Creekbank Stories Curt Iles, Storyteller
Our new ebook, Trampled Grass, is now available.
Download a copy on your phone or tablet at www.thesnippetapp.com/web or learn more at www.creekbank.net
A word from Curt
Journey.
We spend about half of our time on The Journey.
Our Journey takes us into northern Uganda, South Sudan, and Kenya.
We are currently on a trip with our home church (Dry Creek Baptist LA) to their people group, the Kakwa.
We’re posting chapters from our new ebook, Trampled Grass.
If you enjoy the stories, please pass them on.
You can download the entire book at www.creekbank.net.
We’ll be posting about this week’s journey on Facebook/Twitter at #goChadan/#UpCountry
Blessings on your journey.
Curt Iles
Chapter 5 OUR EUROPE
This Dinka elder said, “It’s my first time to
set my feet in Uganda.”
Keri Reception Center
South Sudan/Uganda border
January 2014
I sat quietly with the other Mzees. “Mzee” is an African term of respect for an elder. I’ve got the gray hair to be invited into the circle. It was a meeting of South Sudan refugees who€d crossed the border north of Koboko, Uganda. They were telling their stories as they waited to learn their fate and destination.
An elder cleared his throat and nodded north. “The ones who started this
war: their children are not here.”
The grizzled man, a veteran of a generation of civil war to free his country, continued, “Where are the children and grandchildren of our South Sudanese leaders?”
He shook his head. “They are not here. The children of our leaders are in Europe in fine schools. Away from what we€re experiencing. In fact, they will never know the bitterness our children have of losing so much. They are in Europe.”
Most of us will never know how it feels to lose our homes, our way of life, and our security.
He took a long look around the bleak landscape that was now home for his family.
“I guess for us, this is our Europe.”
Everyone sat in silence.
The trampled grass had spoken.
No more words were spoken. The circle dispersed in a Biblical pattern of oldest to youngest.
We sat there alone.
What could we do about this?
I did the only thing I know to do.
I wrote about it.
The stories of the trampled grass.
Many of the photos in Trampled Grass surpass description, so we’ll let them speak for themselves.
