I’ll never forget those eyes. The last time I saw them, they were empty. They evoked no feeling; they had no soul. Even before that, they portrayed nothing but fear: not just the fear one feels when it’s dark outside after a scary movie. This was a fear that makes my stomach nauseated every time its image takes over my brain. I have attempted to train myself to think only of those eyes the first time I came in contact with them, the first time I knew I was in love. It was then that those eyes totally captivated me, showing nothing but compassion.
It was three years ago to the day. I remember because it was exactly one week after my parents were brutally murdered. These killings had been happening around our village for almost ten years, but when it happened to my parents, it was as if I had never experienced it. It was hard for the surrounding villagers to console me because it had already happened to so many of their families. I had no brothers and sisters, and since it was hard enough for my neighbors to feed themselves, they could not take me in. Just like that, I had become an orphan. I was numb to this experience, yet I knew exactly what I had to do. I had seen other children gather in the middle of the village with the only things they could carry. They knew in order to survive, they had to leave, and I was aware that this was my time. I took one small bag and filled it with my few pieces of clothing, a blanket, and the prayer beads my mother had given me a year before she died. I waited for the children to come back through the surrounding villages. Every morning they left the nearby town and returned to their small shacks less than a mile from my village. Usually I could see them passing, and this morning I hoped they would again in close proximity.
Sure enough, I later heard the small, yet numerous footsteps and gentle laughter approaching. I ran to make sure I was in line with their path and shyly walked up to a boy leading the line. I was too ashamed to look into his eyes at first, but when I did, I immediately felt safe. They were emerald with chestnut speckles throughout. Against his warm ebony skin, they reflected the passion and comfort deep within his soul. “Who are you?” he asked me abruptly.
“My name is Dede. I need a place to go,” I shamefully answered.
“Well that’s why we’re here. The more of us there are, the safer we become. I’m Jack by the way.” I smiled widely at him, and he gave me a nod, assuring me it was Ok to join the ranks. As I stepped in line I took a look at all the children of which the line was composed. I realized they had all seen what I had seen. They had nothing but each other. We kept walking for miles, some children dropping off here and there, until we reached the group of shacks that included Jack’s. “You may stay with me in mine,” he said. “It was built for my brother and me. We built it together, but he is no longer here. I realized it was made of nothing but piles of cardboard picked out of the trash. He had done a good job by tying the pieces together, and making a roof out of weeds. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a home because it had to. When I went to lay my blanket inside to set up my bed, he instantly told me, “Don’t get too comfortable; we leave before sundown.” I nodded, remembering they only passed through my village in the morning.
“Where exactly do we go?” I asked.
“We go to a place the rebels will never find us.” I didn’t ask for any more details; the ones he had given satisfied me enough. During the day, I discovered that we picked oranges from the trees, somewhat bathed in a nearby creek, and did our best to make peace with the time we had. Jack was always respectful if I had to change or bathe. He gave me my privacy, and I his. When the sun moved further west, not directly on top of us, we knew it was time to leave. It was essential to be into town before the rebels made their rounds late in the evening. Every day we would pack our things, grab the oranges and water we had gathered that day, and head into town.
At first I could not understand why we were in such a rush. I had not been walking as many miles as the others had, and it was difficult for me to keep up. But when we first arrived to the town bus station, I saw why we kept a steady pace. Thousands of children stood outside the same bus station waiting for protection from the rebels. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. Twelve year olds carried their baby siblings as if already parents. Infants, toddlers, teenagers, and any other children without a family were there to escape the dangers of the night. When the few armed guards finally opened the gates to the bus station, we all piled in, looking to mark our territory on which to sleep. My mouth dropped as I entered. A layer of water covered the floor, the amount of trash was indescribable, and the stench of death and poverty engulfed my nostrils. I followed Jack to a corner as we claimed our sleeping spots. When everyone had entered and settled, I looked around and took a deep breath. There was no room to move, roll over, walk outside to go to the bathroom, or even sit up without hitting another child. I knew it was better than being alone outside, but I didn’t know how soon I could adapt.
Weeks passed and I eventually got used to the routine. Waking up early to return to our shacks actually became quite pleasant. We knew the rebel soldiers would not be up early enough to catch us so we were confident our trip was safe. Along the walks, we would share stories of how we came to have no family. One boy’s father was shot while he and his mother were at the market. When they walked in, they shot his mother and he ran for his life. He did not stop until he reached town. Many stories were similar to that, but the worst one was told by a young girl. Her father was decapitated while the children were forced to watch. Other rebel soldiers raped her mother, and all the children ran. The force quickly caught up to the children, brutally killing her oldest brother and taking her youngest to train as a rebel soldier. He was only six, and now, she assumes, he is another evil soldier like them. Throughout the stories, I realized Jack never told his. I refrained from telling mine also, because I wasn’t ready to talk about it. I knew Jack just wanted to stay strong for the many children who looked to him for support.
