SAMUEL

As I walked to the cafeteria to fill up my coffee, I interrupted a few of our young men talking and laughing while sewing up a couple pairs of pants.

We laughed and joked for a few minutes before I questioned one of them about how old he was now, and how old he was when he came here.

He replied, “I am 19 now, and my father dropped me, my brother, and my sister here when I was six years old.”

I asked hesitantly, “Will you tell me some of your story, Samuel? I want to tell your story.”

He somberly looked up and said, “I’ve heard before that stories are what change people.”

“I agree,” I replied smiling. "Can I share yours?" I asked.

“My parents,” he began, then his arms motioned impromptu sign language for a word he couldn't come up with, so I hopped in and said, “Split? Did they split up?”

“Yes, they split up. You see that guy up on the wall?”

I turned to face a bold, but off center picture of the man who originally led the revolution for South Sudan’s freedom.

“I lived in his barracks with my father. He was in the army with that man.”

“So your mother? She left?” I inquired.

“Yes, she left. I don’t remember when," pausing as if returning to that last moment he saw her.

"After a little while my father then brought us here, because that military life was very hard. Hard for us all.” Closing his eyes and lowering his head, speaking in a hushed, unstable voice, he forced words out again, “It was very, very hard.”

A moment of silence, seeming to last a lifetime, left us hanging there before he looked up, chin trembling, and began again: “My father was killed a few years ago. I never saw him again after he dropped us here.”

"Killed in the war?"

"No, by some of his friends that ended up not being friends."

Silence again bought the moment. I sheepishly gave him a look of sadness, trying to mutely communicate that I understood without being able to understand, and then muttered hesitantly, “What happened to your mother?”

“We didn’t see her until 2013. She thought we were dead. That whole time, for many years, she just thought we were dead.”

“So where is she now?”

“Uganda,” he replied.

“At the refugee camp?”

“Yes, at the camp.”

With tears in our eyes, I hugged him and put forth the only words I was able to find, “I’m sorry, Samuel. So sorry. But, I am glad you are here. Safe.”

He grinned and said, “I am glad to be here in this place. This is a place of opportunity.”