As the battle started, mortars, grenades and machine-gun bullets tore into a line of 1200 government troops. Clouds of smoke and panicked birds billowed from the ground below. Standing under an African thorn tree, the rebel commander looked on, as the carnage unfolded on the Sudanese savannah. It is 1983, and the first day of death had begun, ending a nine-year ceasefire in Africa’s largest country, and longest war.
Meanwhile, in the remote town of Bor, buried deep in southern Sudan, Chol traced circles in the sand which dominates the landscape. A young man wielding a sub-machine gun walked past Chol’s hiding spot, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead under the legendary Saharan sun. Chol was well used to the formidable presence of militiamen around his hometown, but nonetheless, he felt a chill run down his spine as this enormous specimen of a man marched by. This man was not like the others, but a black militiaman in the pay of Sudan’s Arab regime, further symptomatic of the latest outbreak of hostilities between the Islamic north and Christian south.
Walking through the park, his brothers’ light-hearted chatter reverberated down the street. It was then that Chol heard the distant throbbing of aeroplane propellers. Only nine years old, Chol had not witnessed the turbulent end of Britain’s influence in his country, nor the harrowing beginnings of Sudan’s civil war, but even so, Chol knew that the ominous whirring he heard approaching meant no good.
It was on that day that the bombing began. Soviet-owned planes swept across the small city, leaving in their wake a path of devastation. Pilots would sweep so low that their unfaltering faces, hardened by government propaganda, were visible in the cockpit. Chol hurried home from the park, petrified by the images that now filled his head. All too aware of the dangers of staying, Chol’s father immediately instructed him and his three younger brothers, to run.
Chol fled on foot, and amidst the confusion, he was separated from his brothers, whom he would not see for many years to come. It soon became clear that escaping would be hard and although Chol began his flight from persecution with hundreds of others, he had to go on as if he were alone. Of those he began with, many did not make it. Realising they could expect no sympathy, they wearily pulled themselves from the track to die.
They did not travel on the road, because of the constant threat posed by the presence of militiamen, both those of the government and the many local warlords, and so instead they traced a treacherous path through the savannah. Food and water were short, and the fugitives strictly rationed what they could carry in makeshift containers on their heads. Chol had no shelter, no money, no clothes other than what he had on, and had to forage for the little food and water he got. The hundreds Chol went with did not offer him any help—each person struggled making their own way—but they did offer him someone to follow, and this gave him hope.
It took three long months to reach the Ethiopian border. Hostile mercenaries were rampant. They would take whole crowds trying to cross the border and order them to hand over money and valuables of any kind or be killed.
In spite of the odds, young Chol finally arrived at Dimma one day late in 1983. Hemmed in by seemingly boundless expanses of desert on all sides, this was the day that Chol entered a refugee camp and became a refugee. Chol came to the camp alone, and at just nine years of age self-sufficiency was a characteristic deeply imbued in his character. He was briefly screened, before being pushed out into the unwelcoming world that was the Dimma refugee camp.
The conditions in the camp were nothing short of horrific. To begin with, the time Chol spent there, he spent alone. For the first few nights, he slept on a cramped and hardened piece of earth beneath the starry expanse of African sky which spread out above him. Chol soon set about constructing himself a small mud hut. It was hard work and he laboured alone for days under a violent sun to complete the hut that for the next ten years, he would make his home.
And for ten years, the yellow dunes would reign supreme, determined to fetter his attempts at moving forward. The yellow sand permeated everything, working its way through gaps in the walls and roof, each morning leaving a thin film of fine yellow grains around the place where his head had been. He would feel it against his face and in his hair and in the inside of his mouth too. The nights were cold.
There was no sense in talking to anyone about things. Everyone was in the same position. They all just wandered about like ghosts, the desert looming either side of them. There were crowds everywhere, but everyone was alone.
One day Chol discerned that everything was gradually changing for the better. This was the day it was announced that rudimentary schooling was to commence for the children in the camp. Long deprived of the simple joys of childhood, it was the first excitement Chol had felt in many months.
To begin with, they were divided into classes of fifty, took their lessons under what little shelter the thorn trees around the camp could offer and wrote with charcoal on cardboard packaging. Soon Chol was fortunate enough to be allocated a sponsor, and was then allowed to go to a school in town. Here he completed his education whilst living in the refugee camp. Chol wanted to pursue medicine, but could not afford the prohibitive costs of study, and so he went on to do a teaching diploma. It was at that time, in the horrendous conditions of Dimma refugee camp that Chol met Ariet.
