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Summer 2003

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By the age of 12, Philip Akol ’06 had walked over 700 miles across the savannahs of Sudan, Ethiopia and Kenya, dodging the bullets of a militaristic Islamic regime and fleeing the jaws of lions, leopards and hyenas.

Akol, one of a group of children dubbed the “Lost Boys of Sudan,” fled his country at age 9 when the northern Islamic fundamentalist government attacked his home in southern Sudan. During the assault, the government burned down buildings, killed Akol’s father and nearly killed his mother. Separated from their parents, Akol and his brother Daniel fled the village.

What began as a brief flight from battle became an epic journey, crossing to Ethiopia, back to Sudan, then to Kenya, as nearly 20,000 boys aged 5 to 15 abandoned their homes looking for refuge.

The Dinka tribe (mostly Christian) of southern Sudan, of which Akol is a member, has been continually attacked by the northern ruling Islamic government since the late 1980s. The civil war, along with the resulting famine and disease, has claimed the lives of 2 million Sudanese and has displaced 4 million more, according to the U.S. State Department.

After slaughtering the adults and enslaving the girls, the northern government began to target the fleeing Lost Boys on their journey across Sudan. Walking for over a month, Akol reached a United Nations refugee camp in Pinyudo, Ethiopia, where they remained for four years.

“The UN helped us to build our own homes and offered school,” says Akol. “I was excited because I didn’t have an education. My father had always insisted that education was good and it was exciting to be introduced to letters.”

After building a school from wood and grass, the Lost Boys sat on the floor and were taught lessons in Christianity, and the Dinka and Swahili languages from Sudanese teachers.

By the time Akol reached the 4th grade, civil war erupted in Ethiopia, forcing the UN to abandon the camp. The Lost Boys, once again without food and on their own, headed back to familiar Sudan. Pursued by Ethiopian troops, they crossed the Gilo River, where thousands died from drowning, crocodile attacks and Ethiopian bullets.

Separated from his brother during the Gilo attack, Akol continued journeying with his cousins and friends and crossed the border in 1991, at Pochala, Sudan. Akol was happy to be back in familiar, more fertile land especially after barren Ethiopia.

“In Sudan, we have many trees and you can eat certain leaves and fruits,” he says. When I ask what types of fruits he ate, he refuses to answer. “I cannot mention it,” he says. “It cannot be eaten, but we had to eat it to live.”

Before the civil war, Akol’s family members were farmers, growing maize, corn, sorghum (a drought tolerant grain), and raising cattle. Living on the land, he was well aware of the edible food in the wilderness—knowledge that he used to survive after fleeing his home.

It’s unsettling to hear his story in the comparative luxury of Villanova’s Connelly Center. He’s eating a cheese-steak and sipping a Coke, while talking about starving and dodging bullets in the savannas of Africa. I ask him if he likes American food.

“I like to eat salad a lot,” he says. “Broccoli and bananas are my favorite.” Looking down at his cheese-steak, he smiles. “I was not used to meat in Sudan.”

Despite eating healthy in America, the years of malnourishment in Africa have taken their toll on Akol’s growth. His lanky, six-foot frame would be at greater ease a few inches taller. His long, thin, callused hands adjust his red fleece, which hangs on his frame like a sweater on a drying rack. He tells me that his younger brother has grown to six-feet, five-inches.

I have a hard time hearing him above the normal clatter of the Connelly Center. He speaks a few decibels above a whisper, and I keep losing his words in the clamor. I have to lean across the table and angle my ear to listen to his story, which he tells in short bits, needing to sit back and relax between anecdotes.

It’s difficult to determine whether Akol’s shyness and soft voice are because of the horrors he’s been through, or the fact that English is not his first language. His English is excellent, the only mistakes are infrequent word exchanges that are common to non-native speakers. He is exceedingly polite, and very inquisitive about my life—my hometown, my family, my goals.
Returning to Sudan, Akol found his land still ravaged by civil war. Upon their return, the northern government picked up the Lost Boys trail and followed them south, hoping to finish the slaughter they had already begun. Reaching Kapoeta at the same time, the government opened fire, killing thousands of the boys.

