10/09/2024
The Journey to Panyido Refugee Camp, Ethiopia – A Lost Boy’s Trek (Brimo's Book) chapter 6
I started with my family; we were 6 in Gau Majok family. Later on, I’ll add the elders before us. But the red army first. Geng Diing Gau, Diing Diing Majok ( Diing mangar), Diing Dhan (known name Fidele), Gout Dhan May his soul rest in peace, Garang Wieu Akok ( Garang Abul Nyinkuany May his soul rest in peace) and me Brimo A. Riak Nyinkuany. It was 1987, and the land was scorched. My feet, bare and blistered, touched the earth as if they were walking on fire. Every step I took felt like stepping into the mouth of an oven, the heat rising off the ground and burning through the soles of my feet. There was no shade, no mercy from the sun, only the blinding white of the sky pressing down on us as we moved.
I remember crossing the Nile 12 times or more, the river that seemed like both a lifeline and a tormentor. Every crossing was a battle—against the current, against exhaustion, against the fear that I would not make it across. The water was never kind, and yet, it was one of the few moments where the relentless heat subsided, just for a while. Crossing the Nile was always treacherous, but this time, it felt like the river was alive—angry, waiting for its chance to take us. I was in the canoe, my body shaking from exhaustion, and tied to the back of the boat was Uncle Dhieu Komdit’s donkey. They always called him by that name out of respect, he’s disabled with a stiff foot in support limping with a big stick and though he wasn’t with us, his animal had become part of our journey.
The donkey, restless and uneasy, fidgeted as we paddled. We were halfway across the river when the current grew stronger, threatening to pull us under. Out of nowhere, a hippopotamus appeared, its massive body slicing through the water like a shadow. I felt my heart stop. The beast’s eyes gleamed in the distance, and we knew it was trying to capsize a canoe.
The river seemed to conspire with the hippo. Suddenly, the donkey—pulled by the force of the current—flipped upside down, dragging the canoe off course. The girl paddling, no older than I was, fought with all her strength to keep us upright. But she was overwhelmed, her face a mask of fear, her muscles straining against the river’s relentless force. The hippo lurked behind us, and every second felt like a countdown to disaster.
The river was pulling us down, and with the donkey thrashing, our boat was swinging wildly. I clung to the side; my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The girl’s arms moved frantically, her paddle slipping, as the currents grew stronger. I thought that was it—that the river would swallow us whole, and we’d be another group of boys lost to the Nile. Today, my heart goes on for those young boys who didn’t survive to celebrate freedom.
But then, we were out again, walking. Always walking.
We hadn’t eaten in days, then weeks. Hunger gnawed at us like a living thing, clawing at our bellies, but there was no food. Each day, we would search—hoping for anything—berries, leaves, anything to fill the emptiness, but there was none. The emptiness wasn’t just in our stomachs. It began to consume everything—our minds, our spirits. What kept us going was the faint hope that at the end of this endless walk, there was a place, Panyido, where food and safety would await.
Ninety days we walked. The journey was more than physical; it was a trial of spirit. Sometimes, it felt as though the earth itself was testing us, pushing us to see how much we could bear. I saw boys younger than me collapse from exhaustion. They’d be there one moment, and the next, they were gone—lost to the journey. We were too weak to stop and mourn, too scared of what would happen if we didn’t keep going.
Yet, through the pain, through the hunger, there was something that held us together. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was the determination not to die in the wilderness. Whatever it was, it kept our legs moving, even when every part of our bodies wanted to give up.
When we finally arrived at Panyido, it wasn’t the relief I had imagined. The camp was crowded, overflowing with other boys like me. But there was food, and for the first time in months, we ate. I should have felt joy, but all I could feel was exhaustion. I realized then that survival didn’t mean the end of struggle. It only meant a new beginning. 10/8/2007. with this thesis statement, I'm very grateful to Professor Donn Evenson from community college of Spokane, for nominating me for Transforming Lives Award.
