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Breathe easy by Claire Kamber
I'm eleven years old and I was born in a mud hut in Sudan. My name is Juma. It means 'born on Friday,' and yes, I was. Have you heard of Sudan? I can't blame you if you haven't. Before I left Africa I hadn't heard of Australia. In fact, there were loads of things I hadn't heard of. I didn't know what an ocean was. I'd never seen a computer or a toilet (let alone a dual-flush). I didn't know that men had walked on the moon or that dinosaurs had walked on the earth. I didn't know about dental hygiene, personal hygiene or what a germ looked like. I couldn't have imagined stepping onto an escalator, let alone searching the internet. My first seven years in Sudan were predictable. My brothers and I herded cattle with our father, we tended our millet crops, collected firewood, and each day we walked the three kilometers to school and back. Our school wasn't what you'd think of as school. There were no windows, no doors and some classrooms had no walls. There were sixty students to one teacher - a man who carried a stick, and often used it. We shared books, pencils and paper and when they were used up, we'd write on slates or in the dirt. The alphabet was recited - I never saw it stuck to a wall - and multiplication tables were the only tables we had. One day, out of the blue, my predictable life changed. As I ambled home from school, three trucks overflowing with uniformed men sped along the road and into my village. The dust thrown up by the truck tyres gave me time to run and hide. I lay in the long grass and listened like I'd never listened before. Hours later, long after the trucks had gone, I stood up. The smoke from smoldering huts dirtied the sun, and every kind of belonging lay scattered on the ground. I called to some of the shapes, hoping they'd move or wave back at me. A hand touched my shoulder. It was Mum, her eyes sad and distant. She made me lie down in the grass again, and while I was alone in that terrible silence, my chest hurt and I could hardly breathe. When Mum came back she had a bundle balanced on her head and our goat, Abla, followed behind her. She handed me Abla's rope. 'Keep her safe, Juma,' she said. Mum hurried, and although my chest still hurt, I managed to keep up with her. Further along the road we met more people, and before long there were dozens of us running from our village. The adults were silent but the kids, especially those on their own, cried and cried. When it got dark we all collected wood and built a fire. There wasn't much to cook, but the flames kept the lions away. Everyone huddled together and I lay on the ground next to Mum. She held me under our blanket and I tried to sleep. My body was finished but my mind wouldn't rest. I asked Mum about the men in the trucks. I asked her about Dad and my brothers. I wanted to go back to our village and sleep in our hut. I wanted to feel safe and breathe easy, but deep in my heart I knew it wouldn't happen. On the third day after leaving our village, a white-haired man gave up walking. He hobbled to a baobab tree and sat down in its shade. I offered him Abla's milk, still warm in a bowl. 'Keep it for those who need it,' he smiled. 'But you need it,' I insisted, my breath whistling as I said it. He waved me away, but with every few steps I'd stop and look back. The last glimpse I had was of the baobab tree disappearing over the horizon. That was the moment I understood. I had to keep walking and I had to keep Abla safe. After two weeks all our food had gone. The older kids stalked lizards and raided nests. Always we shared, and the weakest got most - that's why the white-haired man had stayed behind. At the end of one month, Abla grew skinny. Her hooves got infected and her milk dried up. It was my fault, I was sure of it. I thought of the promise I'd made to Mum - to keep Abla safe - but now my promise was broken. Finally, like the man under his baobab tree, Abla refused to move. I tugged on her rope, and even when Mum helped and Abla bleated because her feet hurt, she wouldn't budge. A small group hung back to watch, until, in the end, we were left with no choice. That night we ate like kings. Our bellies strained and complained, and everybody's heart was happy, everybody's except mine. Invisible hands tightened around my neck and I fought for every breath. I lay next to Mum and coughed until dawn. After three months of walking we trudged across a border and into Kenya. That's where we found a camp in the desert, built from tents and sheets of scrap metal. We'd walked the same distance as Melbourne to Brisbane, to a refugee town the size of Mildura. Have you heard of Kakuma? It's somewhere most people don't want to hear about, so I can't blame you if you haven't. The air in that camp was thick with dust, and every breath was an effort. My four years in Kakuma are best forgotten, but imagine living in a place that no one wants to hear about, a place where the only laughter you'll hear is an echo from the past. After one thousand five hundred and twenty-nine days, Mum and I were taken to an airport. We got on a plane and eventually, when I had enough courage to look through the window, I saw my first ocean. After a day and a night in the sky, we crossed one last border and touched-down in Australia. Days later I was back at school, at a school where the classrooms had windows and where colourful letters were stuck to the wall. My teacher knew my name and she gave me a pencil that I could keep. It wasn't long before I was searching on the internet and learning about the moon and dinosaurs. Now I'm in Australia I can breathe easy. Sometimes though, when I wonder what happened to Dad-and my brothers, or when Mum's eyes get sad and distant, or when I remember the white-haired man sitting under the baobab or when I think about Abla, my chest hurts. That's another thing I hadn't heard of - asthma. Copyright © 2009 Claire Kamber. |
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