Many years ago, when I was still a little boy, I saw countless hurting events unfolding sarcastically in my village upon my people. It's now 30 years, this November, when I watched closely as a young man in the early 1994, the military infantry of the Mobile Patrol Unit (MPU) and a heavy convoy of Mitsubishi lorries, military tankers, armoured Mambas and Bafulos fleets streaming into the remote refugee camp at Palotaka mission situated in Pinyluo village, South of Juba Town.

Their mission? To ferry into the battlefield, about 10,000 men from Pinyluo Acoli mixed with the 800 "Bazukulu" from the Bafana origin to go and overrun the rebel forces at the refugee camp. The majority of whom from Pinyluo Acoli were the former soldiers and abductees who, for nearly nine years, enjoyed a peaceful farm life in Palotaka, the refugee settlement.

That day, the convoy passed by, following one of the many narrow paths in my village. My two elder brothers, Lokori, Lojolomoi,and I stood by the path gazing at them and enjoying their pale military trooping style of one file movement with their faces in a haggard appearance. Well, We were all sobbing in silence as their quaint racing in the march taunted us mercilessly because we dared not to face the world and conquer it in silence, nor did we hoped to apply force to it.

At first, I couldn't tell the logic behind their movements. Always they used to pass by our homestead, and in every shift of their movements they made, they could make sure they never miss reaching or flanks from its posterior end.

Ironically, at the end of it all, we discovered it later that, they wanted to get anyone having the blood connections-DNA of our grandy especially one closed to my grandfather's family to go and lead one of their campanies, coils or platoons. This was the thing killing their hearts.



"We have seen military dexterity and abilities ingrained in this lineage." One of them said. This was the reason we came to know of it later after they have made several attempts to make off with one of us. It was really a retrograde of reflection that day, I think, that was one of their last disastrous attempts that one would think of and it was one of the most recalled memories that everyone in my village would know of it if asked to narrate the tale.

They tried it, and they couldn't make it succeed, especially on the able-bodied young men and women of our grandfather. The grandfather, Toka, one day, decided to hide us somewhat far place from the homestead. He took us, and before that, he instructed us to do it his way. The way he told us. He said, "we shouldn't move in a convoy. Rather, we should walk in an optimally scattered approach. And in the end, converge in one point." We went and did it. We strolled, stooping underneath forests of the elephant grass in a discernble distance of each in an observable point of "atrra tano"- five meters apart. He knew, it would be difficult for them to get us since the elephant grass would help and not allow them a possible quick runs in any case of a take off, they would not easily make it to penetrate quickly, whenever they try chasing to catch us, the elephant grass acts as a shield and barricades. He always try to dodge them by changing our hideouts' locations and avoiding us not being caught as captives.



In captivity, he knows what it means. The odeal is horrible. It entails tragic beatings, starvation, carrying heavy luggage on the heads and on the backs of the newly abducted men and women, walking long distances and always in the rutine constant fire engegments. The attackers couldn't leave any space unturned to the trooping mobile forces. They could engage in a day more than two to three times in firepower assaults.

A gaggle of young officers took positions to display their military skills in pursuit of enemies. Measuring their invaluable military firepower assaults. The sounds of their rifles, submachine guns and artilleries; "crack, rat-a- tat-tat, kaboom, bang." The rapid rethymic bursts forced birds in their nests to begin cackling.

To make matters more worse, wols began to roars in two different locations with different sonority of sounds. The two barn wols at first began to croons in a mild waves of their voices before gradually graduates to an ugly chrips in the dark skies, creaming in a harsh tone, sending in the mountains valley their deep resonant echos, "huuk- hurrah" and the whistle sound, "shili-lili-rik" eventually making the dark night appears ugly. So, this is an indication of danger. Worse of all, we always tends to forget to understand the different meanings of their sounds they produced. Yet we have to take care of ourselves in the dawns, the most dangerous attack time, when sleeps still deeply catch us in pursuance to relieve fatigues.



In such a situation, it was hard to escape and survive, especially at the porous dawning hours in my village.

Ideally, they made many unbelievable abduction attempts, especially on my agemates, and the last ones ended up on me and on a few of my village mates. The commander drew near me with three "atrra"- steps. He came next to me from his original standing position before he began to speak to me.

"Why don't you come and we go? You young man!" Said Erua, one of the Commanders with his finger pointing at me.

I stood worriedly obliged by his words of utterance, and I absurdly became pointless then, I energylessly responded by a sign. I pointed my right thumb finger towards myself. Signalling to mean "me?" He nodded in agreement.

