After four months at the University of New Hampshire, John Akok and Moses Ajou are still a bit bewildered by the array of foods available at Philbrook Dining Hall. Wearing UNH jerseys, the two freshmen greet me at the entrance to the dining hall with friendly smiles and firm handshakes. Gracious hosts, they try to pay for my lunch, even though I'm the one who asked them to meet me here. After swiping their meal cards through her machine, Carol Lamarre of the Dining Services staff confides with heartfelt enthusiasm, "They're nice boys!"
Less than two years ago, Akok and Ajou were living in a huge refugee camp in Kenya, where most meals consisted of cornmeal and water. Now in their early 20s, they are two of the "Lost Boys of Sudan," the name given to thousands of young refugees who were orphaned or separated from their parents in 1987 at the outbreak of the terrible civil war that still wracks Sudan. Children of the cattle-herding Dinka and Nuer tribes of southern Sudan, many of the Lost Boys saw their villages burned and family members and neighbors killed. There are a few Lost Girls as well, but most of the refugee children were boys who were away from their villages tending cattle when the attacks came.
Forced to flee for their lives, an estimated 20,000 to 25,000 children and teenagers trekked hundreds of miles from southern Sudan to Ethiopia. When violence broke out in Ethiopia, they made their way back to Sudan, and finally to Kenya. The boys stuck together in groups and helped each other on their odyssey. Many did not survive. No one knows how many were killed by hunger, disease, flooding rivers, lions and other wild animals. Those who made it to Kenya found shelter and food in the United Nations' Kakuma refugee camp. Akok and Ajou spent 10 years there. They received some schooling in the camp, but it was "an open prison," Ajou says. The young refugees could neither return to war-torn Sudan, nor settle permanently in Kenya. Finally, the United States government granted permanent residence to more than 3,500 of the young Sudanese--the first time such a large number of unaccompanied minors has been granted refugee status.
Akok and Ajou are both Dinkas, wiry and dark-skinned. Ajou is a little taller and lankier than Akok, but they both have friendly smiles, a direct gaze and the habit of listening intently when others speak. They come from neighboring districts of Bahr el Gazhel (River of Gazelles) province in southwestern Sudan. They speak clearly and thoughtfully in accented English, responding willingly to questions about their ordeal, the loss of their families and the way of life that they knew as young children. But they emphasize that their stories are not unique. "There were other children with the same problems like me," Akok observes quietly.
Akok, who was 7 years old in 1987 when northern Sudanese Muslims struck his village, has fond memories of his early childhood and his extended family in Sudan. "I used to help my elder brother looking after calves, goats and sheep," he recalls. He knew the names of all of his family's animals by the age of 4 or 5. When the village was attacked, he says, everyone scattered in confusion and panic. He ran, too, and when he looked back to the village, he saw only "huge, dark smoke." He wandered for a day on his own before meeting a cousin of his mother, who helped him to escape from the combat zone. Akok says he learned the value of kinship from this cousin's kindness to him.
Ajou is not certain exactly how old he was when his village was attacked. "All I can remember is that I left Sudan one-and-a-half years after I shed my milk teeth, or first teeth," he says. He was playing hide-and-seek with other children in a field of tall grass when they were startled by "gunshot cracking like thunder and lightning," he recalls. "We were as scared as the sheep attacked by the wolf. We ran in different directions as fast as our feet could carry us." He wandered, hiding, crying in the thick grass for hours. He was eventually found by an uncle, who had been tending cattle in the grassland when the attack occurred. "I wanted to see my mom," Ajou says, "but my uncle told me the village was deserted and totally destroyed." His uncle took him in search of his parents, but they found village after village burned to the ground, only scorched red mud walls left standing.Luckier than many of the children, Ajou fled Sudan with his uncle. "Before we set off from our village, my uncle promised to carry me on his shoulders if I couldn't walk anymore. He vowed to do whatever it took to take me to a safe haven," Ajou recalls. "I never did ask him to carry me, because there were other boys of my age who had no proper guardians but were determined to trek along." The company and care of his uncle helped ease the pain of Ajou's separation from his family. He has since learned that his father is dead, but he believes his mother and three siblings are alive in Sudan. His uncle eventually joined the army, after leaving Ajou in a camp in Ethiopia. He was killed in battle in 1989.