“I remember the time that the Sudanese government was three hours away from us, and we were rushing toward Kenya,” says Akol. “My feet bothered me because I had no shoes to protect my feet from sunburn. I asked God if it was His will for me to escape the attacks. The government captured the town, killing thousands of children who were not able to run. It was not my decision to disregard the pain, but God’s power.”

Akol is steadfast in his faith. “My survival is not from my own intelligent thinking, but from my faith in God. On our journey, we were faced with attacks, hunger, thirst, rain and flooding. I always asked God to be my guardian.”

Not all of the Lost Boys were so lucky. He tells me that many of his friends fell victim to bullets, hunger, thirst, and exhaustion, many children died on the way. “Children in Sudan do not bury people,” he starts. “It is for old people.”

Akol grows wistful, and I see the horrors welling up in his eyes.
“But when you’re alone, you have to do it yourself. It is very sad to bury a friend.”

Fleeing the northern government on faith and sunburn feet, Akol and the Lost Boys headed across the border to Kenya, reaching a UN refugee camp at Kakuma. At first, he was pleased—he was safe from attack and given food. He was able to resume his education at Kakuma, but with no school building, the lessons began outside.

“We started under the trees, but it was so windy sometimes we could not see,” he says. “So the UN decided to build a school for us.”

Even with a building, learning in the camp wasn’t easy—the school day ran for eight straight hours in blistering temperatures sometimes reaching more than 120ºF during the afternoon. Classes began at 7 a.m. and the boys weren’t allowed a chance to eat until classes were over at 3 p.m.

When they finally got the chance to eat, there wasn’t much for their stomachs—the boys subsisted on small rations, due to a food shortage at the camp. The U.N. was overwhelmed by the number of refugees, and possessed neither the buildings, food, nor resources to aid everyone.

“The food ration was not enough,” says Akol. “Ten of us would cook together and the food had to last for 15 days. We tried to divide it to last, and would skip meals sometimes. We got very skinny. A lot of people died in the camp because we didn’t have enough food.”

On December 19, 2000, a week after finishing high school in Kakuma, Akol boarded a plane headed for America, one of 3,600 Lost Boys given a chance to settle in the United States. Akol, along with his cousins David and Abraham, and three of their friends, received a government-subsidized apartment in Souderton, PA, a 26-mile drive north of Villanova. Arriving a week before Christmas, Akol, his cousins and friends saw snow for the first time.

Volunteers from Church in Souderton clothed and aided the boys in settling in and adapting to American culture. The six had no possessions, wearing only the shorts and t-shirts on their backs.

“The only item that came with me to the United States is my Bible, written in my native Dinka languge,” Akol says.

Since he was already 21, Akol was ineligible to receive government aid or enroll in an American high school, and went straight to work at a meat factory in town. He began taking GED classes at night, looking for his high school degree.

After receiving his certificate, Akol quit his job at the meat factory and began taking day classes at Montgomery County Community College and working a part-time night shift at Giant Food Store.

“Education is very important,” he said. “With an education, I am going to be helpful to myself and for my family.”

By the time he finished his first semester at MCCC, Akol decided to look into bachelors programs and applied to five universities in the greater Philadelphia area, among them Villanova, where he was accepted.

“Villanova was my first choice because it’s the best school when I read [US News & World Report],” said Akol. “Villanova is a Christian school and I love religion.”

Interested in business and economics, Akol enrolled in the College of Commerce and Finance upon his acceptance. Despite his difficult life, and perhaps because of it, Akol’s plans for graduation are focused on one goal: helping others.

“I am thinking of going for a masters degree if possible,” said Akol. “I will try to find a job, maybe at an agency, to see if I can help people, wherever I can. If Sudan is liberated, I can do a lot of things. I will teach people and help others who cannot help themselves.”