Next Time They'll Come to Count the Dead: War and Survival in South Sudan by Nick Turse

Author:Nick Turse [Turse, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: East, Africa, Survival, Military, Biography & Autobiography, Wars & Conflicts (Other), History
ISBN: 9781608466573
Google: JJ0fDAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Haymarket Books
Published: 2016-05-14T11:38:50+00:00

Afterword

My face was slick with sweat when I made the mistake of walking onto the earthen landing strip. The wind, already steady, suddenly whipped up, sending soil airborne, stinging my eyes, coating my forehead, turning my stubble into a full beard of dirt. Defeated by the elements, I trudged to a double-padlocked corrugated metal hut and stood in the shade wondering when—or if—a helicopter would arrive and whether there would be a place for me on board.

I hung my rucksack from one of the roughhewn tree limbs holding up a metal awning that stretched out from the crudely built zinc shack. It wasn’t long before a couple of young, completely naked boys came calling. They hoped I would give them something, but I had little of use to a child. Instead, I offered a weak smile and they graciously took it.

One of the tiny boys wandered away while the other began poking at the crimson compression sack holding a tent that was lashed to my backpack. Before long, an older boy—perhaps eight or nine—walked up, shooed away the youngster and nodded at me, his chin leading the way. He wore a filthy, faded purple shirt, canary yellow shorts, and had an oversized blue flip-flop on his left foot. In one hand, he carried a tattered piece of blue and white plastic that had almost certainly been a bag in a previous life, in the other, a tiny scrap of cardboard. He very deliberately laid the latter on the ground and sat on it, spreading his pencil-thin legs wide. Almost immediately, he began sifting through the dirt and rocks, every so often picking up something tiny and carefully placing it on the plastic. He did this methodically and meticulously. From several feet away, looking over his shoulder, I could just make out the prizes he was finding. Apparently, a bag of dried red beans had sprung a leak and spilled some of its contents there. With patience, the legumes could be recovered, one bean at a time, from the dirt and rocks.

It didn’t take me long to begin feeling like a heel standing there, waiting for a helicopter to whisk me back to the capital and my hotel whose restaurant serves oversized hamburgers and cold beer. In a few more days, I’d be back in the United States with its far more lavish creature comforts. I shook my head, thrust out my bottom lip and exhaled, using my breath to cool my dirt-streaked face as I contemplated this boy—and me. Then I hoisted my bag onto my back, adjusted its straps, and walked out into the blazing sun and away from his work space.

That boy was far from the most desperate child I had seen in South Sudan, but he stuck in my mind—the care he took in spreading out the torn bag, the disciplined way he sifted through the dirt, his workman-like demeanor. He had probably recovered about 30 tiny, crimson beans by the time I left. He deserved so much better.

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