جالون بنزين و حقنة

Quote: When the war started, we were too young to grasp the magnitude of what was going on; yet our child’s instincts detected something bad was happening. We did not know what it was. We just felt it was bad! At the beginning, we could not tell who was fighting what; but we heard of one man. We heard that out there, somewhere in the heart of the dense jungle, a man called Dr. John was leading a group of people to fight for something. Who was Dr. John; and what exactly were he and his followers fighting for? The answers did not really matter? For us, Dr. John was someone the older people around us liked. They talked fondly of him. They seemed to approve of what he was doing, even though it involved war and death! So, as far as the child within us was cornered, that Dr. John was definitely a good man. It would take us years to understand the significance of the bearded, bald man we saw in pictures! When the first bullets were fired, we were too young to understand why people carried guns, or what it meant to be a soldier, but four letters became part of our daily vocabulary. We could easily spell out S.P.L.A. What was SPLA; what did it stand for? We had no idea! All we knew, what our child’s mind could understand back then, was that SPLA were tough guys who were fighting the enemy. But who were the enemy, and why were they fighting our people? It would take us years to internalize and understand this question. It would take years to understand who are the enemy and why are they killing us? When the war broke out, we were too young to understand the importance of history. We could not fathom what people meant when they said history was about to repeat itself. History for us was the bedtime stories we heard every night before we went to bed. Then all of a sudden, the older people around us stopped telling our favorite stories. We did not know why? To make up for the void, we eavesdropped on what they were saying among themselves; and, to our great surprise, we discovered the stories they shared with each other were different from the ones they told us. What they recounted was so captivating that we couldn’t help but sit down quietly by the corner and listen in. We listened in to the tales of war; we listened in to the tales of destruction. Yes, their stories were different; nevertheless, we sat there and listened! And so we overheard the older people assure themselves that, unlike the first war, this time around the war would not last long. What first war?! It seemed our people were in wars for as long as they could remember. This time, however, the older people appeared determined to end the war once and for all. What a relief! They swore to fight to the end. They would never again be fooled into signing flawed agreements, and they would never waiver. Their goal was a free Southern Sudan. Whatever that meant! Maybe it was a land where kids run and play freely! Whatever it meant! We, the children, wanted our free Southern Sudan too. Subsequently, we created our own dream of this beautiful land. It’s the dream we would carry with us wherever we went for the next twenty some years. Uprooted and displaced, we scattered around the world. From the rubbles of Southern Sudan, to the neighboring countries of Africa, to Khartoum and several Northern cities, to across the Atlantic right into the Western Hemisphere, to places no on can imagine, and on each of the earth’s continents you would find us. Uprooted and displaced, we were deprived of a normal childhood, but we were full of dreams. We all yearned for the day the war was over. We yearned for peace; we yearned for equality; we yearned for freedom. We believed, one day, we’d go home. We believed, someday, we’d reclaim our lost childhood. Someday, we’d be able to give our children what we did not have. We believed, someday, we will have the ability to give our children the promise of a better tomorrow. When the war started, some of us were young, some were very young, and some were not even born yet, but our lives and destiny would be tied together. We would grow up with more than one thing in common. We would grow up to be the Generation of the War! Our lives would be shaped, our personalities molded, and our future defined by the same things we struggled to understand as children: the enemy, the war, the killings, the destruction, the suffering, peace, equality, freedom, Dr. John, SPLM, and SPLA. Ironically, our dreams would be separated by the same forces that brought us together. Our destiny would be broken by the same factors that tied us together! When the long awaited day finally came, when the guns went silent and the peace pact was singed, there was no time to rejoice. SPLM quickly divided us into groups, based on loyalty and patriotism. They used a secret formula to measure loyalty – loyalty, not to the land – not to the struggle - not to the cause - but Loyalty to them, the People! They were even able to come up with a formula for patriotism! Yes, patriotism was measured and the results were astoundingly shocking. We - those who grew up in Northern Sudan during the time of the war - found ourselves in the category of the non-comrades; those who never carried guns; those who never fought; the cowards! We were in the group of the unpatriotic; those who lived with the enemy and who speak the language of the enemy; the sellouts; the traitors. Yes, the results of patriotism were unsealed and, shockingly, we did not meet the requirements. From the get-go, SPLM decided we did not belong to the War. They determined we did not belong to Southern Sudan. Pagan Amum, the fiery voice of wisdom, wags his fingers in our face. He calls us disgruntled losers who have no place in Southern Sudan. Salva Kiir, Kiir Mayardit, the man who replaced the image of Dr. John, mocks us. He calls us the type of people he is not willing to have in his nation. SPLA, the freedom fighters we respect and revere, spit in our face. We are labeled, we are libeled, we are openly insulted, we are intentionally offended, we are ridiculed , and we are humiliated by no other than the Movement and the heroes we grew up idolizing, the SPLM. When the long awaited day finally came, there was no reason to rejoice. We immediately found out we were sidelined; we were left out; we were forgotten. We watched in bewilderment wondering: if we don’t belong to the Struggle, then where do we belong? But who would answer us? Who would tell Pagan Amum and Salva Kiir that our life in the North was not a joyride? Who would tell them of our experiences; who would tell them of our pain? Who would tell them how we grew up as strangers in the land that consistently rejected us? Who would tell them we always carried Southern Sudan in our hearts and the heavy weight of the struggle on our shoulders? Who would tell SPLM our life in the North was not a joyride; that the only thing that kept us going was tomorrow?! Tomorrow, the day John Garang comes. Tomorrow, the day we begin the march to Freedom. Who would tell them that, yes, we speak the language, but we were not assimilated. We kept our heritage, we clung to our identity, and, after more than twenty years, we can proudly say we are Southern Sudanese. We have the minds of Southerners; we have the soul of Southerners; we have the hearts of Southerners. Who would tell SPLM we are part and parcel of the Struggle; we are part and parcel of the War? How could they say we don’t belong? For the first time in more than twenty years, we feel betrayed; SPLM has robbed us of the Dream! They have turned us into strangers in our own land; we have become outsiders among our own people. Five years after the long awaited day finally came, we are nothing more than mere spectators who stand in the corners and watch from afar. No one answers our questions; no one hears our cries. We scan the horizon from afar and ask in desperation, will we ever belong to that land? Will there be a place for us in Southern Sudan? Will SPLM allow room for those never carried guns? We watch in bewilderment wondering: if we don’t belong to Southern Sudan, if we don’t belong to the Struggle, then where do we belong. Can someone answer us?!