Priscilla’s Harrowing Tale of Survival

Priscilla Kuer is not sure exactly how old she is. Typical of the African people from Sudan, she is tall — 6 ft. 2 inches – and was born in the southern part of Sudan. She remembers being a happy little girl until that horrific early morning when government troops attacked her village. Her story is as follows:

It was early one morning when I was awakened by deafening noises. I ran outside and to my amazement the whole sky seemed to be on fire. Bombs were making huge craters in what had once been a beautiful town. Arabs, astride horses and camels and in jeeps, began racing through the streets killing everyone in sight. They were the dreaded Janjaweed (devils on horseback) and their faces were enraged as they screamed ‘Alikabar’ (God is Great!) Our house was made of grass. It, along with all of the others, burst into flames.

My sister and I ran. We heard later that girls, ranging in ages 12 to 15 were kidnapped and forced into marriages, or sold as slaves. When the Arabs saw a young woman with a baby bound to her back they ripped it off, threw it in a well, or stabbed it and threw it in a tree. They killed all of the little boys and the elderly.

After my sister Rebecca and I hid, we were both shaking from head to foot as we listened to the shouts and screams, which seemed to go on forever. Finally there was silence. Before long we could hear leaves rustling as frightened children, along with a few adults, came out of hiding. Soon a long winding column comprised of traumatized people was winding through the jungle. A few days later I saw a woman in labor lying in the dirt by the side of the road. Except for a few women, everyone else just kept walking. Birth, in Sudan is a joyous occasion. But for this woman, it couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

“Did she and her baby live, or did they die?” I wondered. For days, months and even years that sad memory would come back to haunt me.

For the first few days we lived off of the fruits the older girls found in the jungle. One day we had to wade through a swamp. The brown water was up to my armpits when I felt something move under my foot. A large snake reared out of the water and to my horror I found myself eye to eye with a cobra. At first it remained motionless. Then, with a hiss, its head darted forward and it spit venom into my eyes. Then it vanished, almost as silently as it had appeared. Not only was I blind, my entire face and neck swelled up to grotesque proportions. I knew I would die. A kind older woman gathered some herbs and made a poultice, which she put on my face. She stayed with me feeding me a broth she had cooked and a few days later the swelling went down and I could see again. God had spared me.

Another problem was the lions and hyenas. The first night I heard a lion roar, next to the screaming Janjaweed, it was the most frightening thing I had ever heard. A few nights later a lion grabbed my baby cousin. There was nothing we could do as we listened to his anguished screams as the lion carried him away. We thought our hearts would break with grief.

It wasn’t until we came to the desert that we learned what true suffering was. All of my life I had never worried about water. Now we were forced to go days without a drink. We were forced to drink our own urine. It was a desperate thing to do. Even that can be a problem because if you’re dehydrated, it is very hard to produce urine. Many people died. Some simply sat down on the ground and refused to go on.

I was so little I was confused. I didn’t understand what was happening and I wanted to go home. The older kids dragged us along and to keep us going they would lie to us. “There’s a car up ahead with water and food”, they would say. Encouraged we would walk a little faster. But where was that car? Sometimes we would get mad and refuse to go on. Frustrated, when lies and false promises didn’t work, sometimes the older kids would beat us. I decided I hated those bigger kids.

After 15 days, footsore and thin, we arrived at the refugee camp in Ethiopia. Then I had a happy surprise. I found my Pappa and my brothers. Even though the camp was dusty and crude, life suddenly seemed much better.

We were excited about going to school. Sitting under a tree the teacher would patiently draw letters in the dirt with a stick. With the sand blowing in my face and my stomach growling with hunger (each person receives one bowl of gruel a day) it was hard to concentrate. But all in all, life was better. As word spread throughout the world aid poured into the camp. There were missionaries and the United Nations sent aide workers. But that peaceful life was not to last. In 1991 the government of Ethiopia was overthrown and government troops, sympathetic to the radical Islamic government in Sudan, attacked the camp. It seemed like a reoccurring bad dream. As bombs exploded and soldiers shot at us we ran towards the Gilo River - the only thing that separated us from Sudan. It was our only hope. I remember that horrific scene in vivid detail. The horror of seeing my two baby siblings clinging to my father’s back as he tried desperately to swim across the river. When the bullets hit him they sank below the surface, never to be seen again. I can’t swim and to this day I have no recollection as to how I got across that river. But somehow I did. Then I was one of the older kids, dragging the little kids along as I made false promises. Bad as it was, it was better than that first journey because this time there were aide workers shouting encouragement as they rushed ahead of us in jeeps and vans leaving food and water. But there was little they could do about the pursuing soldiers and animal predators.

When we reached the refugee camp, Kakuma, I would live there for years. During this time I met an English woman and under her guidance I became a counselor. I rode a bicycle daily from one end of the camp to the other visiting people and listening to their heart broken tales as they told me about their experiences. I received a certificate and it is one of my proudest possessions.

It was during this time I met Joseph. He had been an elder in his group, which meant he was probably 12 or 13. His job at the end of the day during that horrific journey was to bury the dead. We married and when I was pregnant with our oldest daughter Joseph came to the United States. I was happy that he was going first so he could make a home for us, but sad and lonely at the same time.

Then, that terribly memory of the woman giving birth in the dirt that had haunted me for years almost became a reality. Bandits, who knew the camp’s security was stretched thin, attacked. Even though I was far advanced in my pregnancy I knew I had to run as far away from the hospital as possible. This was the first place the bandits would go because of the drugs. They would kill all of the patients and medical personnel.

“Would I end up in labor in the dirt like that woman so many years ago? Would my baby and I live?” These were the thoughts that ran through my head as I ran. Panicked, at first I ran in circles. Again God saved me, because, along with others, I ran to a UN building where we barricaded ourselves until the government sent in troops to restore order.

I have been in Dallas for four years and now have three children. My daughter is in the first grade and she is an excellent student. My two sons are four and two years old. I want them to have a good life and more than anything, I want an education. I love America. Here everyone works hard but in this country everyone has freedom. Americans are good people. Many of them have helped me and I have many friends.”

Priscilla works in the bakery department in Central Market at Central Expressway and Lovers Lane. She and her husband have bought a home in Wylie and she has just registered for summer school at Collin County Community College. She plans to go to college in the fall. Her mother and her sister Rebecca are also here. Rebecca works from 6 pm until 6 am and goes to school where she’s taking accounting.

Priscilla’s story is one of sixteen stories in the book Dark Exodus. The Dark Exodus Foundation is a 501c3 dedicated to helping refugee women. If you would like to make a contribution or volunteer, send an e-mail to Beverly.

The Lost Girls of Sudan, all brave Sudanese women, need your support. 

Beverly Parkhurst Moss and her partner, Anne Worth, often accompanied by the Lost Girls of Sudan, put on a 30 to 45 minute presentation for churches, women’s groups and people interested in community outreach that makes a dramatic and inspirational event. If you would like to schedule a presentation for your organization, or for more information, contact Beverly.

When you buy a book, fifty percent of the proceeds of the book go to the Sudanese women featured.  Beverly Parkhurst Moss is in the process of setting up a non-profit (501c3) program that will help the Sudanese women in their educational needs.

DARK EXODUS comes in either hardbound with gold embossing, or in paperback. Each is autographed. Hardbound is $32 (+$5 shipping/handling), paperback is $20 (+$5 shipping/handling). Order your copy today!