Chapter 1 Two Lives Divided by Time

The scorching sun beat down on Southern Sudan as eleven-year-old Nya made her way across the dry earth, empty plastic container in hand. This was the first of two journeys she would make today, as she did every day during the dry season. The container would be heavy with water on the return trip, pressing painfully into her shoulder, but her family's survival depended on these daily walks.

Miles and decades away, in 1985, eleven-year-old Salva Dut sat in his classroom, anticipating the end of the school day. The classroom was simple—just benches beneath a large acacia tree—but Salva valued his education, a privilege many in his village didn't have. The afternoon's peaceful routine shattered when gunfire erupted nearby. His teacher urgently commanded the boys to run into the bush away from the village, away from the fighting that had finally reached them after years of civil war between the north and south.

"Go quickly," the teacher urged. "Do not run to your villages. They will be going into the villages. Stay away from villages—run into the bush."

As the boys scattered in panic, Salva found himself alone, disoriented in the vast bush landscape, uncertain which direction would lead to safety and which to greater danger. His thoughts raced to his family—his father with the cattle, his mother and siblings at home. Were they safe? Had they escaped? The questions plagued him as night fell and he huddled beneath a bush, hunger gnawing at his stomach, fear clutching at his heart.

Meanwhile in 2008, Nya's village barely survived the dry season. Her days revolved entirely around water—walking to the pond, waiting as the muddy water slowly filled her container, and carrying the precious liquid back home. During the dry months, the water made people sick, but they had no choice but to drink it. The alternative was death from thirst. Her younger sister Akeer had already fallen ill from the contaminated water, requiring an expensive and exhausting trip to the medical clinic in another village.

The two stories, separated by twenty-three years yet linked by the same harsh landscape, revealed the enduring challenges of Southern Sudan. For Nya, it was a daily struggle for water. For Salva, it was the sudden, violent displacement that would forever alter his life's course. Both children faced overwhelming obstacles with a resilience that belied their young ages.

As night fell around Salva, alone in the bush with sounds of distant gunfire still echoing, he made a decision that would define his journey forward—he would not give in to despair. Somehow, he would survive. Somehow, he would find his family again. With this determination settling into his heart, he closed his eyes, exhaustion finally overtaking fear as he drifted into an uneasy sleep beneath the vast African sky.

In their parallel struggles across time, both Nya and Salva embodied the quiet strength of their people—a people who had endured decades of conflict and hardship, yet continued to hope for a better future. Their stories had barely begun, but already they demonstrated the extraordinary resilience of ordinary children thrust into extraordinary circumstances.

Chapter 2 Salva's Journey Through a War-Torn Land

Morning brought little relief to Salva, who awoke still alone and afraid in the bush. Hunger intensified as he wandered, desperately hoping to encounter other villagers who had fled. On his second day, fate intervened when he joined a group of strangers also escaping the violence. Among them, he recognized a woman from his village who knew his family, offering a momentary connection to his former life. Though she wasn't a relative, her familiar face provided a small comfort in his growing uncertainty.

The group moved steadily eastward toward Ethiopia, where refugee camps promised relative safety. Their journey was perilous—crossing territories controlled by different rebel factions, avoiding government forces, and navigating a landscape where danger lurked constantly. Salva observed how adults in the group immediately presented themselves as members of the appropriate tribe when encountering armed men, their survival dependent on these quick calculations of allegiance.

"Which tribe?" the armed men would demand, guns ready. "We are Dinka," they would answer when approaching Dinka soldiers. "We are Nuer," when encountering Nuer fighters.

Each day brought new hardships—blistering heat, insufficient food, and the constant threat of abandonment. The adults viewed unrelated children as burdens, extra mouths to feed when there was barely enough for their own families. Salva struggled to keep pace, knowing that falling behind meant certain death. His feet became raw and blistered, but stopping wasn't an option.

A pivotal moment came when Salva's uncle Jewiir joined the group. Finding a relative amidst the chaos felt miraculous, and Uncle Jewiir's presence provided desperately needed protection and guidance. A former military officer, Jewiir knew how to navigate both the physical landscape and the dangerous political terrain they traversed.

