Seed of South Sudan (22 page)

So when she said she was going to think about it, that was not a commitment, but it was okay to talk to her and it meant that we were “dating,” as Westerners would call it, but our culture just calls it getting to know each other. Over time, we would have walks together, but I would not go to her house, and I would not eat in her house. Everybody else could eat there, but the man seeking marriage would not eat there.

It was the duty for everyone related to me, or knowing me, to talk to her on my behalf. That's everyone's role. If my brother would go and meet her, he'd talk to her on behalf of me. When she sees one of my relatives, she is to speak to them, as she has to respect them because she is going to be one of the family. So it's not only me who goes up and talks to her, it's everybody who's close to me.

She has a right to say no, and then we go to another girl later. Also, her parents can say no. In the meantime, they will be checking out our family, and we will be checking out theirs. Good family is very important, as these villages are small and problems are known by everyone. We ask around: Do they have a lot of trouble in the family, like quarreling, separation of the parents, or the kinds of things that would mark them? If they have all those kinds of things, we will say no, we are not going to that family. You need strong family who are respectful and do the right thing. If the family doesn't work, or they are tattlers, that could end a marriage in the making. In a marriage, the groom gives a lot of cows. If you separate with the lady, you have to demand that you take your cows back. So you can see that everyone in each family has a lot invested, reputation-wise, and bride-wealth-wise, in each marriage.

I arrived in Rumbek and before too long, I talked to Ajok, and she said we could discuss it. She went to other people to check me out. Is this Majok a good person? They didn't know me as a person, but only by name, because I had been in the refugee camps for 14 years. But they knew of me, knew I was in the United States. What information they had came from my elder brother mostly. Ajok talked to other girls who were close to her, and her family asked their friends. In the several weeks long process of us getting to know each other, she held her opinions; she was encouraging, but not committing. As to the question, did I sing to her? I must confess, no. I did not sing to her. Singing is what a traditional Dinka man does for the woman he wants to marry. All those hours singing songs we made up on our long journey to Ethiopia, taking our minds off having no food, no water, and no safety—they served me well at the time. But I did talk to Ajok a great deal. Maybe she liked me because of that.

Parents like this long period of discussion because it allows them to get to know the man. They are concerned that a man may just be playing with their daughter, and they don't want that. In my case, as it was likely my wife would live in the United States, they needed to know that I would take care of her; their greatest fear was that I would not take care of her and that we might separate in America.

Boys and girls at cattle camp near River Na'am, South Sudan, December, 2008.

The other thing, and the most important thing, that I did in Sudan is that I bought cows. I selected beautiful cows in order to make the deal of our marriage more attractive to her family. I recognized that her whole family would be involved with this; all uncles, brothers, father, mother—they all had to be satisfied with the offering of cows. Similarly, I had to go to each of my relatives to ask if they would contribute toward my bride-price. The cattle were generally kept together by our family in the cattle camp—my younger brother Abol was responsible for keeping the cattle, along with my nephews and cousins. But each cow in the herd had someone as an owner. We knew our cows by their markings, and often we decorated them with our own markings.

When I returned to Georgia, Ajok and I had an understanding that we thought we might like to marry, but the negotiation for the cows was the next step. I left this to my elder brother Malual, as he was the male head of our family, and he had done this successfully twice before, with my uncles' help. And the uncles helped him as well.

The actual cattle negotiation with the family is a three-day affair. The family of the bride comes out to the cattle camp in the morning. They have to see how many cows you have, and how many of what quality we can produce for them. My brother called me in January 2011. They were demanding that they had to have 89 cows, but my brother offered 50. They were not happy with that. They made a counter-offer of 60. I had 20 cows myself, my brother brought his seven cows, and then uncles contributed. Everyone has to contribute something, so everyone has some investment in this marriage. Then everyone else in her family, they come in the evening and everyone prepares food and eats together. In the morning our family killed a bull for them. It took a while to get the offer sealed, but the eating together and killing a bull kind of seals the deal. The gathering in the evening is where the talks continue. You hope the talks keep going and don't stop so that you can reach a settlement. It's true that in Sudan, the woman and the price that is paid for her enhances her value in Dinka culture. All this is about her value to me and my family.

As a deal is being negotiated, the cows offered and accepted are on display in the camp. Once an agreement is reached, all the other cows are released. So when people come in the evening, they can see what cows are being exchanged. When my brother told me we were still apart in the negotiations, I called other people to help. In fact, Judy Maves assisted from Atlanta by talking to a friend in Sudan whom she'd helped a great deal, and he contributed cash so I could buy two more cows!

In fact, just about the time of the marriage, the bride's family continued to negotiate with my brother, and said they would need 25 more cows. We reached agreement that we will provide these in the future. We could still marry, but they would get 25 more as our cattle herd grows in future.

