These stories would include histories of people in the village and of wars between tribes. Here was where I heard that my grandfather and his twin brother were killed on the same day, before I was born, when they were among a large group of local chiefs and elders who were called to a meeting by Arabs from northern Sudan and then massacred.

  The tree stood like a museum, with bones from different sacrifices left around its trunk. When there was a harvest, some maize would be scattered around the base of the tree before anyone ate. A trench, like a moat, about four metres wide and one metre deep, separated the sacred area from the area we were allowed to use, and this was a boundary we all respected. If we wandered too close, elders would call us away. In the rainy season, we didn’t want to go there anyway, as bats hung in the branches and dangerous animals – even lions – might lurk in the long grass. I remember believing that if I went near the tree, terrible things, like sickness or bad luck for my family, would follow.

  My grandmother, who was blind, would often be found sitting near the tree, but only on the outside of the trench. It seemed to us as if she and the tree had become one. Neither of them could see, both were we
athered by age, and both represented the heart of our village. All the villagers recognised my grandmother’s spiritual powers, as she was seen to carry within her the spirits of our ancestors. At ceremonies, such as weddings and funerals, or when someone was sick, she was brought in as an embodiment of the ancestors to raise her hands and bring down their blessings.

  I never remember seeing many manufactured items in my village: no steel, no plastic, nothing like a bicycle or even a tin can. Apart from some metal items such as razor blades, knife blades and the zinc sheeting used in some buildings, everything we had was made from the environment around us. Buckets were woven from wood. When the rainy season stopped, the people in the village would dig wells up to thirty metres deep with sharpened hoes and spears. If they didn’t find water, they just kept digging. A good well would become permanent. In the rainy season, yards and houses would be built, and the excavated holes would make new wells. The drier it was, the further we had to travel to a well with drinkable water. The River Nile was four hours’ walk away.

  The members of the Bilkuei clan in Baal lived in a compound of about ten huts. The two largest were for cattle, housing about fifty cows each. If a cow was sick, it would be brought in alone until it was better. Our immediate family had two smaller huts, which consisted of mud walls with grass roofs and hard dirt floors. They had no internal walls or partitions. They were simple, but they did what they were built for. One of them had a large hole in the ground which my mother would use for cooking.

  My mother smoked an African pipe, but never in front of my father, so this hut also provided her with a place to hide her habit. There was nothing complicated about my father’s prohibition: he didn’t smoke and didn’t like the smell of it. He thought smoke would contaminate the milking of the cows or the cooking. Nor did he like the smell of it on her breath. In other families women could smoke, but not in ours. The smell of the fire masked the smell of her pipe. She knew she was safe because my father never went near the cooking hut until the meal was ready to eat, which always took place outside. A typical meal was maize pap, ground and mashed with water – the nearest Australian food I can think of is mashed potatoes. At other times the maize would be prepared and baked into tiny balls, like couscous. If there was no maize we drank milk. Milk, milk, milk, every day. Today, as an adult, I don’t like milk at all.