How far would you go to find FREEDOM?

One January evening, Peter Dut leads his two teenage brothers through the Minneapolis airport. The brothers are African refugees. Two days earlier they had learned about light switches and stairs for the first time. Now they are alone in Minneapolis.

Finally, a traveler asks, “Where are you headed?” Peter answers in careful English. A few days earlier, they left a mud hut in an African refugee camp where they had lived as orphans for nine years. Without parents, the boys had escaped their war-torn country and walked hundreds of miles to the camp. Now

THE

BOYSLOS

they are headed to Fargo, North Dakota. “You’re joking!” the traveler replies.

The brothers are part of a group of refugees called the Lost Boys of Sudan. This group of around 10,000 boys arrived in Kenya in 1992. They were seeking a safe place away from their country’s war.

Almost 17,000 boys were separated from their families. They fled their homes in an exodus in 1987. They walked about 1,000 miles from Sudan to Kenya. Most of the boys were between the ages of 8 and 18.

They endured attacks from marauding bandits and lions, and they suffered from a lack of food and water. Some boys drowned or were eaten by crocodiles.

The Lost Boys have spent nine years subsisting on simple meals and living with very little adult supervision. They’ve been pretty much on their own. Now, they are coming to America. Because they learned English at the refugee camp, the boys will start school at a grade level normal for their age. Eventually, they can become American citizens.

Peter and his brothers arrive in Fargo. Snow falls around the airport. The younger brothers, Maduk, 17, and Riak, 15, look frightened. Peter studies the night. “Excuse me,” he says worriedly. “Please, is it now night or day?”

The brothers’ new home is a two-bedroom apartment. Rent is $445 a month. Food and other necessary items have been donated by local churches and businesses.

A social worker empties a bag of donated clothing. The clothes look like they’d belonged to an elderly man. I know how lucky the boys are: War, lack of food, and disease in their country have killed more than 2 million people, but these three boys are still alive. Still, I hate to think of the boys showing up for school in these clothes, which their classmates may laugh at.

The next day I check on the boys at noon. They are very hungry. “What about your food?” I ask. I point to the bread and the box of cereal.

Peter grins in embarrassment. I realize they have never opened a box. And so I show them how. We open a can of beans and a loaf of bread. Soon, the boys are eating a hot meal.

The three brothers have traveled a long way since fleeing their home. Their parents and three sisters were killed by soldiers. The Lost Boys first survived a 6- to 10-week walk to Ethiopia. Often they ate leaves and berries and, once in a while, the boon of a dead wild pig. Many boys fell behind and died.

They lived for three years in Ethiopia. Then, the Lost Boys were forced back into Sudan by the Ethiopian government. Somehow, more than 10,000 of the boys made it to Kenya’s refugee camps in 1992.

Within weeks, Riak is placed in a local junior high. Maduk starts high school classes, and Peter begins adult-education classes.

Five weeks later, Riak listens quietly in his history class. He is ignored by the white students around him. At a nearby high school, Maduk is often alone as well.

Peter worries about money. The three brothers spend most of the money they receive each month on rent and utility bills.

Social workers say the brothers are going through normal adjustments, just as many other refugees do. The first three months are always the toughest.

The Lost Boys can only hope so. A return to Africa could kill them. “There is nothing left for The Lost Boys to go home to—it’s a war zone,” says a relief worker whose job is to help refugees.

Getting used to American life is hard, but the boys also experience joyful moments.

On a quiet Friday night, the boys make dinner. Peter changes into a finely woven African outfit.

Then, the doorbell rings unexpectedly. Four Sudanese boys crowd into the apartment. They have been in America for several years. I watch as one wraps his arms around Peter. “It’s a hard life here,” he whispers to the older boy, “but it’s a free life, too.”

How far would you go to find FREEDOM?