Sudanese Refugees
by Nicole Snedigar, September 22, 2002
Good morning. I have to start out by telling you that it is rather ironic for me to be up here, first of all because for most of my life I have been a Christmas and Easter churchgoer, and second of all because although I have known for most of my life that I have "faith," I didn't really know until recently just what exactly my "faith" was in.
When I think of my childhood, I am filled with warm memories. Of falling asleep on a full stomach after a warm bath, surrounded by the love and comfort of my parents. I think of feeling safe, of feeling carefree, and of living without need. As a child I had no idea, nor did I have any reason to know, that halfway across the globe there were children close to my age who were facing a very different reality.
While I fretted about being separated from my mom on the first day of kindergarten, there were thousands of children in Southern Sudan who were forced to flee, not knowing if they would ever be reunited with their families, as their villages were attacked by the Sudanese military. These children, mostly boys between the ages of 7 and 17, were among the youngest of those uprooted from their homes by a brutal civil war between the northern and southern populations in Sudan.
While I complained that it was too far to walk to school by myself, these boys (who later became known as the "Lost Boys") banded together and walked for months in search of safety, without food, water, or the protection of adults. Many of them died from starvation, disease, bombings, ambushes and attacks by wild animals. Those who survived eventually crossed the Eastern border into Ethiopia, where they found temporary shelter in the refugee camps.
While I had reoccurring nightmares about a gorilla living in my closet, these boys had reoccurring nightmares about being attacked in their sleep. Three years after arriving in Ethiopia, when a change in the Ethiopian government left them unwelcome in that country, they were once again forced to trek back into Sudan, by way of a perilous river crossing. Their nightmares would then forever be filled with the images of their friends, many of whom could not swim, either drowning, being shot by the Sudanese military on the other side of the border, or meeting an unimaginable fate by the crocodiles that lurked under the waters of the Gilo river.
Finally, after a terror-filled journey that covered thousands of miles, they arrived on foot, exhausted, into the safety of the refugee camps in Kenya, where for the next eight years they received meager food rations and an adequate education.
Then, as I waited anxiously for my commencement ceremonies to begin, on the other side of the globe the 3,400 remaining "Lost Boys" waited anxiously to see if their names would appear on a list of refugees who would have the opportunity to come to America and pursue their ultimate dreams of a solid education, with the goal of one day returning to a peaceful homeland and being among the future educated and free Christian leaders of Sudan.
Last January, our two worlds quite literally collided: the "Lost Boys" who are no longer lost and no longer boys, entered my sheltered reality in the Bay Area. I had the privilege of meeting several of the 60 young men who are transitioning to life in Silicon Valley. And since then, my faith and my perspective on life have been profoundly affected. Obviously they have experienced more in their lifetimes than I will ever be able to comprehend in mine. Yet amidst the vast differences between our journeys to this moment, we have something very important in common: the trust and the belief that God is somehow looking out for us.
For them, their faith in God allowed them to survive tragedy unlike anything I will ever know. Their faith kept them alive. As for me, I have known no tragedy in my life. I have not struggled. I have more blessings than I deserve. And so my faith stems from the belief that God is watching over me as well, that God has a plan, and that He works in mysterious ways. Which constantly makes me wonder, "How and why would God allow these childhood experiences to be so drastically different - why would some have to struggle so much and others so little?"
Since meeting and spending time with these extraordinary guys, I have wrestled with this question. And I think I am coming closer to finding an answer. Because although I have always felt "privileged" and lucky, I am learning that really, the privilege is in knowing these guys, and having the honor of calling them my friends. They remind me that life is precious. That I should take nothing for granted. From their stories and their prayers I have a whole new understanding of the words "hope," "peace," "faith" and "determination." From their friendship I have gained a new appreciation for my blessings, and have been filled with an overwhelming sense of obligation to help. Almost as if I owe it to God to use my skills to the fullest advantage and share my blessings.
It is hard enough for a native Californian to make it work in Silicon Valley. Imagine the new challenges these refugees face in the Bay Area, after all that they have already been through. And I don't simply mean financial challenges. Just to give you an example, recently during an evening when I attempted to teach them some simple cooking skills, I stepped right into a discussion about why men in America are only allowed to marry one woman. Another time, with my limited computer skills, I helped one of the guys navigate an error message that prevented him from printing a school assignment that he had typed for his roommate, who had to work that day. And just yesterday, I found myself trying to explain why it is not such a great idea to practice their English by repeating lines from the "Blazing Saddles" movie that they had borrowed from the library. I am doing whatever I can to be a friend, a guide, and an advocate. Sometimes I feel that I get more out of it than they do.
They fill me with hope. Their resilience and their determination are inspiring. Despite their horrific journey, they are optimistic about a peaceful Sudan. I can't imagine living everyday with the same anxiety, vulnerability and vivid fear that we all felt a year ago on September 11. Yet these guys not only overcame tremendous adversity and human rights violation, they are healing from it. They remain peaceful, gentle, spiritual Christians. Their faith is stronger than ever. From them I have learned more about my own faith - faith in one's religion, even amidst religious persecution, faith in one's beliefs, faith in one's relationship to God, family and friends. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could all be the same kind of ambassadors of peace? They have challenged me to put my faith in action. To see the smiles on their faces is to see the presence of God.
And let me tell you, you really haven't lived until you find out your net worth in cows.
If you would like to meet these Sudanese young men, please join us in Creekside between 10:45 and 11:15 this morning, where they will be performing some of their traditional African dancing.