"Do you see that group of trees?" Uncle Jewiir would say. "We just need to walk as far as those trees. Then, after we rest, we can walk to the next group of trees."

This simple strategy—breaking the impossible journey into manageable segments—became Salva's method for surviving overwhelming challenges.

Meanwhile in 2008, Nya continued her water-gathering routine. During the wet season, her family relocated to their permanent village where they could plant crops and tend cattle. The seasonal migration between the dry season camp near the remote pond and their permanent village structured their entire existence, a pattern unchanged for generations. Yet Nya noticed something unusual happening in her village—men were drilling into the earth with large machinery. The villagers watched with skepticism and curiosity as these strangers spoke of bringing water from deep underground.

Back in 1985, the group's journey took a devastating turn when they reached the Gilo River—wide, deep, and infested with crocodiles. As they prepared makeshift rafts to cross, armed raiders attacked. In the chaos, Uncle Jewiir was killed—shot while protecting the group. Salva watched in horror as his protector, his connection to family, died before his eyes. The loss was crushing, leaving Salva once again vulnerable and alone despite being surrounded by others.

With renewed determination born from grief, Salva continued eastward. The Gilo crossing claimed more lives to crocodiles, but Salva made it to the other side. Days later, nearly six months after fleeing his classroom, he reached Ethiopia. The refugee camp there was a paradox—safety from the immediate dangers of war, but filled with new challenges of disease, inadequate food, and the crushing weight of displacement.

In the camp, Salva's leadership qualities emerged. Though still a boy, he organized other unaccompanied minors—the "Lost Boys" as they would later be known—into groups for mutual support. His education became valuable as he learned English and helped others navigate camp life. Despite the relative stability, Salva never stopped searching arriving refugees for news of his family, clinging to hope that they had survived.

The parallel stories of Nya and Salva revealed different facets of Sudan's struggle—one child navigating daily survival against environmental hardship, the other escaping violent political conflict. Yet both demonstrated extraordinary resilience, finding ways to persist when circumstances seemed unbearable. Their journeys, though separated by decades, reflected the enduring human capacity to adapt and survive against overwhelming odds.

Chapter 3 Nya's Daily Struggle for Survival

The rhythm of Nya's life was dictated by water—its presence, its absence, and the grueling effort required to obtain it. During the dry season, her day began before dawn, walking barefoot across terrain that transformed from cool sand to scorching earth as the sun rose higher. By mid-morning, she would reach the pond—a shallow, muddy water source shared by humans and animals alike.

The water collection itself was an exercise in patience. The cloudy liquid had to be carefully gathered to avoid stirring up too much sediment. Once her container was full, Nya would begin the arduous journey home, the water sloshing against the sides of the plastic jug as she balanced it against her bony shoulder. Upon reaching her family's temporary settlement, she would rest briefly before starting the journey again for the day's second water collection.

Her family's survival depended entirely on this routine. Her mother used the precious water sparingly—some for drinking, some for cooking the meager daily meal of sorghum or maize, and almost none for washing. Every drop was accounted for, valued more than any possession they owned. When her younger sister Akeer doubled over with stomach pains and burning fever, the family knew the contaminated water was responsible, but they had no alternatives.

"We must take her to the medical clinic," her mother had insisted, despite knowing the journey would require precious water reserves and the treatment would cost more than they could afford.

The family had sacrificed everything to save Akeer, selling a goat to pay for medicine, only to return to the same contaminated water source that had caused the illness in the first place.

"She will just get sick again," the clinic worker had warned, the futility of their situation laid bare in those simple words.

In the permanent village, Nya watched with growing curiosity as the drilling continued. The workers explained they were creating a well that would bring clean water from deep underground—water that wouldn't make people sick. The concept seemed magical to Nya, who had never known anything but the treacherous journey to the pond and the illness that followed. The villagers remained skeptical, having seen previous aid projects abandoned halfway.

