STORY ONE: BORN AGAIN

Manut Malang of Southern Sudan

Twelve-year-old Manut’s sleep was restless. As he tried to roll over, he automatically clutched at his stomach to try and relieve the pain. He quickly came awake and wondered which was worse, the pain from the bruises and open sores all over his beaten body or those constant gnawing hunger pangs. He could never get used to the ankle shackles, but he no longer noticed the horrible odour of the latrines he and his fellow-slaves were forced to sleep beside.

“Oh God, I want to go home. Please! Please help me. And please take care of my sister Akuac wherever she is.”

In the darkness a horse suddenly whinnied. Manut’s pulse began to gallop as fear coursed through his hurting and bruised body. Every time he heard the sound of a horse, he was forced to relive his most terrible nightmare.

He lay perspiring in the darkness looking up at the stars. The God whom he loved and served seemed so far away – just like those twinkling stars.  As his pulse returned to normal, his mind could not help continuing to race.

The sound of galloping horses’ hooves filled his memory and the fear returned. He remembered so clearly flinging down his primitive hoe and running at full speed with his older sister and younger brothers as at least 300 horses raced through their village of Tuic in the Bahr el Ghazal region of southern Sudan.

That fateful day was now four long years ago. The Arab riders dressed in military uniforms seemed to be shooting at every man in the village. Manut turned and watched in horror as his own father fell to the ground and immediately died from a gunshot wound to the head.

He ran even harder and faster. His heart was thumping like it would jump right out of his chest. Again came the sound of pounding horses’ hooves. This time, as he turned his head, he saw four horses and they were gaining on him quickly.

Manut screamed as he felt a rope go around his neck and lift him right off his feet. When he regained consciousness he was strapped and tied to the back of one of those horses now trotting back through the village. The way the Arab rider was yelling at him, he was sure they would kill him as they had his father.

Suddenly his stomach sickened as he saw bodies hanging from the few trees in the village. They had no arms and no legs. His eyes frantically searched to find his mother but he did not see her anywhere. What he did see was his older sister Akuac tied in a human chain with the other young girls. They were being led away by another horseman. Manut began to cry but no sound came from his mouth – just tears coursing down his young black face. A sharp pain penetrated his veins right to his brain!

Again the rider of his horse cursed at him and slapped him with an order to dismount. Manut slowly slid down the back of the horse, as the ropes were untied around him. But immediately someone else roughly grabbed him and pushed him into the line of other boys from the village and tied his wrists to their chain rope. They were forced to walk.

Manut knew the route they were taking to the north but after one day of walking, everything was strange and new. His stomach ached from lack of food. Although his bare feet were strong and trained for the hard dry ground, today they were fiery with pain from the long distance and several wounds. But the journey did not stop. He walked for what seemed an eternity. Only later would he learn that this forced march lasted eight days – eight exhausting days.

Manut could not help but cry whenever he remembered his parents, especially his father. He would never forget the love and faith his dad exhibited in their family. He had been a Christian since a young boy himself, like most of the men in their village. His Dad was the one who prayed with Manut to receive Jesus into his heart earlier that year. He taught Manut to pray regularly and always tell the Lord what was on his heart.

“Lord be with Mama right now and help her I pray. And please protect my brothers and especially Akuac. Help her to trust you wherever she is right now. And Lord, please move the hearts of my captors to give me some food and rest…or take away my hunger pains and the aches in my feet.”

It was as if the Arab slave traders had heard him. Hours before sunset on this day five of the journey, they benevolently stopped and set up camp early. That night he was given a light meal of leftover beans and corn. Manut thanked God silently.

The horse neighed again and awoke Manut from his trance-like memories. This time his master’s three dogs began barking.

“Lord, why am I treated far worse than those dogs?”

His face was wet with tears. And he prayed silently – again!

“Mohammed, wake up! It’s prayer time! Santino, Festus, Hussein, you too!” a demanding voice called into the darkness. Manut hated his new name and the enforced rules of Islam placed upon him. But he obediently got up with the others, threw on his red jallabia, a one-piece cloth identifying slaves, and walked toward the mud prayer house. The first day his new owner demanded he join in Muslim prayers. But he had objected and refused. The resultant beating he received was so severe it was three days before he could walk again. He still had the scars to show for it.

The men and boys bowed on the prayer mats and repeated together their memorized Koranic prayers. Manut joined them but in his heart he was pleading with God to forgive him for this outward complicity and to help him bear another day of pain and hunger – but most of all, to somehow escape! He was thankful to the Lord, however, that unlike some of his village friends, he was not forced to train for military service.

After a small breakfast of just dried root crops, he was herded off to the fields again where he and the other 700 or so slave boys cultivated the fields and cared for the large herds of cattle. But the cattle were not faring well at the moment because of the serious drought conditions.

