AMERICANS DIDN‘T GET ME. I didn’t get them. I became a complete recluse, never talking unless I had to. I retreated and only observed, taking in whatever I needed to. And the only person that could see through the facade was Kueth. No one understood me better than my cousin, so I confided in him.

KUETH: Do you still speak Nuer or Arabic?

ME: Yes, Arabic is the common language that unites the northern and southern Sudanese. But our real language is Thok Naath.

KUETH: I used to speak Arabic because we were born in Juba. We have all forgotten Arabic and Nuer.

ME: I can teach you how to speak Nuer very well.

KUETH: Do you know how to write Thok Naath?

ME: Yes, I’m actually a good teacher in Thok Naath. And swimming is my thing too. I can teach you how.

KUETH: Tell me something about the Nile.

ME: When I was in Sudan, my friends and I went to play in the Nile. We were jumping from fifteen feet above the river because the river was deep during that season. One afternoon, a good friend named Jimmy dove in, not knowing some evil people had stuck their spears, straight up, deep under the surface. Jimmy was impaled to death.

It was an example of what I’d witnessed in my everyday life. Just one trauma among countless others.

We spoke late into the night about my childhood back in Sudan, the wars, the famine, and the long treks. Those were the nights when I couldn’t sleep and tossed and turned like soiled clothes in the washer, haunted and drained by memories of things at once so distant in the past in Sudan yet also lurking, stealthily in my mind, ready to ambush my spirit at any time.

Throughout high school, basketball was the only thing that helped me escape the tortured thoughts and festering anger that soldiering and other childhood traumas had drilled deep into my psyche.

I studied English during the day, and spent the bulk of my free time practicing my dribble and jump shots. I remembered a blue-eyed lawyer in Ifo, with his starched white shirt and pressed khaki trousers, who told me how I would be good at basketball. His prediction was right. My lanky frame served me well, as I had speed and agility.

I had ended my partying and gang posturing—I no longer stayed up late watching violent movies or wore gang-affiliated clothing. And instead, for the first time, I excelled at school and basketball. The game brought me praise, the team made me feel like a member of a supportive community, and following Coach McKinney’s instructions taught me to focus. For some reason, I was better able to follow the rules of my basketball coach than those of any other adult I’d met thus far in America. I’d found a way to communicate, to release my pent-up aggression, and to follow a leader I respected, who seemed to actually care about my well-being.

However, whenever I tried talking about my life in Africa, people thought I was joking or even lying. They couldn’t comprehend the world I described, partly because I had trouble putting my experiences into words. This was especially true of my new family, my cousins in particular, who barely remembered Sudan. If I’d been in their shoes, I’m sure I too would have found the events I described not only inhumane but also far-fetched. My delivery was an issue as well, because I didn’t seem horrified or even sad when I disappeared inside my head to draw out these memories—those everyday realities of normal life in Sudan. Other times, I thought recounting these things would scare my cousins, so I made a conscious decision to keep most of my past bottled up. I was an expressive person by nature, which made this emotionally difficult, and I forced myself to turn inward. Instead of dealing with my sadness, frustrations, and fear, I chose to study hard so that one day I’d have the tools to tell my story without any inhibitions, and the opportunity to rescue and recover my whole self once again.

During my senior year, in 1998, my team, the Cougars, played our rival, Martinsville. Our opponents, a white team made up essentially of people from the Indiana Klan, had a reputation for being racist, and our coach prepared us for this. The funny thing was, having been where I’d been, and seen what I’d seen, and done what I’d done, the last thing anyone could use to hurt me now was words. There was no verbal insult that could damage my confidence. The wind just blew it away.

COACH McKINNEY: Do not let Martinsville get under your skin. They’re notorious for acting up and shouting racist things to throw you off your game. Don’t take the bait. Just win. That’ll hurt them most.

When the game began, a Martinsville player aggressively targeted Kueth. It got to the point where he punched Kueth in the groin.

MARTINSVILLE PLAYER: You fucking nigger.

The referee brushed off the incident.

KUETH: Ref! He punched me! He’s a racist too!

REF: Double technical foul on the Cougars.

COACH McKINNEY: Kueth! Keep your cool or you’ll lose the game for us! I don’t care if it’s fair or not!

And as so often happens when no one stands on principle, another Martinsville player later felt emboldened enough to hit Kueth in the stomach, which caused him to vomit on the floor.

Aunt Julia screamed from the crowd in Nuer as I dashed to Kueth’s side, and the entire gym erupted, with opposing crowds shouting at each other. The chaos and rage transported me back to the front lines of war, and I felt the urge to kill rise up inside me. Before I could do anything I would regret, the officials called off the game. Police escorted our enraged team onto the buses. ESPN covered the incident the following day. In a strange way, this horrible episode helped me come closer to understanding that there were memories and emotions deep within me—like land mines strewn about my brain—that could easily be triggered.

I woke up in the middle of the night, seized with terror, dreaming that I was back on the hot battlefield, my gun jamming. I felt alone in my anguished mind and didn’t think there was anyone who’d understand my horror.