Meanwhile, Salva's life in the Ethiopian refugee camp settled into its own rhythm of survival. For six years, he lived in limbo, receiving basic education and developing friendships with other Lost Boys. The camp became a community of the displaced—thousands of Sudanese who had fled the civil war, living in makeshift shelters and dependent on international aid organizations for food and medicine.

This relative stability ended abruptly in 1991 when civil war broke out in Ethiopia. Armed soldiers forced the refugees at gunpoint toward the Gilo River—the same crocodile-infested waters Salva had crossed years earlier. Now the river was swollen from heavy rains, creating a deadly barrier between the refugees and Sudan. As bullets flew around them, thousands plunged into the raging waters.

"Many people were shot. Many drowned. Many were eaten by crocodiles," Salva would later recall of the chaos.

Somehow, Salva survived the crossing. Once again displaced, he led a group of about 1,500 boys on a punishing journey toward Kenya, where new refugee camps promised safety. The march became one of the most extraordinary refugee exoduses in history, with boys as young as five walking nearly 1,000 miles across deserts and mountains.

Food and water were desperately scarce. The group resorted to eating whatever they could find—leaves, roots, and occasionally wild fruits. They drank from stagnant pools when no other water sources were available. Disease claimed many lives, as did predators, both animal and human. Armed bandits would attack the group, stealing their few possessions and sometimes killing boys who resisted.

The most harrowing segment came in the Akobo Desert, where scorching temperatures and lack of water killed dozens. As their group leader, Salva faced heartbreaking decisions about when to continue walking and when to rest, knowing that stopping too long meant death from dehydration while pushing too hard meant collapse from exhaustion.

Through it all, Salva maintained the strategy his uncle had taught him—focusing on reaching the next landmark, the next goal, rather than contemplating the entirety of the impossible journey. "One step at a time, one day at a time," became his mantra as he encouraged the younger boys to continue.

After months of walking, the group finally reached Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya in 1992. Though safer than their journey, Kakuma offered little more than basic survival—crowded conditions, minimal rations, and the ongoing uncertainty of displacement. Yet within this harsh reality, Salva continued his education and maintained hope that somewhere, his family might still be alive.

The parallel struggles of Nya and Salva, though separated by time and circumstance, illuminated the extraordinary challenges facing Southern Sudanese people. Their stories were both unique and universal—testaments to human endurance and the relentless pursuit of survival against overwhelming odds.

Chapter 4 The Long Road to Refugee Life

Life in Kakuma Refugee Camp offered Salva safety but little comfort. The camp sprawled across the arid Kenyan landscape, housing tens of thousands of refugees from various conflicts across East Africa. Tents and mud-brick structures created a temporary city of the displaced, where people from different tribes and nations were forced to coexist while longing for homes they might never see again.

Daily life revolved around survival basics—collecting water rations, standing in line for food distributions, and seeking shade from the relentless sun. Despite these challenges, Salva continued his education in the camp's makeshift schools, demonstrating a remarkable aptitude for languages. He became fluent in English, adding to his knowledge of Arabic and his native Dinka. This linguistic ability would later prove crucial to his future.

Years passed with agonizing slowness. Many refugees fell into despair, seeing no end to their displacement. Others clung to rumors of peace negotiations and possible returns to their homelands. Salva existed somewhere in between—pragmatically building what life he could in the camp while never abandoning hope of finding his family and returning to Sudan.

In 1996, after four years in Kakuma, an extraordinary opportunity emerged. Representatives from the United States government arrived to interview young men for a resettlement program. The "Lost Boys of Sudan" had gained international attention, and several countries had agreed to accept some of these displaced youths. Salva, now a young man of 22, found himself among those selected for relocation to America.

"You are going to the United States," the official told him, handing over paperwork that would transform his life once again.

The news felt surreal after eleven years in refugee camps. America existed as an abstract concept in Salva's mind—a place seen only in occasional movies or described in books available in the camp. The prospect of leaving Africa for this unknown world filled him with both anticipation and anxiety.

