I BELIEVE IT WAS LATE 1992 when a group of aid workers arrived in my village of Dengjok, located on the bank of the Pibor River, which meandered into the Nile. They came from Akobo Town, our local administrative center, with a mission to administer vaccinations to children. They arrived on a speedboat, which was exciting since we were more accustomed to seeing slow-moving canoes. The workers quickly addressed a public gathering of villagers, informing us of their mission, and everyone brought their age-appropriate children forward. My father’s newest wife, Nyachak, and I took my mother’s six-year-old twins, Both and Nyandit, to join the rest of the kids. I left my gun at home, as was customary whenever aid workers came around. The workers loaded all the children into the speedboat and prepared to take them across the quickly flowing river. The speedboat was visibly overloaded, yet there was excitement among the villagers, especially the kids, some of whom were riding on a speedboat for the first time.

My stepmother Nyachak and I stood on the bank with our eyes trained on the twins as they rode off with thirty or so other children. I rolled my pants up to my knees and waved happily, glad that they were going to receive life-saving vaccines, hoping that they would enjoy the ride.

As they rode farther out, Gatwech, whom we knew from back in Itang Camp, where he’d been a driver for the chief of staff and now newly minted SPLA commander William Nyuon Bany Machar, started doing funky moves with the speedboat to impress his audience. Those of us on the riverbank began cheering excitedly, and the kids, whether afraid or ecstatic, kept making similar loud noises. Then, in a split second, while everyone was cheering his antics, the speedboat capsized in the middle of the river, dumping everyone overboard.

From the time the twins were born, I had sworn that I would be like a father to them. As such, I had been present when they started to stand and walk. I had helped teach them how to speak and had even tried to make them swim. In that moment of excitement and confusion as the kids boarded the speedboat, it slipped my mind that Nyandit had always been afraid of water, and that her vehement protestations whenever I put her in a large body of it had made me stop bringing her along with me to the river. It slipped my mind that I should have been on the boat with Nyandit to reassure her.

Suddenly the cheers of excitement now turned into screams for help and mournful wails. My stepmother and I instantly looked at each other, recognizing that Nyandit didn’t know how to swim, and without thinking twice or saying a word, we both dove into the hippo- and crocodile-infested river on a mission to rescue my siblings and any other kids.

I was the first one to arrive at the speedboat. I flipped over every little body I came across—most had already run out of breath—and each time I did so, I found it wasn’t Nyandit. I dove into the murky waters of the river over and over again, my fingertips reaching for the bottom, feeling for Nyandit. Nyachak and I were both strong swimmers, but with time, the water overpowered us. Nyachak saved my brother Both, who had managed to hold his breath long enough to be rescued.

I searched for Nyandit for what felt like forever, but after a while, I was too exhausted to continue. All I could think was, in this, the most crucial moment of little Nyandit’s life, I had let her down. I had failed to fulfill my deep yearning to care for others, a need—a calling—that would stay with me forever. I started crying and screaming. I jumped right back into the river and spent long minutes underwater, eyes open, looking for her. I decided that if I had to die to find her, then that’s what was going to happen. At some point, I felt myself run out of breath and begin to drown. As I tried reaching the surface, I realized how deep I had gone. When I finally came up, I spat out a lot of water, as if I was vomiting. I had literally used up my physical strength.

The people on the riverbank started screaming for me to get out of the water. Nearly comatose, I swam slowly toward the bank, and when I got closer, people pulled me out and laid me on my back. Tears flowed freely from my eyes, my heart completely broken into a thousand pieces. I would never again feel such a sense of failure and defeat. I had let my little sister die.

Two or three other kids had not been found, and at this point, everyone was baying for the blood of Gatwech and the aid workers, who were being guarded across the river. In that moment of chaos, I saw my mother screaming and rolling on the ground. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran home and picked up my gun. When I got back to the river, I started swimming across, slowly, since I was running on fumes. By this time, the whole village had gathered on the bank. Those who hadn’t witnessed the events wanted to know the details. The anger blocking my throat and the tears flooding my eyes wouldn’t allow me to hold a conversation with anyone. I swam on.

Once I made it across the river, I ran toward the group of elders that had formed a shield around Gatwech and the aid workers. I was ready to open fire and shoot indiscriminately. I didn’t care who would die, since the loss of my sister made life not worth living anymore. As I got closer, still crying, a man I respected, Gatluak Ter, came from behind and snatched the gun from me.

GATLUAK TER: Ger, calm down. Ger, it was an accident!

He pinned me down and tried to talk to me, but I wasn’t listening. Then a man holding a spear joined the crowd gathering around me, and I sprang up unexpectedly, snatched the spear from his hand, and charged toward Gatwech and the aid workers. Another group of men pinned me down and took the spear away before I could launch it. I had little strength in me to fight and was easily overpowered. All I felt inside was the need for revenge.

The following morning, a group of men went back to the river with a fishing net, and my sister Nyandit’s body was recovered. I couldn’t go to view it, and when the traditional burial ceremony was being conducted, I stayed away. I was sinking into a deep depression. The one thing I knew was that continuing to stay near the Pibor River made me miserable. The sound of its rushing water was nothing but a constant reminder of my failure to keep Nyandit safe. The next morning, I woke up, packed my few belongings, and headed to the market, where my father was staying. I found him sitting under a tree.

DAD: I have heard.

ME: Gatwech was driving the speedboat. He did it.

By this time, Gatwech had already been confined in a makeshift holding cell. My father, angered, picked up his gun and traced the location. He too wanted to avenge my sister’s death, but he was also stopped by the elders. I felt like the shadow of death was following me. I had experienced the death of my brother Oder, then my friends at Baliet, and after I’d escaped from there to come back to Akobo, death had snatched my little sister from me. I felt as though I had to do something dramatic, something that would take me away from this dark cloud that was following me around. I decided I had to leave Akobo, one way or another.