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January 30, 2005

UPDF and the "Slave"

We cut out of Lotuke in a hurry, all saying to each other in an echo, “When we pass back through that place we aren’t stopping.” For one hour we rolled at a slow speed through the flat bush toward the border of Uganda not knowing what to expect next. Would there be a border post? Would the Uganda forces be friendly? Well, thankful the later question was true. About 3:00PM we made it to the Uganda border. Nothing but ten mud tukus and a small, green, canvas army tent made the location notable. Small mortar pits with mortar launchers sat outside of three tukus; they were the two stand mortars that you see on old war footage that make the sound thoomp like someone was blowing into an empty bottle. The UPDF saw us from a distance and comment later that they never got vehicles coming from Sudan. We pulled the car next to the open thatched tuku and greeted the men. About 15 Ugandan regulars bored to tears all started chatting at the same time. They were young men marooned out at this forsaken posting, some of them for two years already. The sergeant of the men greeted us in a friendly mood and within in minutes he was ready to help us get to the Tausi village. “Finally, some helpful people,” I said aloud in my mind. Sudan had been long waits and mindless paper work at bush huts, but here the UPDF was more than ready to help us and they didn’t even care if we checked into the country. Only one drawback, this section of Uganda happened to be part of the Kidepo wildlife park and the UPDF first had to radio permission from the game warden for us to pass. I could tell trouble was brewing. The warden told the UPDF to put us up for the night and she would come tomorrow. The UPDF boys were a hoot. We felt like tourist. They took us to the hot sulfuric springs 100 meters from the camp. The Tausi loved the hot water and washed the dirt off their faces from the dusty ride in the back cab. Philip, our Dinka guide, went right into another story. “My brother is a Lost Boy.” He stated in reference to the name the Dinka refugees were coined with when they left for America. “He is a slave there. Why do all Sudanese who leave for America have to be slaves?” Oh, boy I thought what is this about. I entertained it, “He is a slave?” I asked with a puzzled look, “I don’t think there is slavery in America anymore.”
“Yes, he’s a slave. No good job.” At this point I realize what Philip is saying. He is calling his brother a slave in America because he most likely works at a Burger King, Walmart, or some lawn mowing service in South Dakota. I ask Philip, “Where does he work?”
“He doesn’t tell us. He just say, ‘take the money I send you and don’t ask me’.” Philip answers quickly. So Philip assumes from his brothers shameful response about his lowly job that he has become a slave. You see in Sudan you are either rich or power, with power or without power. Now when these “Lost Boys” made it to America they had no education or working skills, other than how to fire an AK-47 under attack, which isn’t a skill corporate America is currently hiring. So many of Sudanese had to take jobs at fast food restaurants, department stores, and other minimum wage job—and this was a major hit to the pride of a Dinka Sudanese. But in my opinion I couldn’t feel sorry for those boys, I feel sorry for what they had gone through, but not for their wounded pride that a minimum wage job was out of their league. All immigrant at some point or another had to start at the bottom in America and work their way up; it is the American dream to have the knowledge that one can come as nothing and make for himself whatever he is willing to work hard for. And that is why so many immigrants that come America become successful in business, because they come from nothing and now find the opportunity to make business without oppression, intimidation, or fear of war, at least for the most part. So I asked Philip, “But if your brother is a slave how can he send you money?” I said this knowing as a hard and fast rule Sudanese in America make the regular visit to Western Union to send a couple hundred bucks back to the family. “He will never be allowed to come back, they will keep him there.” He said with a smile. I laughed. This was all too funny to hear, and Philip was so sincere about it I started to see images in my mind of Philip’s brother chained to a fence being forced to paint it in the heat of the day. I shook the thought from my mind and chuckled to myself. Philip thought it hilarious as well and laughed when I laughed.

Philip later told me he loves America even though his brother is a slave. Philip was the type of guy who could be a great political humorist, and I think he knew it because he kept bring up anything to do with politics. He even suggested the U.S. Should send Dinka troops to fight in Iraq.

Posted by Admin at January 30, 2005 04:07 PM