The journey to America required extensive preparation—medical examinations, cultural orientation classes, and countless forms. When the day finally arrived, Salva boarded an airplane for the first time, carrying everything he owned in a small bag. The flight took him from Nairobi to New York, where the sheer scale of the city, the pace of life, and the abundance of everything overwhelmed his senses.

From New York, Salva continued to Rochester, New York, where his host family welcomed him. The Burnetts—Chris and Louise and their children—had volunteered to help a Lost Boy adjust to American life. Their kindness provided crucial support as Salva navigated cultural differences that ranged from perplexing to amusing. Indoor plumbing, grocery stores filled with more food than he had ever seen, and the concept of having his own bed represented luxuries beyond his previous imagination.

"I need to understand this new world," Salva told himself, "but I must not forget where I came from."

While Salva adapted to life in America, Nya's village buzzed with both skepticism and hope as the drilling continued. The mysterious iron pipe descended deeper into the earth each day, but no water appeared. Some villagers believed the entire project was pointless—another failed promise from outsiders who didn't understand their land or their needs.

Nya observed the lead engineer, a tall African man who spoke her language but seemed different somehow. He carried himself with quiet confidence, directing the work with precision and patience. When villagers questioned the project, he explained the process calmly, assuring them that water existed deep beneath their feet—clean water that would transform their lives if they could reach it.

In Rochester, Salva pursued education with the same determination that had carried him across three countries. He earned his GED, then enrolled in community college courses while working various jobs to support himself. The adjustment to American life presented daily challenges—from navigating social norms to enduring winter weather unlike anything he had experienced in Africa.

Throughout these years, Salva never abandoned hope of finding his family. He sent letters to aid organizations working in Sudan and spoke with other Sudanese refugees who might have news. In 2002, his persistence was rewarded when he received information that his father might be alive in a hospital in Southern Sudan. Despite the ongoing civil war, Salva made arrangements to travel to his homeland for the first time since fleeing as a schoolboy seventeen years earlier.

The journey back to Sudan was fraught with danger and bureaucratic obstacles. The country remained divided by conflict, with travel restrictions and military checkpoints throughout the south. When Salva finally reached the hospital, he searched anxiously through wards filled with the sick and injured, many casualties of the continuing violence.

Then, in a moment that defied all probability, Salva found his father—weakened by illness but undeniably alive. Their reunion transcended language, culture, and the vast separation of years. Though his father's illness—caused by waterborne parasites—had taken a severe toll, the joy of reconnection overshadowed everything else.

"My son," his father whispered through tears, "I never thought I would see you again in this life."

During their conversations in the hospital, Salva learned that his mother and two sisters were alive, though living in another region. Two brothers had been killed in the conflict. This bittersweet news crystallized Salva's growing determination to somehow help his people, particularly his father's village where contaminated water caused so much suffering.

Returning to America, Salva carried this new purpose with him. He began sharing his story at churches, schools, and community events, raising awareness about the water crisis in Southern Sudan. His quiet charisma and extraordinary journey captivated audiences, who responded with donations and support. Gradually, an idea formed—he would build wells in the most vulnerable villages, beginning with his father's community.

Meanwhile, Nya watched as the drilling in her village reached unprecedented depths. The workers appeared tired but determined, the lead engineer constantly checking measurements and conferring with his team. After weeks of effort, the drilling stopped. A hush fell over the gathered villagers as the workers attached a pump mechanism to the pipe. The engineer smiled slightly, then began to operate the pump handle.

The parallel journeys of Nya and Salva, so distant in time and circumstance, were about to converge in ways neither could have imagined.

Chapter 5 Water Changes Everything

The moment the first clear stream of water spurted from the new well, a collective gasp rose from the gathered villagers. Nya stared in disbelief as the engineer demonstrated the hand pump, drawing forth an endless supply of clean, clear water from deep beneath their feet. Women ululated in celebration, children danced, and even the most skeptical elders approached cautiously to taste this miracle.

"It will not make you sick," the engineer explained, filling a cup and drinking from it himself. "This water comes from deep in the earth, where it is clean."