The resettlement of minor and young-adult Sudanese refugees is a collaborative undertaking of federal and state agencies, legions of nonprofit organizations and a corps of dedicated volunteers and foster families. Since December 2000, groups of young Sudanese have been settled in communities all across the United States, including the Greater Boston area. Those who were still minors when they arrived in the U.S. were placed with foster families, enrolled in local schools and supported through coordinating agencies in each settlement region. Those over 18, like Ajou and Akok, were settled in group apartments, with supporting services provided by resettlement agencies. Most found entry-level jobs to begin supporting themselves.
When Ajou reached the U.S., he was placed in a Chelsea, Mass., apartment with four other refugees. Their neighbors were all immigrants, he notes, from many different countries. Ajou had a job as a security officer at a factory, and he took classes at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston.Akok was one of 11 Sudanese refugees settled in two apartments in Lynn, Mass. "People weren't mean," he says of the neighborhood, "but they never talked to us." He found his first year in America difficult. "I was wanting to go back to Africa," he confesses. He was enrolled in a class at Bunker Hill while working two full-time jobs--as a document specialist at IKON Office Solutions and as a store clerk at LSG Sky Chiefs--so he could send money to his brother and two sisters back in Kenya.
Only a small handful of the Lost Boys were able to finish their schooling while growing up in the refugee camp, notes David Chanoff, a former Tufts University English professor who has volunteered to be an educational advisor to the over-18 group of refugees. In the camp schools the boys learned English from teachers trained years ago by British missionaries. Many of the young men are now working toward their graduate equivalency degrees while working full time. Some are taking college classes part time, but Ajou and Akok may be the first of the Lost Boys to enroll in a residential college program in the United States. Chanoff says that he has dedicated himself to helping the young Sudanese, not out of sympathy, but because he finds them inspiring. "They ought to be angry, hostile and aggressive, but they are just the opposite," he observes. "UNH has done something truly remarkable in admitting John and Moses. I've been in the academic world for a lot of years, and I have never heard of anything like this." He frequently sees Akok and Ajou at regular Friday-night gatherings of the Boston Sudanese group, and he says their university experience has "changed their lives."
The Sudanese connection to UNH began in the summer of 2001, when the young refugees had been in the Boston area for several months at most. Coordinators of the refugee program contacted the College of Life Sciences and Agriculture to ask if a group of Lost Boys could visit the dairy barns. Cattle are the foundation of Dinka culture and economy, and the young Dinka men were curious about cows in America. "We asked all the time," explains Carlos Nai, a 17-year-old student at Winchester (Mass.) High School, who has visited UNH twice. "There is so much milk in America! Where does this milk come from? We don't see any cows!"
Pete Erickson, an assistant professor of animal and nutritional sciences, responded with an invitation for a tour of the Dairy Teaching and Research Center. Moses Ajou was among the more than 70 Sudanese who came to UNH to see the herd of 200 Holsteins. "The guys were hugely excited to see the cattle," recalls Chanoff, who accompanied the group. "And the UNH people were excited to see the guys."
The animal science department had organized a buffet luncheon, demonstrations of milking and research projects, and small-group tours. Thompson School Associate Professor Drew Conroy prepared chai for them, spoke to them in Swahili, and talked about Dinkas with whom he has worked in Africa.
For these young men, coming from a land without electricity, telephones or motors, watching the demonstrations of computerized milking machines was "like science fiction," Chanoff observes. When Erickson showed them the scientifically blended feed given to the UNH Holsteins, one of the young men said, "We ate this every day--cornmeal and a cup of water."
After that visit, Erickson was determined to bring some of the Lost Boys to UNH. "It is remarkable to me to see these guys, who have been to hell and back many times, with such positive attitudes," he says. "After all they have been through, they are thankful for what they had. They could be angry, resentful. But they appreciate everything that is given to them. They thank God every day." Kelly Giraud had just arrived at UNH as a new assistant professor of resource economics and development when she saw a report on the Lost Boys of Sudan on NBC's "Dateline" on Sept. 9, 2001. "It was just my second week here," she recalls, "and the story just grabbed me." Giraud had been given some tuition waivers for graduate students to assist with her research, and she asked permission to use part of that money for tuition costs for some of the Lost Boys. Andrew Rosenberg, dean of the College of Life Sciences and Agriculture, not only granted that request, he suggested she get Erickson to help her to line up some potential students.
