BACK IN 1986, THE YEAR I turned seven (I think), my mother gave birth to twins so tiny they could each almost fit in a man’s hand. The boy was named Both, and the girl, Nyandit. A year later, my younger sister Turuk died suddenly from an intestine infection and malaria. She was only two. Sorrow over her death haunted my mother, and it was compounded by another, almost graver loss—one she knew for sixteen years was coming but for which she could never, in her heart, be prepared.

Chuol left for Bonga a year or so after Oder had. Chuol was only fourteen, and somehow the fact that Mum had had more time getting to know these boys made the pain she felt at their absence almost physical—like she was an amputee, and they, her ghost limbs.

She had simply never expected any of her children to leave before they were fully formed, and not being able to see them grow into men and women was like being the victim of a violent theft. In Nuer culture, people don’t show physical pain, but emotional pain is different. When we’re happy, we dance and sing; when we’re sad, we mourn; and when we’re angry, we fight. Nothing is held inside, so witnessing the way my mother plodded when she fetched water, eyes downcast, without a spring in her step, I knew how badly this turn of events affected her.

She told fewer stories to us at night, and I missed hearing about how various animals that roamed the wild came to be the way they were. When I saw her once-bright eyes shining with tears while she swept the floor and did other simple tasks, I knew I had to try in every way possible to be of help to her. I dedicated myself not only to tending the cattle, but also to helping bring up the newborn twins, primarily by serving as a human baby carriage. I was seldom seen without one of them clinging to my back, although Mum also devised a small dieny—a traditional baby carrier made of a bundle of sticks—that the twins could ride in during our annual trek.

More importantly, I tried even harder to be for her everyone her heart had lost. It tears you apart inside, the inauthenticity of living as someone else. And just think—I had taken on the burden of four others (including my dad), and counting. Needless to say, as much as I wanted it to, that could not last forever. To be frank, it could not last for long.

There would be endless reports reaching my family about Oder’s time in the army, and whenever this happened, there would be excitement all around me, with everyone going on and on about Oder this and Oder that. All I could rely on was an almost empty sense of nostalgia, feeling like I knew him, yet knowing that I hadn’t spent enough time with Oder to speak about him with the sort of familiarity everyone else did.

My feelings about my brother centered mostly on a profound neediness—needing more conversations with him, more observations, more shadowboxing, more hugs. Less wondering about an enigma and more time with a boy who’d become a superhero to me. And isn’t it always the case with heroes that their greatest sacrifice is time with their loved ones in exchange for fighting for the greater good? But what if what’s good is unclear? What if neither side is actually on yours? What if having that hero away from home causes more harm to the family than help in resolving political conflicts? Yes, what if.