For Nya's family and the entire village, this well represented transformation beyond mere convenience. No longer would Nya spend hours each day walking to the distant pond. No longer would her little sister Akeer suffer from water-borne illness. No longer would the village be forced to relocate during the dry season, abandoning their crops and homes.

As the celebration continued, Nya found herself studying the tall engineer who had brought this miracle. There was something in his manner—a quiet dignity, a sense of purpose—that distinguished him from other outsiders who occasionally passed through their region. When he spoke to the villagers in their language, he did so with respect and understanding, as someone who knew their struggles intimately.

Curiosity finally compelled Nya to approach him. "Why did you build this well for us?" she asked simply.

The engineer smiled, kneeling to meet her eye level. "Because I was once a boy in a village without water," he replied. "My name is Salva Dut."

In this moment, the parallel narratives of the novel converged. The engineer transforming Nya's village was Salva—the Lost Boy who had walked across three countries, resettled in America, and returned to help his homeland. The organization he had founded, Water for South Sudan, had drilled dozens of wells in the region's most vulnerable communities, with Nya's village being the latest beneficiary.

Since his reunion with his father in 2002, Salva had devoted himself to addressing Southern Sudan's water crisis. Returning to America, he had established his non-profit organization with a simple mission: drilling wells in areas where clean water was most scarce. Each well cost approximately $15,000—money raised through Salva's tireless speaking engagements across the United States.

The work was challenging on every level. Political instability continued to plague the region, with bureaucratic obstacles and security concerns constantly threatening operations. Drilling equipment had to be imported at great expense, transported across difficult terrain, and operated by trained crews in remote locations. Yet despite these challenges, Salva's organization succeeded where many larger aid projects had failed.

"One well at a time," became Salva's approach, echoing the "one step at a time" philosophy that had carried him through his darkest days as a refugee. Each successful well represented countless transformed lives—children who could attend school instead of fetching water, women who could grow gardens with the time saved, entire communities that could remain in place year-round rather than migrating seasonally.

For Nya's village, the well's impact extended beyond health and convenience. With a reliable water source, the community established a permanent school. Market gardens flourished, providing better nutrition and generating income through trade with neighboring villages. Women formed cooperatives to create handicrafts, now that they had time for activities beyond water collection. The entire social and economic structure of the community evolved around this single point of transformation.

Most significantly, the well became a gathering place where former enemies met in peace. In a region long divided by tribal conflicts, particularly between Dinka and Nuer peoples, the water source served as neutral ground. Women from different tribal backgrounds who would never have interacted before now conversed as they filled their containers. Children played together around the well. The practical necessity of water created opportunities for reconciliation that political negotiations had failed to achieve.

Over the following years, Salva divided his time between America and Sudan, establishing a pattern of sustainable development. Local crews were trained to maintain existing wells and drill new ones, creating employment and ensuring the projects' longevity. Schools were built near well sites, with special emphasis on girls' education—previously impossible when females spent their days collecting water.

In 2005, the Comprehensive Peace Agreement officially ended Sudan's civil war, creating conditions for South Sudan's eventual independence in 2011. This political transformation paralleled the social transformations occurring in communities with access to clean water. Though conflicts and challenges continued, the wells represented tangible hope in regions long defined by suffering.

Salva eventually reunited with most of his surviving family members, though some relationships proved difficult to rebuild after so many years apart. The cultural divide between his American life and his Sudanese heritage created occasional tensions, but his water projects provided common ground that transcended these differences. His father, whose illness had initially inspired Salva's mission, lived to see several wells completed before passing away in 2009.

For Nya, the well's arrival marked the beginning of her education. With no need to collect water, she enrolled in the new village school, displaying a quick intelligence and particular aptitude for mathematics. When visitors came to see the successful well project, she often served as a guide, explaining in growing English how life had changed.

"Before the well, water was our problem," she would tell them. "Now, water is our solution."

The intersection of Nya and Salva's stories illustrated how individual actions could create ripples of transformation across time and place. Salva's extraordinary journey—from frightened schoolboy to refugee to American immigrant to humanitarian leader—demonstrated how personal suffering could be channeled into meaningful change. Nya's simpler journey—from water carrier to student—represented the possibilities that emerged when basic human needs were met.

