Piol was seven years old when his mother asked him to go sell eggs and peanuts at the market...15 miles away. Although he would rather play with his friends, Piol knew better than to contest his mother's request, so he headed off, cargo in hand.
Smoke. Gunshots. Screams.
Arab raiders, backed by the Khartoum government, had hacked down his family, torched his village, and were approaching the market. The little Dinka tribesboy had no idea what was going on, where to hide, or what to do. Then the killing began.
He watched the attack. One after another, men & women slumped next to their stalls, their bodies assuming slack postures of relaxation...it was Piol's first look at death.
* * * * * * * *
I heard Piol speak last night. His western name is Francis Bok, and he's a refugee from Southern Sudan.
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