That morning turned out to be very different. As they finished their early morning work, 200 of the slave boys were taken back to the main camp centre. Manut was among them. Soon he realized that they were setting off on another trek, southwards this time, to find some water for the cattle. Manut’s spirits rose as he thought of the southlands again.

On night five of the cattle drive south, he made his calculated move. When the night watchman was sleeping, Manut slipped out of his rope shackles and quietly stole out of the camp. He hobbled through the darkness on his weak, skinny legs with the help of his walking stick as fast as he could in a southeastern direction. Even though his stomach still ached, the hope of finding his mother and family was enough to drive him forward. During the day he rested in the bush and each night he trekked farther and farther south. As he hobbled along, he told himself over and over, “I am NOT Mohammed. I am Manut. I belong to Jesus!”

When at last he finally reached his village he was shocked. Every home had been burned to the ground and no one was around anywhere. The whole community had been razed. His heart sank in desperation.

“Oh Lord! Help me find my mother if she is still alive.”

Manut sat on the ground near his childhood home and again tears flowed freely from his eyes as he relived the last memory of his father and mother and brothers and older sister.

“Where would Mother go?”

Like a loud voice from the sky came the thundering directive to his mind, “Go to your Uncle Await’s home in Aweil!”

Manut grimaced as he thought of another three-day trek to the west. What if he ran into the cattle drive of his slave owner? They would surely be looking for him.

Knowing his village, he at least salvaged some hidden root crops to help keep the hunger pangs at bay. With a prayer he set off westward.

On the third night he saw the smoke of the cooking fire billowing above the village of Aweil. His heart was pounding again as he approached the hut of his Uncle Await.

A scream of delight pierced the air. It was his mother running toward him and behind her were his three younger brothers. Manut also began to run. The reunion was a teary but joyful one.

But one surprise was the little three-year-old girl trailing behind his brothers.
“One of the soldiers forced himself on me the day you were abducted,” she haltingly muttered. “I named her after your older sister, Akuac.” Tears came to his mother’s eyes as she stammered on, “I miss her so much!”

After telling his long story of captivity and escape, the discussion quickly turned to his older sister Akuac. No one had heard anything from her or about her, but his mother, Abuong, still prayed for her every day. She mentioned to him that about once a month North Sudan Arab traders were bringing back to the marketplace some of their slaves originally captured from the south. The going rate for a young girl to be redeemed was five cows.

“Lord, please look after my sister Akuac. If possible, let me redeem her.”

Manut prayed and worked hard. His whole family did! With help from his Uncle Await, and his cow-herding skills developed under slavery in the north, he soon was able to develop a small herd of his own. But the first cows had to be sold for materials to build his mother and brothers their own hut. In one year’s time Manut was proudly living in his own home with mother and brothers. They all continued to work very hard.

By the time another year rolled around, Manut had five cows. Every month he would go to market and watch from a distance the slave traders selling their slaves. His greatest fear was being abducted again.

On the fifth month of going to market, Manut saw a larger number of slave girls. He strained to see if he could recognize his sister but he realized it had been six years since he saw her last. She was a small girl at that time.
One of the slave girls impressed him though. She was tall but seemed to have the same spirit as Akuac. His hopes were dashed as he saw a very young boy clinging to her hand.

But something drove him to get closer. Soon he could see the straight square teeth he remembered about her so well.

“Akuac?”

The girl smiled and waved.

“Manut?”

He rushed to the slave trader completely forgetting the personal risk he was taking.

“How much for that girl? She’s my sister!” he yelled.

“Five cows,” the trader answered with a smirk. “But you need three more cows for her son!”

“So that’s it. He is her son. Then I’m an uncle!”

“OK, wait for me to get them,” Manut replied. And he rushed off home. Eight cows were all they had including Uncle Await’s. It was worth the loss of them all to have his sister back.

“Mother! Mother,” he yelled excitedly. “Akuac is at the market!”

Abuong rushed to the market with tears flowing down her cheeks. In just a matter of minutes the transaction was completed and the family members were joyfully reunited.

Akuac quickly shared the horrors of her six years away as they walked home. She was sold to a northern Arab who made her wash clothes, haul water, fetch firewood, and help with cooking. She survived on table scraps and slept in the kitchen. She was very badly treated. Manut felt the pain as his own as he watched her reveal the scars.

“He gave me a Muslim name and forced me to take part in Muslim rituals, even though I am a Christian,” she continued. “When I refused, I was harshly beaten. And when my master’s wife went to market or left the home for any reason, he…” Akuac lowered her eyes.

“What is my grandson’s name?” asked Abuong.

“I named him Manut,” Akuac smilingly replied.

That night after their meagre meal, Abuong still sobbing with joy said to her two older children Akuac and Manut, “It’s like you both have been born again!”

*   This story of Manut and Akuac is a “composite” story with all details being true experiences but of several different Sudanese children.