Ariet’s first husband had been killed some years earlier, and she was living as a widow when she first arrived at the camp. Their courtship was brief: an Ethiopian refugee camp was no place for romance.
The camp’s conditions were still unimaginably horrific, but Chol had finally found strength through the happiness his wife’s companionship gave him. Chol’s newly-wed bride soon announced that she was expecting their first child, and several months after that, they brought a beautiful young girl, Hasana, into the world.
Chol’s lowly mud hut in Dimma refugee camp was hardly a proper place to bring up a child, and come 1994, war had broken out anew in Ethiopia in the wake of Eritrea’s recent secession. Security at Dimma crumbled in the following weeks, and Chol, along with Ariet, Hasana, and fifteen other friends from the camp decided to move on.
Thus began the soul-destroying journey which lay ahead of him. As with his escape from Sudan over ten years earlier, Chol, his wife and friends fled on foot. Again, they could not follow the roads for danger of persecution, and again they had no money, water or food. This time, however, Chol was charged with the added responsibility of protecting his wife and six-month-old daughter, and they were ill-prepared for the conditions ahead.
The water was bad; any that was found had to be drunk and that which was left over, they had to carry on their heads in whatever container they could fashion at the time. En route, many were plunged into a ruthless cycle of poor health and those who were relatively well had to care for those who were not. Many amongst the group had badly blistered feet and everyone removed their clothing to use as bandages. In the cold and hungry nights, and the hot and hungry days, Hasana cried hopelessly for food as Chol carried her in a makeshift sling on his back. This continued for three and a half months as the small group walked towards their final destination, the Kenyan border.
When they finally reached the border, the Kakuma refugee camp, they were not alone. Indeed, there were 96,000 other refugees from the neighbouring countries of Ethiopia, Somalia and Sudan—all thrust into turmoil by the political climate that pervades much of Africa to this day. Here, Chol was tearfully reunited with three of his brothers, Artem, Kabira and Abraham, whom he had neither seen nor been able to communicate with for many years. Moreover, it was the first time that Chol had ever met his thirteen year-old brother, Abraham. This was a moment of great joy and pride for Chol. All the same, not all was well at Kakuma.
Without sufficient food, water or shelter, tensions between the hundreds of ethnic groups ran high, and affrays were a regular occurrence in the camp. Likewise, situated close to the Kenyan border, the number of militiamen from neighbouring countries was of epidemic proportions. Hundreds of innocent refugees were killed—for their gold teeth, their Christianity, or for no reason at all.
At the camp, Chol and Ariet were processed by the UNHCR and so began their uphill battle to be accepted in a Western country as refugees seeking political and religious asylum. While it would seem that for many others of the 96,000 in his company, providence was not on their side, Chol was fortunate enough to be processed relatively quickly, waiting only three years for Australia’s eventual notification of acceptance. Within a few short weeks, the Australian government had arranged the necessary flights and Chol was embarking on the most important journey of his life.
On his arrival in Australia in 1998, Chol was sent to Hobart, Tasmania, with his wife and child. Soon afterwards, he moved to Launceston, where he could pursue a nursing degree at the University of Tasmania, fulfilling his lifelong dream to work in medicine. Two years on, with the help of a Launceston church, Chol was again reunited with three of his brothers, after successfully petitioning for their processing on compelling compassionate grounds.
With the support of his church and friends, Chol, a self-motivated student, quickly picked up English, his fourth language, and will soon finish his nursing degree. He hopes to remain in Launceston, his home, where Chol and Ariet have had three more delightful children—all of whom are proud to call Australia home.
Even now, Chol’s life is clouded by uncertainty. Recently, he learnt of a devastating militia attack at Kakuma refugee camp. After several painful weeks of not knowing, and desperately trying to contact foreign embassies and family, it was confirmed that Ariet’s sister was killed in the senseless massacre.
Chol’s next challenge is to achieve reunion with Ariet’s children from her first marriage, who are still in Africa. They have not yet been processed by the UNHCR for consideration for refugee status in Australia since they are not living in a refugee camp. The problem is complicated by Ariet’s father’s determination to prevent them from entering a refugee camp, since the inherent danger is just too great.
In spite of all he has experienced, Chol is remarkably optimistic in his approach to life, and his commitment to asylum seekers and wider community is a testament to his burning desire to live, and make a difference in the world. Chol’s story is one of survival over immense circumstantial forces against it, and today, Chol feels immeasurably grateful to the Australian government for the opportunities they have afforded him and his family. His only wish is that the privilege of sharing in his new country—our country—could be extended to more people, who like him, have suffered beyond most people’s comprehension.