Immediately, I got myself frozen. Severity of panic hebbs down my heart, and I crouched in fear. I thought it right that I wasn't now safe, but only to have fear of what he has told me of. He again drew himself closer to me, in absolutely close range, and he said,

"You seem to make a good officer." He continued to emphasize this several times, touching on my shoulder with his right arm while holding his walking stick with the left hand. His bodyguards walked in a huddle with Ak47 rifles and some with machine guns, a coil of bullets cloaked around their bodies.Their fingers clutched at trigger points and they flowed me in every step of movement I made and the directions I took. He repeated the same statement, and then I replied to him, "How?"

"Indeed, you look deem fit for the job." Here, he didn't yet openly disclose what he means. Only his actual words seemed to caused me to conludes, he's full of a remarkable agile in releasing off opinions that has led many men and women to crushed in agony, but in a simple logic, he was trying to weigh up the degree at which he could make me believe in his dupes.

"Which job?" I asked

"This one! Don't you see us marching into the battlefield? There's a plan laid to liberate our people from the tyrant regime." He answered in an elaborate hoak of attunement.

"I am still a school boy. Moreover, a day scholar. Besides, our home is somewhat two hours walk in the ten kilometres distance to the school, and by the way, who would think of liberating us from such a long distance, leaving alone the liberation from the tyrant regime?" I heeded to him with emotional assertions and to make him refrain from some of his unwanted utterance, too many words of hatred in disguise.

"What, again?" He asked with a tone of veneration in his voice.

"Yes, a day scholar. I want to continue with my studies first." I answered him with ambiguity of sadness that shows anguish at the top, bulging my throat and to stop him from carry-on with the bad intention over me to get ready to move on with them.

"No! You will study later after the missions are over. Look here, we were once students. They got us from schools. They promised us free education after the missions." Here, he's trying to fawn the system over to me. By flattering many words, he thinks I would be able to change and adapt to their demand. I ignored his casual deceptive tricks. "He's a lickspittle for the movement missions." That was the conclusion I have already made within me.

"I can only go as one of the freedom fighters if your master sought for permission from my father. In fact, it would be a blessing if my father officially gave me and handed me over to your BOSS." I responded to his statement but inside me, hidden the "forest of angers, " forcing to taire me, not to voice my opinion anymore.

One disappointing evening, we received bad news of another group. The new group came. It says they are trailing to capture and reinstate the escapees and deserters. That day, we were all boys who slept in one room. Our grandfather cared a lot about our safety, and he never wanted any of us to be taken forcefully for such what he believed to be unpredictable achievement. He knew life won't be good and easy for us to endure in the bush once any of us is caught up in such a derail political manoeuvres.

No sooner the fateful day arrived than we were still planning to escape. The "Kayola" vehicle shot forward with an attack that engulfed the entire village to cause havoc by either devastating; maiming, killing, scorching earth's policy, and the last was one to accept to go with them, So, it's upon one's decision to either "untie the rotts in an open door." Or "to leave the rotts the way it's."

At last, they took two great men from the family of my grandparents while leaving dead some of the retired old guards who couldn't manage to walk long distances.

My uncle Turungo and my biological father Abuje were forced to get into the Kayola- a long enclosed deep vehicle without trunks.

Indeed, the tale is so horrible. It barely started as a joke and later twisted to cause tremendous change in its trending in an opposite. It's a disturbing experience and deeply touching in people's hearts. Why? They were locked up into the Kayola and ready to be ferried and dumped into nearby lagoons or taken to the sea that wouldn't provide an alternative escape.

There wasn't possibility of their escape at the time of loading them. They were tied guarded as the vehicle rolled in a fuzzy momentum, leaving fumes of dust behind on the space.

"Why should I accept to be slaughtered silently and then start jumping like a headless chicken?" That was the question of determination from my father.

Actually, he kept thinking of it at all times, and at last, he thought of it wisely, which made him decide correctly. "Should I jump or accept to go and be slaughtered?" That was another debating topic within him. A lot of ideas were debated within his mind, and at last, he made the right decision. He jumped off the Kayola to save his life rather than not to do anything necessary in such a difficult situation. The decision each of them made was to act as a turning point to oneself. Although my father sustained multiple injuries all over his body, he became a survivor. But those who remained to be carried like cows were killed. They met their day because of the weird decision they took and later pushed them to the brink of extinction of the lot.

As the plot unfolds gradually, we realize that all our assumptions were certainly wrong and vague. We assumed it's a real liberation that would heal far much better our "wounds " and "injuries of injustices" sustained during the tyrant episode.

Much as it was a fight that seemed to qualify to be a liberation, indeed, it wasn't a fight for freedom. Neither was it a fight for "communal peace." That's the peace for all. But rather was a fight for only personal glory.

To this date, the memories haven't died yet, still lingering in my mind and the minds of those who desired peace.