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Rebecca Deng is a former refugee. A mother. A writer. A lawyer. A proud South American of the southern United States. And yet, in her mind, she returns to the formative reports of her youth.
“When I see teenagers suffering and unjust practice, it takes me back to when I was 6 years old fleeing my village, driven out of a loving home,” Deng says. “But how do we make peace with that identity bureaucracy and see them as strengths and resilience, not something to diminish?”
Earlier this year, Deng visited our workplace to talk about it from Sudan to the United States, which he also documented in his recently published memoir, “What They Meant for Evil.” As the maximum of more than 70 million displaced people in the world, it took him decades to reconcile his memories of formative years and his life in a new and welcoming place.
For the first six years of his life, Deng lived in the village of Aruai Mayen, in present-day Jonglei state, South Sudan. The war was a widespread background, however, his father was a commander of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA), his relatives kept the woguy safe from the realities of the conflict. All this replaced with the arrival of government forces in Khartoum.
“The war never affected my people until that day, around the end of 1991, when my people were attacked,” Deng recalls. “I didn’t know what was going on. There were only guns and other Americans running. My uncle grabbed me and we ran out. His uncle told him at the time that they would be home in a week; instead, they would be on the street for several months.
Rescue teams arrived when they reached the Kenyan border. Deng doesn’t know if it was UNICEF or Save the Children, whether one of them was there, but says a humanitarian company intervened to produce nutritious, protein-rich food for uprooted children. “He helped me and helped the teenagers gain strength.”
It was a surprisingly complicated moment in Deng’s life. After learning that her father was murdered, she was raised through her uncle’s circle of relatives. The farther they were from home, the more challenging the conditions were. “We can starve or be killed” has the goal through which Deng and his circle of surviving relatives saw life. Food was scarce and maintained with a pasty integration of water and corn.
Relief came when they reached the Kenyan border. Deng can’t recall if it was UNICEF or Save the Children — both were fixtures there — but she says that a humanitarian agency stepped in to provide nutritious, protein-rich food to uprooted children. “That was helpful to me, and was helpful to children to gain some strength.”
In 1992, Deng’s circle of relatives arrived at the Kakuma refugee camp in Kenya, where they are believed to have spent a decade with their best friend. Life here was an improvement, but it still presented few explanations as to why to wait. “I describe it as being in a survival machine,” Deng says. “You don’t die, but you don’t live.”
Like Apple’s refugee children, Deng identified that schooling can open up opportunities. But his uncle is reluctant to send him to college because he can’t afford tuition either.
“I was told that before the war entered the country of my tribe, a woguy can also get married as soon as possible at 18,” Deng says. “War and poverty have replaced our traditions. Now girls are raised, so once you become a woguy, all you can do is have another life. That’s how the network pains started to see it. And they don’t.” I don’t see them as children. She would also have married at too young an age, but few Americans in the camp can also afford a dowry. “In a twisted way, the bride’s price has somehow stored me.”
Once Deng enrolled in school, she excelled, so much so that her instructor saw her and encouraged her to apply for a new program that would allow her to continue her studies in the United States. Soon after, Deng’s official friend accepted lost boys and Lost Girls. A total of 3,700 children are reportedly resettled; Only 8 nine women would have the same chance.
In Holland, Michigan, at the age of 15, Deng first experienced snow and saw leafless trees. But it also evokes another kind of cultural clash: its first encounters with racism. “My foster father took me with my sister followed by Sudan on a road trip. He was rearranging things in the vehicle and gave us coins to buy ice cream. The girl at the store told us they were closing. We went back to the vehicle and he said, but then he saw someone come out with ice, so he came in and asked to be served. He said to the girl, “My daughters were there and you said you were closed?” back in retrospect and she said, “Oh, I’m a great friend, I’m sorry!”
“I tried in Africa my state, but not the color of my skin,” Says Deng. She remembers her best friend and on the verge of being harassed through a white woguy in a supermarket. “She said, ‘You’re backing down, immigrant. Do you want to borrow my information?’ “It took Deng a while to figure out why she was attacked. At another time, she was arrested and asked her identity and whether the vehicle he was driving belonged to her.” I didn’t have a ticket, but I was very familiar with the reason.”
Deng and her sister were the only black women at their h8 school. “I learned that for the first five years of my life, I’ve never had the color of my skin,” she says. “Now, the first thing other Americans asked was, ‘Where are you from?’ Every day, when I knew someone new, his questions indicated that he did not belong.”
Shortly after arriving in the United States, Deng discovered that she was pregnant, after a sexual assault more than a day before leaving Kakuma. “I sought to give up. I just sought to leave h8 school and then a mother,” Says Deng. However, her circle of adoptive relatives encouraged her to stick no less than in the spring, as her son was due to arrive in the summer. The years that followed came with her own challenges, but she managed to balance her school paintings with her motherhood. Soon, a new chapter would begin, a BA and MA and a speaker and a foreign voice for refugee women and girls.
“My hope is to continue advocating for assistance to teens in crisis, because when we hear a statistic, we feel overwhelmed,” Deng says. But there is hope for any and any of the displaced children, as there has been for her.
“I may also have been numbers. But since I came here, I have the chance I have today.”
Today, UNICEF’s group station continues its critical paintings in South Sudan and the refugee camp station such as Kakuma. In addition to providing nutrition, blank water and educational resources, UNICEF South Sudan maintains a family curriculum circle that aims to reunite displaced adolescents with their parents. Our colleagues also paint with partners to help teens fight trauma through PlayStation psychological support.
Your generous contribution will support UNICEF’s lifesaving work to save and protect the world’s children.
Justin Hemenway is Deputy Director of Social Media at UNICEF USA. I used to go to kindergarten in Manhattan.