Together, their narratives captured the essence of hope in the face of seemingly insurmountable challenges—the belief that even the longest journey begins with a single step, and that clean water can be the first step toward healing a wounded land.

Chapter 6 Paths That Connect Across Decades

The seasons turned, and with each passing year, the impact of clean water spread throughout the region. In Nya's village, the transformation continued to unfold in ways both expected and surprising. Children who had previously been too sick or too busy collecting water now attended school regularly. The village clinic reported dramatic decreases in waterborne illnesses. Gardens flourished around family compounds, improving nutrition and providing surplus produce for trade.

Nya, now a teenager, had become one of the school's most promising students. Her aptitude for mathematics led her teacher to suggest she might consider becoming an engineer someday—perhaps even working with Water for South Sudan as an adult. The possibility of following such a path would have been unimaginable in the days when her entire existence revolved around water collection.

"You understand what this water means to our people," her teacher told her. "That understanding makes you valuable."

Across the region, Salva's organization continued its work, drilling new wells in communities still reliant on contaminated surface water. The process had become more efficient with experience, though challenges remained. Political instability periodically disrupted operations, and the logistical difficulties of working in remote areas with limited infrastructure created constant obstacles.

Yet the model proved remarkably successful, particularly because it emphasized local ownership and sustainability. Each new well required community participation—villagers helped with labor during drilling and formed water committees responsible for maintenance afterward. This approach ensured the wells remained functional long after the drilling teams departed, avoiding the fate of many abandoned aid projects that dotted the landscape.

During one of his visits to Sudan, Salva made a special journey to Nya's village to check on the well installed years earlier. Though he visited dozens of well sites, this particular community held special significance as one of the organization's early successes. The thriving school and market gardens surrounding the once-barren village center provided visible evidence of water's transformative power.

When Nya learned that "the tall engineer" was visiting, she hurried to the well site, eager to share her progress and aspirations. Their conversation bridged the decades and experiences that separated them—her childhood in a village experiencing its first taste of development, his extraordinary journey through refugee camps and across continents.

"I want to build wells too," she told him with quiet determination.

Salva smiled, recognizing in her the same resilience that had carried him through his darkest days. "Study hard," he advised. "Learn everything you can. Your people need leaders who understand both the old ways and the new possibilities."

The parallels between their lives, though shaped by different eras and circumstances, revealed important truths about survival, purpose, and transformation. Both had faced seemingly insurmountable challenges at young ages. Both had found ways to persist when surrender seemed the easier choice. And both understood, from lived experience, how access to clean water fundamentally altered human possibilities.

Back in America, Salva's organization continued to grow, attracting donors and volunteers inspired by the direct impact of well projects. Schools across the United States organized fundraising efforts, often after students read about the Lost Boys' experiences or heard Salva speak. The model of "one well at a time" resonated with supporters who appreciated seeing concrete results from their contributions.

Salva himself had become an American citizen in 2007, a milestone that formalized his dual identity as both Sudanese and American. This legal recognition reflected his lived reality—a life bridging continents and cultures, responsibilities to both his adopted homeland and his birthplace. Though he maintained a residence in the United States, he spent increasing amounts of time in South Sudan, particularly after its independence in 2011.

The new nation faced enormous challenges from its inception. Decades of war had destroyed infrastructure, disrupted education, and created deep societal wounds. Political tensions remained high, with competition for resources often falling along tribal lines. In this context, water projects took on additional significance as neutral interventions that benefited communities regardless of political or tribal affiliation.

"Water does not know tribe," Salva would explain to visitors. "It gives life to everyone equally."

This philosophy guided the organization's approach to well placement, focusing on need rather than political considerations. Communities with the most severe water scarcity received priority, regardless of their tribal composition or political allegiances. This neutrality sometimes created complications—government officials occasionally pressed for wells in their home areas regardless of objective need—but Salva remained committed to serving the most vulnerable populations first.