Such is the Dinka way of marriage. It has worked for thousands of years, so we don't discard all of our customs at once. A big change is to take one wife. Other changes will come in future as South Sudan meets the cultures of other people, which will surely happen and has already happened with 4,000 of her sons and many daughters living in the United States.

The year 2010 was the year I was able to plan my marriage to Ajok Mabor Malek. It was also the year that the reality of a new country of South Sudan began to take shape. While my brother was negotiating the bride-price with my in-laws-to-be, methods were being set up to provide for a popular vote among southern Sudanese for the election where we would decide whether to stay with Sudan or to form our own government.

This issue of separation was very old. When the British let go of their role in the country in 1956, the question arose whether the southern regions of Sudan should be a separate country, but that did not happen. Two civil wars had now been fought, each about 20 years long, to resolve this issue. The question would now for the first time be put to the people in the south. And the diaspora Sudanese would also take part by voting in cities in the United States. The cities were spread from Seattle to Boston, and Sudanese would travel several hours to go there.

At the end of 2010, my fellow countrymen and I were asked to register to vote in the nearest city to us, Nashville, Tennessee. This country music star–filled town is also home to many Lost Boys, and there is a very active Lost Boys Foundation there that works for the improvement of the lives of the men living there. In order to register for the Sudanese election, which was to be held in January, we traveled a month before that, on December 12, 2010. Four cars carried 18 people to Nashville from the Clarkston, Georgia, area.

The voting took place at the Lost Boys Gallery, an art gallery featuring paintings, drawings, and other objects the refugees made and sold there to raise funds, a program sponsored by the Foundation. One of the highlights of this registration was that we saw about 100 Sudanese registering who were from the Rumbek area. It was like having a bit of home in Nashville.

Majok, Ngor Kur Mayol, with Travis Loller of the Associated Press at the historic Sudanese election in Nashville, January 9, 2011.

Needless to say, there was a lot of rejoicing that we were doing this. Taking place as it did at Christmastime, I saw the parallel between this journey and the journey that Joseph and Mary made back to his hometown of Bethlehem, to register for the census. They gave birth to the baby Jesus in that historic journey, and we were making a historic journey of our own.

A month later, on January 9, 2011, six years after the signing of the unprecedented Comprehensive Peace Agreement, the election took place in southern Sudan, and in our eight cities as well. Again we traveled to Nashville in a caravan to cast our vote. The vote was counted in Juba, which is to be the capital of the new South Sudan. We did not trust sending the ballots to Khartoum for counting. To say the least, to do so would have challenged the credibility of the vote.

On January 17, the results of the vote were announced in Juba. The vote was overwhelmingly for independence, for a country to be created six months later, beginning July 9, 2011. The nearness of this date to the American independence celebration is not lost on the South Sudanese! In Clarkston, we have celebrated this on or around July 20 so as not to be in conflict with July 4th celebrations in the United States. It is always on a weekend, to allow everyone to attend without having to worry about work schedules. These celebrations are joyful gatherings of our community, full of dancing, speeches, and foods like we have in our villages.

This second trip to Nashville was memorable for several reasons, in addition to being a historic election. One reason is that we had a film crew arranged by a nonprofit organization that supports many of our efforts. Patricia Shafer, founder and executive director of Mothering Across Continents, came with us from her home in Charlotte, North Carolina. Judy Maves, whom I've mentioned before, and Janis Sundquist, another volunteer, also accompanied us. Patricia had hired a videographer, a cinematographer, and a still photographer to accompany us in our cars. In addition, there were six vans carrying other voters. The film crew took turns riding in our cars so that they could interview different people, and then they filmed at the voting area. The videographer, Diane Estelle Vicari, had come from California, as had Ulli Bonnekamp, a noted cinematographer, so we were a little impressed with that.

The voting took place in a jubilant atmosphere. People displayed flags and sang as they stood in line—for four hours. While registration the month before had taken place over several days, this was the only day for the election on that Sunday. We got to see a lot more of our people in one place. We understand that from Georgia alone, there were 900 Sudanese—quite a large number! The weather was very cold, but we were warmed by our spirits.

When we were returning on the usually four-hour one-way trip from Nashville, it began snowing really hard at about Cartersville, Georgia. The snow kept coming down and obscuring vision, and pretty soon it was covering the road and then piling up, and the roads became slippery and congested. On the high overpass connecting I-75 South to I-285 East in north Atlanta, trying to maneuver over the very slippery and icy road, one car slid into another not part of our group, and we were stuck, along with many other cars that similarly were snowbound. Two of our four cars—the other two were either ahead of or behind this pile of cars—were totally disabled.

We were all cold and frustrated and concerned about how we would get out. Judy wore high-heeled boots. Some people had no coats. But despite it all, we were in reasonably good shape. It could have been worse.

To her credit, Patricia, who was driving one of the cars and had brought the crews for making a documentary about the voting experience, told me, “When you go with a Lost Boy, if anything happens to you, it won't be really bad.”