Abeny Kucha - The First Cow

 

When I first arrived in Portland, Maine, I walked off the plane with my 12-year-old brother and my 8-year-old daughter and my two little boys, 4 years old and 2 years old. The woman from social services who met us took us directly to this room was the conveyor belt. I had never seen anything like it before. We stood there in silence washing the bags. And she asked me, “Do you see your bag?” And I told her, “I didn't have a bag. Only this plastic bag I was carrying. That's all we had.” And she said, “Right. Okay. Well, then let's go home.” And that word, home, I hadn't had a home since my village. 

 

I was born in a small village called Bor in South Sudan. We knew Africa had its troubles, but we had food and we hate each other. Until one day, the spring after I graduated from high school, I was in the market getting meat for my family. Baskets were raised and people were shouting. The meat wouldn't go far, and we all wanted some. Over the noise and chaos, the unmistakable sound of gunfire filled the air. Some people dropped to the ground and some people ran. I chose to run. My stepmother and I grabbed what we could, and ran into the jungle and on to another village. It would be 11 years until I stopped running from that war. I never know peace in Africa again. 

 

Later, I met my husband. All my children were born in refugee camps. Later, things changed from bad to worse. My husband was killed in the war and I lost my second daughter. She died of starvation and disease. We were wandering from place to place. So, when this woman said, “Let's go home,” there was nothing else I wanted. She brought us to an apartment. We had never been in an apartment before. We had lived with thousands of other refugees wandering from under the tree to under the tree. So, this apartment was different to us. 

 

She showed us around the apartment. I remember when she opened the refrigerator full of food, but there was nothing familiar with us. We saw a big bottle of orange soda and we thought it was juice. So, we tasted it and it tasted very bad. [audience laughter] So, we left it. She showed us the bathroom and the shower. She showed us everything. But before she left, she said, “This is a fire alarm. When you hear it, just go. Go outside and wait there until it's all clear.” Then she left. 

 

All five of us were standing in this strange place. Very scary. I told the kids, “Let's sit down. We are home now.” I kept remembering the word, home. I said, “We should really sit down.” There were two couches in the living room. My children had never seen a couch before or a carpet. So, I went to the kitchen to warm up some milk. But before we drank our warm milk, we heard a noise. And I told the kids, “Lets run. That's the fire alarm the woman was talking about.” 

 

Back in refugee camps, we had a plan. Because one time, the village was attacked and I had to run with the children and it was very difficult for me to collect all of them. So, we made a plan that when something happened, my brother would grab the baby and I would grab my four-year-old and my daughter would hold my skirt when we ran. So, here we were in Portland, Maine, in this apartment, hearing this noise. So, we went into our plane and my brother grabbed the baby. I grabbed my four-year-old, my daughter held my dress and we ran out of the apartment. We stood there. I asked them, “Do you see the fire? Do you smell the smoke?” They said, “No.” We stood there for a while and we said, “We should probably go back inside the building.”

 

So, we walked inside the building slowly. But we didn't know which one was our apartment. [audience laughter] We looked, but all the doors look alike. We tried few of them, but they were locked. Later, I saw one door a little bit open. So, we thought this might be our apartment. I went in first, slowly. And it was our apartment. There was a woman standing by the door. She told us, she accidentally rang a doorbell. So, we learned it wasn't a fire alarm at all. It was a doorbell. [audience laughter] 

 

The woman from social services would come to visit us from time to time. When she usually come, she would always find me sleeping. So, one day, she asked me, “Why do you sleep so much?” And I told her, “For the last eight years, I walked from Sudan to Ethiopia, and I walked again from Ethiopia to Sudan, and again from Sudan to Kenya and from Kenya to the border of Somalia. I walked from under the tree to under the tree, from hunger to hunger, from gunfire to gunfire, from death to death. I walked the entire eastern continent of eastern Africa with these children. I am sleeping, because I hadn't slept for eight years.”

 

Portland was different with my village. My village was a small village. It lies on the eastern bank of White Nile with maybe around 5,000 people. My father had four wives as a custom in my village. I lived among many brothers and sisters. I went to school and learned English, my third language. I was happy. But in Maine, we felt so alone. We were feeling alone. So, I asked for some friends somewhere, especially people from my tribe. A woman helped me to find some friends who made it to Minnesota. So, with the help of social services, we were able to move to Minnesota. 

 

In Minnesota, my children had their first opportunity to go to school. I managed to enroll them in school. I bought them school clothes and supplies they needed. The woman who helped me told me that the kids would need to wake up early in the morning and go to the bus stop, school bus. So, she told me that we would need an alarm clock. So, I went to Kmart, and I asked the ladies there if they heard an alarm clock sounded like a rooster. [audience laughter] They helped me find one. We set the alarm clock.

 

In the morning, the kids wake up. I walked my 12-year-old brother and my 8-year-old daughter. I walked them to the bus stop. The bus stop was just behind our apartment. I watched them climbing onto the bus with tears in my eyes. The bus took off. Parents left. I was still standing there with tears in my eyes, wondering if they would come back, hoping they would come back to me. Later, I went back to the apartment to my little boys. They were still sleeping. My tears were still falling. I thought about everything my children had gone through, everything they had seen. 

 

When my baby Jock was born, the village was attacked. Nine hours after his birth, I was forced to live with him. And now, we made it. My children would never walk 200 miles again. They would never starve again, and they will always be happy, even when I'm not around. Once again, I thought about-- Last few years when my daughter graduated from law school. [audience cheers and applause] 

 

I was very so proud of all my children. Today, I think about that first day in Portland, Maine airport when the woman said, “Let's go home.” And home mean hope to me. Home mean I would never, ever run again. Thank you.