By 2013, Water for South Sudan had completed over 200 wells, providing clean water to approximately 500,000 people. Each successful project represented countless individual stories of transformation—children attending school for the first time, women starting small businesses with newly available time, entire communities becoming healthier and more stable.

For Nya, now in her late teens, the well's arrival had redefined her future. Instead of marrying young, as most girls in her community had traditionally done, she continued her education with her family's support. The school established after the well's installation had grown into a proper learning center with multiple teachers and classes through secondary levels.

During a community celebration marking the fifth anniversary of their well, Nya was asked to speak about how access to clean water had changed her life. Standing before gathered villagers, visiting officials, and representatives from Water for South Sudan, she spoke with quiet confidence about the before and after—the endless walking, the sickness, the limitations of the past contrasted with the opportunities of the present.

"Water gives time," she explained simply. "And time makes all other things possible."

Her words captured the essential truth at the heart of both her story and Salva's—that meeting basic human needs created space for growth, learning, and possibility. The interconnection of their narratives across decades demonstrated how individual actions could ripple through time, creating changes neither could have imagined alone.

As South Sudan continued its difficult journey toward stability and development, the wells stood as concrete symbols of hope and practical progress. In a landscape scarred by conflict and suffering, each water point represented a small center of transformation—a place where life could flourish, where children could grow healthy, where communities could imagine futures beyond mere survival.

The paths of Nya and Salva, converging around water, illustrated how human resilience, determination, and compassion could create meaningful change even in the most challenging circumstances. Their intertwined stories reminded readers that even the longest journey begins with a single step, and that clean water could be the first step toward healing a wounded land.

Chapter 7 Return to a Changed Sudan

The landscape of South Sudan stretched before Salva as his vehicle navigated the rutted road toward a remote village. Two decades had passed since he had fled his classroom as gunfire erupted nearby. The country he returned to bore the name South Sudan now—an independent nation as of July 9, 2011, after Africa's longest civil war. Independence had brought hope but also new challenges, as the young country struggled to build institutions and infrastructure from nearly nothing.

Water for South Sudan had expanded significantly, with multiple drilling teams operating simultaneously across different regions. The organization employed dozens of South Sudanese workers—engineers, drillers, drivers, and community coordinators. Each team could complete a well in approximately a week under good conditions, dramatically increasing the program's impact.

This particular journey brought Salva to a village where his organization would soon begin drilling. As always before starting work, he met with community leaders to discuss the project and ensure local commitment to maintaining the well. These conversations had become a familiar ritual—explaining the process, answering questions, and establishing the partnership that would sustain the water source for years to come.

What made this visit extraordinary was the village's location—just miles from where Salva had grown up, from the classroom he had fled so many years before. The region had changed dramatically after decades of conflict. Some areas had been abandoned entirely, while others had swelled with returning refugees. Traditional patterns of seasonal migration had been disrupted, political boundaries redrawn, and tribal relationships reconfigured by the long war.

Yet amid these changes, the fundamental challenges remained. Women and girls still walked miles for contaminated water. Waterborne diseases still claimed lives. Agricultural development still faltered without reliable irrigation. These persistent needs drove Salva's work, providing clarity of purpose amid the complex political and social transformations of his homeland.

"We will begin drilling here next week," he informed the village council, pointing to a spot their hydrogeologist had identified as promising. "Your water committee will need training to maintain the pump and manage usage."

As the meeting concluded, an elderly man approached Salva. Something in his bearing seemed familiar—a way of gesturing, perhaps, or the cadence of his speech. With a jolt of recognition, Salva realized this was his former teacher, the man who had commanded the boys to run into the bush that fateful day in 1985.

"You were one of my students," the teacher said, studying Salva's face. "The one who went to America."

Their reunion represented the extraordinary circular journey Salva had traveled—from schoolboy to refugee to American immigrant to humanitarian leader returning to transform his homeland. The teacher had survived his own difficult journey through the war years, eventually returning to his home region after the peace agreement. Now in his seventies, he had lived to see his former student bringing life-saving water to communities still recovering from decades of conflict.