One night, as we slept in the bus station in town, I tossed and turned, thinking of the night my parents were killed. I fell asleep to this awful memory and dreamt the whole thing: me coming home to find blood splashed all over the door, seeing my father hanging from the door frame, his eyes gauged out of his head, my mother lying near the table, throat cut with a complete look of terror in her face. I remember trying to scream but couldn’t. Apparently, I really was screaming while dreaming. I woke up to Jack nudging my shoulder, saving me from my past. “Shhhh. It’s Ok”, he whispered, as tears streamed down my face. It’s all over; you’re safe now. You’re here.” As my sobs became more subtle, I looked Jack in the eyes. I wanted to say thank you, but I could see the hurt he could not hide. Instead of stating my thanks, I asked him what had happened to his brother, and why he did not talk about it. He told me that the rebels came to the shack they were staying in one of the first nights they were there. Many children escaped in time, but his brother had hurt his ankle earlier that day and could not run fast enough. They caught up to Jack and his brother, and handed his brother a gun. He was instructed to shoot Jack and become a rebel soldier or die brutally right here in front of his brother. His brother took the gun, pretended to aim it at Jack, and instead pointed it at himself and ended his own life. Jack knew why he did it, but he always wished he had just killed Jack. As the tears poured down his face, I realized it was the only time I had ever seen him cry. The other children had gotten teary-eyed often when talking about their family or even simply because of exhaustion, but Jack always held it in.
For the rest of the night Jack and I stayed up talking about everything imaginable. I discovered he wanted to become a lawyer, and I admitted my desire to become a teacher. We both knew our goals were unrealistic. We had no funds, and in the middle of genocide, it’s quite difficult to receive an education towards anything. We talked about the day when all this would be over, and what we would do, where we would live. We wondered out loud when the rest of the world would join to help us. We admitted the things we missed most about our family, and I realized that’s exactly what we had become. I looked down at my prayer beads as I told Jack about my mother, and when I looked back into his eyes, I became lost. I couldn’t help but feel so much for Jack. I knew he was my first love. He must have realized what I was thinking, because just then, he grabbed my prayer beads, pulled me in close, and gave me the first real kiss I had ever received. I smiled, and stared into his eyes until it became a little creepy. I fell asleep on top of a blanket surrounded by trash and a thousand other children, but I felt like a princess. It was the first time I had really smiled since the death of my parents.
Life continued to go as well as it could. I laughed more often, got the line of children to sing on the way back to our shacks, and even started playing pranks on my group of friends. I was slowly recovering from my loss. I was unaware, however, that another one was ready to occur.
The night of July 14, as we prepared to head back to town, the children decided to stay a little later than usual to soak up the summer sun. It was hot as blazes in Uganda at this time, but there had been no drama on our side of town in months, and we felt comfortable staying later. Jack admitted he was not comfortable with this idea, and thought we should continue into town. He begged and he begged, until I finally convinced him to relax and live a little. He gave in, and we began to play soccer with a small ball one of the younger boys had found in the trash. We were laughing, playing, joking around, when all of a sudden we heard the one sound that could make me vomit in an instant. The roar of a rebel jeep approaching made every child’s eyes light up with terror, except Jack’s, who remained calm. While the children scattered like aunts to find safety, Jack and I ran towards each other to make sure we were together.
Unfortunately, that made us fall behind the rest of the group. We could smell the gas coming from the jeep by now, and we knew we had no time to even look back. I breathed deeply, but focused only on running for my life. As I came to the main path with Jack by my side, my shoe got caught in a small animal’s hole. I completely fell, and it was Jack who helped me up and made me keep running. That small difference in time changed my life. The rebel soldiers caught up to Jack. He told me to keep running, but when I turned around to come help him, I saw the fear in his eyes I will never forget. It’s that look that makes me cry anytime I think of the genocide. It was if he was begging me to stay, yet he was yelling at me to go. As he was dragged back into the truck, I knew I would never see him again. I knew he would never be the Jack I knew.
I continued to run until I reached the town bus station. I found my familiar group, and when they asked me where Jack was, all I could do was sob. They never had to ask again; they knew the same nightmare we all had every night had happened to Jack. He was going to be held as a child soldier, and brainwashed to kill with no mercy.
For months I continued to think about Jack. I wondered what torture he was enduring, worried about the brutality he came witness to every day, and even doubted if he was still alive. Before bed every night in the bus station, I would grab my prayer beads, look towards the sky, hoping someone was listening. “Just let me see him one more time.” I would plead.
I did end up seeing Jack again. It was months after he was abducted and the rebel soldiers stormed the same countryside again. Luckily, the children were closer to town, so most of at least found hiding spots in town to avoid the rebels. I flew under a dumpster, others made it to the actual bus station, and some hid in trees nearby. The rebel jeep stopped only feet from my hiding place. Luckily the other children were further into town. I heard footsteps approaching the dumpster and covered my mouth to keep from screaming with fear. I realized the footsteps had stopped close to my head, and knew my hiding spot had been noticed by a soldier. I grabbed my prayer beads and prepared myself for the end. “I think we got one over here!” a familiar voice screamed. As the boy peered under the dumpster, I realized it was Jack. I almost smiled until I looked closely into his eyes. When he saw it was me, he became completely stoic. He showed no emotion, and I knew he was no longer capable of compassion. I also was aware that he either had to shoot me or be shot. He grabbed his gun, pointed it at my face, and then caught a glimpse of my prayer beads. He still showed no emotion, turned around, and yelled to the group, “It was just a fox!” To this day, I wish I would have waited longer. As soon as he turned around, I got up from under the dumpster and started to sprint in the other direction. I knew I had made a mistake when I heard one precise shot fired. I did not have to turn around to figure it out; they had killed Jack.
When I think about the Jack I knew, I always force myself to think of our early friendship. He was more than my twelve-year-old crush. He was my family, my best friend, and my first love. I will always admire those emerald eyes so full of compassion and strength. When I go to speak at a Ugandan press conference today, I will be pleading for the UN’s and USA’s help in our situation. And as I inform the world of child abduction and orphans cause by this genocide, I will remember those eyes, not only the good part. I will remember what was lost and the transformation from a hero full of love to a shell of a body with no soul. I will never forget those eyes.