My name is Peter Nyaroli Dut of the Dinkas, and this is my life. In my village, my Sudan, I was just a little boy when things went wrong. We were just sitting down and talking, my father and I. That is, until the sounds of gunshots and screaming. My father, mother, sister and I ran, out of the village. We split up. My mother and sister and all the other women in our village ran one direction and my father and I with all the other men ran another way. I never saw my mother or sister again. We ran so far, soles of our feet were peeling off, we were attacked by many lions and also found by the British and shot, most of us died along the way. My father and I and all the surviving men were built a refugee camp in Nigeria, where we, The Lost Boys were raised. Some of us, the lost boys took a test. The test sponsored by the SPLA which decides weather we go to America, or as known as heaven. A place where people will provide us endless amount of food, shelter, proper education and money, an opportunity to start a new life. However, when we reached there things were not what they seemed, or told us back at the orientations in Sudan. At first being sent to Houston, Texas it seemed like a dream. Later on we learnt that the foundations would stop sending us money after 4 months, we needed to get a job of our own, find an education of our own and that did not seem fair. They had to guide us but in Huston I didn’t find anything.
The jobs weren’t paying well; we had to cover the taxes. I couldn’t find a proper education because they didn’t believe that I was 17. It was suffocating and uncomfortable for me. The black people here were lighter (fairer) then me and I was an outsider. When playing basketball they were playing too tough and against the rules. But nothing seemed to matter. I decided to leave Houston and go to Kansas. It was a lot better then before I could start an education by complaining about my age, try out for the basketball team, and maybe get a girlfriend. I couldn’t send back money to my people because I never had time and there was barely enough for me. My wage was $6 an hour at Wal-Mart in the sun, and I was to exhausted with everything going on. I didn’t make the basketball team so no scholarship. I had to save up money for collage. Although, I did manage to graduate out of high school. I still have a long way to go.
The culture was completely different to Sudan, men couldn’t go around holding hands with their guy friends, otherwise Americans would have got a mixed message about us being homosexual.
reached there things were not what they seemed, or told us back at the orientations in Sudan. At first being sent to Houston, Texas it seemed like a dream. Later on we learnt that the foundations would stop sending us money after 4 months, we needed to get a job of our own, find an education of our own and that did not seem fair. They had to guide us but in Huston I didn’t find anything.
The jobs weren’t paying well; we had to cover the taxes. I couldn’t find a proper education because they didn’t believe that I was 17. It was suffocating and uncomfortable for me. The black people here were lighter (fairer) then me and I was an outsider. When playing basketball they were playing too tough and against the rules. But nothing seemed to matter. I decided to leave Houston and go to Kansas. It was a lot better then before I could start an education by complaining about my age, try out for the basketball team, and maybe get a girlfriend. I couldn’t send back money to my people because I never had time and there was barely enough for me. My wage was $6 an hour at Wal-Mart in the sun, and I was to exhausted with everything going on. I didn’t make the basketball team so no scholarship. I had to save up money for collage. Although, I did manage to survive and graduate out of high school. I still have a long way to go.
The culture was completely different to Sudan, men couldn’t go around holding hands with their guy friends, otherwise Americans would have got a mixed message about us being homosexual, we couldn’t go up to girls that we did not know and say I like you and hug them. Everyone here has his or her personal boundaries. The culture in America is also a bit racist, if your black people will think you are some criminal and are going to rob your house or pick pocket other people. Just because you are black. Even though the African Americans here are much lighter then we are it makes us even more suspicious. When I moved to Kansas and started school there everything was alright, a lot better then Houston. There wasn’t a big white/black discrimination, the people there were mostly white although they weren’t afraid to be friends. I didn’t have to dress up differently like a gangster, but just like a normal white person. I felt accepted. However, in my job in Wal-Mart they believed that because I’m black I could work outside in the sun. I am a human being, just like them. No American here knows what we Sudanese people have been through, they don’t know how hard it is to be a refugee, and to be forced to leave. To loose their loved ones in war, or battle. To travel so far by foot that one’s souls start to peel off. These Americans try to help out of sympathy, and I appreciate them for that, however, what they think that has happened to us is probably not even close to imagine.
**** For the link to Peter in the first sentence go down to "Questions Frequently asked".*****
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