Erickson and Giraud made several trips to Boston to speak with groups of Sudanese refugees about opportunities at UNH. Erickson's church, the First Congregational Church of Farmington, donated coats and money for books. Tom Fairchild, a professor of animal and nutritional sciences, gathered used computers to send to Boston. Jibril Salaam, associate director of admissions, helped Giraud to guide candidates through the admissions process.
Adjusting to the American education system wasn't easy for Akok and Ajou, but with one semester behind them, they are confident that they will succeed at UNH. Before arriving on campus, neither of them had touched a computer. Giraud found two used computers for them in November, and they quickly become adept at e-mail and searching the Web. Akok was excited to discover the wealth of information about Dinka culture available on the Web, which helped him to write papers for his anthropology class. He was amazed at how much time it takes to research, compose and type a paper.
Justus Ogembo, assistant professor of anthropology and education, has Akok in his course, Introduction to Race, Culture and Power, and is impressed by his writing ability. "I thought they would have some language problems, but John writes very well," he says. "His British style is precise and to the point." Near the end of the semester, with a couple of papers still to be graded, Akok had an A average for the course, placing him easily among the top five students in the 38-student class.
"The essence of humanity" is how Ogembo describes the university's support for the Sudanese students. Educating young people like Akok and Ajou has a great and positive influence in the world, he says. Everyone learns in this situation--not only Akok and Ajou, but their classmates as well. When Akok speaks in class, Ogembo remembers why diversity in the classroom is important: so everyone can share different ways of experiencing the world.
The academic demands of college life were not the only challenges facing the two Sudanese students. "Living in a dorm with girls--that's different!" Akok observes with a shy grin. Cultural differences in gender roles and interaction are a big topic of discussion and good-natured joking on their floor in Devine Hall, which is reserved for students with a particular interest in other cultures. Akok and Ajou have made friends on the floor and enjoy learning about other students' backgrounds. Samantha Burns '06, perhaps their best friend, helps them with their computer skills and occasionally types a paper for them. "Our RA (resident assistant), Lourdes Genao, is a wonderful person!" says Akok. Genao, a junior who came to this country from the Dominican Republic when she was 11, says that she was initially concerned that the two Sudanese freshmen might be too shy to fit in. "They were so quiet I thought they might just keep to themselves," she recalls. But as the semester progressed, she saw Akok and Ajou talking to other students on the floor and going out for meals with some of them. "We have a great support system here," she says of UNH's efforts to welcome and retain students from minority backgrounds.
"Everyone on this floor is friendly, and I consider them my friends," notes Ajou, who stresses that the multicultural group at Devine Hall includes Caucasian students. In their free time, he and Akok like to watch their small TV or gather with a few other students to watch movies. Ajou likes to go to the gym, and Akok enjoys surfing the Internet and listening to music. "I used to listen to African music," he says, "but I have been changing slowly to rap."
Akok dreams of becoming a teacher after he graduates--perhaps a high school mathematics teacher. "If there were peace in my country, I would like to go back," he says. "But no one knows what the future holds. Things keep changing."
Ajou is uncertain about choosing a major, let alone a career, but he, too, has a sense of mission, of wanting to make a contribution in the world. By getting an education, he says, he and his peers can help not only Africa, but also "help the development of this country, as immigrants always have." He encourages other Sudanese to work to come to college. "The best way to help people from southern Sudan is through education," he asserts. "If all the young men who are here could go to university, there would be a tremendous change!"
Akok and Ajou express great appreciation for what they have found in this country and at UNH. "One of the most important things is peace. You can go out the door without seeing people fighting," Akok says. "You have peace in this country, you have good government and good education."
"And freedom," Ajou adds with emphasis. "You don't feel like you are bonded. Here, I can travel from one state to another." In Kenya, people had to pay the police in order to leave the refugee camp. When it comes to freedom and aid for people in Third World countries, Ajou adds, "There is no country in all of the world that is doing what America is doing."
"I learn something new every time I talk to them," marvels Lourdes Genao. "I don't think I could ever complain about anything again, knowing what these kids have been through." ~
Lorraine Stuart Merrill '73 is a dairy farmer and freelance writer in Stratham, N.H.