The buses were not overcrowded, but they were at maximum capacity. Jerry cans, sacks of belongings and women and children packed in tight. There were not many grown men. Perhaps they were injured or lost during the years of political unrest? It’s possible. Anything is possible with these refugees, but nothing is impossible. The weary, yet excited travellers disembark from their fifth day on the road. They have travelled from the refugee camp, Bonga, in the west of Ethiopia and stopped each evening at rest stations set up by the UN along the route. These provide adequate simple facilities, including toilets, shelter, food and running water. The journey, made by bus, across hazardous, bumpy, unsealed roads is really only fit for four-wheel drives. It doesn’t compare to the journey they’ve had in their pasts.
The fifth and final rest station, close to Sherkole Refugee camp on the border of Sudan, is yet another place to call home, but this one, just for a night. Within minutes of arriving, their mats are spread out, the children are napping, older children are playing and the women have begun their domestic activities. First, they collect the non-food items provided by the UN. These items will assist them in rebuilding their home. Like jerry cans, pots, crockery, buckets, mosquito nets and plastic sheeting. Using the jerry cans and buckets, they collect fresh, clean water from the two large canvas bladders and re-hydrate themselves, and their weary families. After finding a rock or a smooth piece of concrete, they gather their clothes, soap and water and begin washing their clothes. Within a few hours of arrival, every boundary barbed-wire fence is draped in wet clothes and the women can pause a while to rest. Later that evening, the harsh sun has bleached and dried the clothes. No longer are they stained from the red earth of this dry land - the same colour as the burning orange sunset. These people have stamina. Some have spent their whole lives fleeing. If not fleeing, they have been shunted from place to place by order of one International Agency or another. They are quite possibly the most resilient people ever. No normal single mother of six who owns one sack of belongings and has been tortured, raped and beaten over the years would still be able to wear a smile as she pounds her family’s clothes on a rock on the eve of the arrival to a new place they will soon call home.
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Their final day of travel starts early. Since the border crossing is scheduled with Sudanese authorities for 7am, all refugees should be ready to board the trucks no later than 5. It is hot, windy and dusty here. Most have been awake for hours and are packed and waiting patiently beside their sacks long before this time. UN staff, in their characteristic aqua-blue vest and hat, stand out among the Sudanese whose dark faces are camouflaged in the blackness of the night. Trucks reverse into the rest station and by torchlight, the trucks are loaded. First luggage is thrown onto the truck, then children – although a little more gracefully, delicately and gently. Many of these children have been removed from their families in the middle of the night before and are frightened but curious when a strange white face comes near. Mothers’ encouraging looks and a smile from the ‘waraja (white man)’ removes any doubt from the understandably cautious child. They are light and limp so are loaded quickly onto the truck. UN staff assist the elderly and guide others with the light of their torches up to the safety of the trucks. Each truck is swiftly loaded in 15 minutes. The convoy is on schedule.
The sun is hanging low above the horizon. It burns through the humid morning mist and sets a stage for the convoy making its way through the small gorge on the Sudan-Ethiopian border. Repatriation can only take place now, during winter. It’s a fine winter’s morning – 7am and 30 degrees. During the wet season, rain dumps enough water in this region for what feels like all of Africa. It swallows up roads and fills the valleys and gorges making the route impassable. For now the gorge is dry and the road is safe. Slowly, one by one, the trucks lug their precious cargo across the border to the Sudanese village of Kurmuk. On Tuesdays during winter, Kurmuk is the place to come early in the morning to meet long lost relatives, friends and loved ones who have been away from their land for so long. Tears, laughter, wailing and screams of joy punctuate the stillness of the morning in this otherwise quiet town. As excited as children, adults run from truck to truck until they spot a face who has been only a memory for years. Although most refugees have suffered terribly whilst fleeing, children have grown up, adults have married and babies have been born giving renewed hope and joy for the future. It is evident in their eyes and their smiles that despite the past, there is no place like home. This is the moment. After obligatory paperwork has been signed, photos captured and UN peacekeepers have given the all clear, the 16 trucks rev their engines and roll forward.
The refugees are forever patient and have amazing survival skills. The roads in Sudan are barely roads at all; just a dirt path hacked away by hand with a machete. Since they are not fit for vehicles, these trucks will meander through as best they can avoiding land mined roads which have not yet been cleared. However difficult this journey is, the refugees are content. With their personal belongings in trucks bringing in the rear, UN vehicles head the convoy. Women strap their babies to their backs and put their children in position on the floor. The excited travellers wave goodbye to UNHCR and to their lives as refugees and peer out to their new freedom that lies ahead.