Meanwhile, Nya had continued her education, completing secondary school with honors. Her academic success opened unprecedented opportunities—a scholarship to study engineering in Juba, South Sudan's capital city. Though leaving her village required courage, she carried with her the determination that had once helped her walk miles for water each day.

In Juba, Nya encountered the wider world of her young nation—its political complexities, its diversity of peoples and languages, its struggle to develop amid continued tensions. The capital bustled with activity—construction projects, international aid organizations, government ministries establishing themselves in newly constructed buildings. Yet just beyond the city, most South Sudanese continued to live much as they had for generations, without electricity, running water, or access to education.

During university breaks, Nya returned to her village, now hardly recognizable as the place where she had spent her childhood carrying water. Gardens flourished around family compounds. The school had expanded to include a computer lab powered by solar panels. The market operated daily rather than seasonally, creating economic opportunities previously impossible when families had to relocate during dry periods.

Most striking was the generation of children now growing up without knowing the daily water walk—girls Nya's age who studied rather than carried containers, who remained healthy rather than suffering constant waterborne illnesses. Seeing these changes reinforced Nya's commitment to her studies and her hope of eventually joining Water for South Sudan as an engineer.

The organization itself had evolved as South Sudan changed. Initially focused exclusively on drilling wells, it had expanded to include sanitation projects, hygiene education, and even agricultural support for communities with established water sources. This holistic approach recognized that clean water represented just the first step toward comprehensive development.

When civil conflict erupted again in December 2013, threatening South Sudan's fragile peace, the water projects took on renewed significance. In areas where ethnic tensions flared into violence, functioning wells sometimes served as neutral zones where necessary resources transcended political divisions. Water committees composed of members from different tribes continued to cooperate even as fighting occurred elsewhere.

"The well belongs to everyone," became a saying in communities where Water for South Sudan operated, embodying the program's philosophy that basic human needs transcended political and tribal identities.

For Salva, this period brought difficult choices. International staff evacuated during the worst violence, but the organization's South Sudanese employees continued working where possible, often at considerable personal risk. The commitment of these local teams—their determination to continue bringing water to vulnerable communities despite the surrounding chaos—demonstrated how deeply the mission had taken root.

By 2016, Water for South Sudan had completed over 300 wells serving approximately 700,000 people. Each well represented not just access to clean water but a center of transformation—enabling education, improving health, fostering economic activity, and sometimes even contributing to peace between communities previously in conflict.

On the twentieth anniversary of his arrival in America, Salva reflected on the extraordinary journey from refugee to humanitarian leader. The frightened boy who had walked across three countries could never have imagined returning to transform his homeland. The path had been neither straight nor easy, with setbacks and challenges at every turn. Yet the cumulative impact—hundreds of thousands of people with access to clean water who previously had none—demonstrated how individual determination coupled with collective support could create meaningful change.

During a ceremony marking the organization's milestone 300th well, Salva watched as clear water flowed from the new pump for the first time. Children danced around the well as women filled containers, their faces reflecting joy and relief. Among the organization's team members present was a recently graduated engineer joining her first drilling project—Nya, now a young woman, coming full circle from water carrier to water provider.

"Water is life," Salva told the gathered community. "But it is also time, opportunity, health, and peace."

As he spoke these words, his gaze met Nya's across the crowd. In that moment of connection, their parallel journeys—separated by decades yet linked by the same landscape and challenges—represented the possibility of transformation even in places defined by suffering. Their intertwined stories embodied hope not as abstract optimism but as concrete action—the steady, persistent effort to improve life one well, one village, one day at a time.

The long walk to water had led them both home, to a place transformed by that most basic element essential to all life. And in that transformation lay the seeds of South Sudan's possible future—a nation where children attended school instead of carrying water, where communities remained stable throughout the year, where development could begin with the most fundamental human need fulfilled.

As the celebration continued around the new well, Salva and Nya stood not as symbols but as individuals who had faced overwhelming challenges and responded with determination, resilience, and ultimately, action. Their stories, separated by time yet connected by place and purpose, reminded all who heard them that even the longest journey begins with a single step, and that clean water could be the first step toward healing a wounded land.