Running for My Life: One Lost Boy's Journey From the Killing Fields of Sudan to the Olympic Games by Lopez Lomong Page B

two, only this time the interviewer asked me things like, “Why do you want to go to America? What is America to you? What would you do if you had to go to a different country to live?” I answered the best I could. The interviewers did all they could to put me at ease. I could not fail the interview and go back to Kakuma. I was definitely going to America, no matter what!
    My interviews finally came to an end. Within a few weeks boys began leaving Juja for America, not just lost boys from Sudan but also refugees from Somalia. Every Wednesday a list of names was posted on a bulletin board in the middle of the facility. The moment the list went up, boys crowded around, looking for their names. They shouted and sang when they saw their names. They also called out the names of their new homes in America. The names all sounded very odd, places like Chicago and Atlanta and New York. None of us knew anything about any of the names. We only knew they were in America, and that was enough for us.
    A couple of my friends were among the first to find their names on the America list. Within a few days they left Juja for good. Saying goodbye to them was easy. “I will see you in America!” I told them. I watched them climb on the bus for the airport, while I stayed behind, checking the list every Wednesday and wondering what was taking so long.
    While I looked over the list week after week, a man named Rob Rogers picked up a bulletin on his way into church near Syracuse, New York. There he saw an announcement that read, “We need host families to serve as foster families for the lost boys from Sudan.” He later showed the bulletin to his wife, Barbara, and said, “I think we should do this.”
    Barbara wasn’t so sure. She thought Rob was a little nuts for suggesting it. However, she agreed to attend the informational meeting the following Thursday. Rob had to go out of town on business, which meant Barbara attended the meeting alone. By the time the meeting ended, she was a little nuts herself. She signed the two of them up to become a host family. Over the next few months they attended more classes and had every part of their life investigated by the state of New York. A social worker conducted a home study along with police background checks. Finally a letter arrived telling them that they had been certified by the state to serve as foster parents.
    I did not know any of this. All I knew was that my weeks in Juja had turned into months and still my name did not appear on the list.
    A worker called me in for my fourth and final interview. This time, the interviewer was not only an American, but an American who had just flown in from the United States itself. He worked for Immigration and Naturalization Services (INS). I knew this interview was very important.
    “Are you still in touch with your family back in Sudan?” he asked.
    “No. I have not seen or heard from them since I was kidnapped when I was six.”
    “If you were to find them, would you want to take them to America?”
    “They are dead,” I said very calmly.
    The interviewer paused for a moment. I think my answer took him by surprise. “Okay, then. Uh . . . Why aren’t Juja and Kakuma places you can call home?”
    “As a Sudanese, I cannot call them home. The rules prevent me from being anything besides a refugee there.”
    “Why is that not enough for you?”
    “I want to do more with my life than survive in a camp.” I looked him in the eye. “That is not the kind of life anyone wants.”
    He did not respond. “What do you want to do in America?”
    I broke out in a huge grin. “I want to work hard! I love to work.”
    The American did not smile back. He looked down at his piece of paper. “Okay. I think that’s all I need.”

    Wednesday rolled around again. Six months had passed since I climbed on the airplane in Kakuma. Most of my friends had left for America. I had begun to wonder if I would ever join them. I walked outside to the bulletin board.