In the days after we crossed the River Nile, water became precious. It was the dry season: the grasses were brown and the rivers dry with dust. Nearly all the animals were gone except lions, snakes and the vultures that always hovered above, waiting. If you sat in the grass to rest, they thought you were dying and they'd come down and sit close by because they were used to finding corpses in the grass.

When I wanted to forget walking and sit down, someone would say, "Carry on. I can hear a cock crowing from the next village." I'd force my eyes wide open but all I could see were little boys like me, only heads and hips, staggering along.

We passed through a village one afternoon and came upon a little boy sitting under a tree crying miserably.

"Who is this little boy crying?" Kuany asked a soldier standing nearby. "He wants to go to Ethiopia with the other boys. He has nobody to look after him." "Where are his parents?"

"Two years ago a bomb blasted his house. Both his parents were killed but we pulled him out of the burning house and brought him to this village. He was so small he could not yet talk. He doesn't know the name of his parents or if he has brothers and sisters."

Kuany bent down to the little boy. "What is your name?" "Monyde," he sniffled. "I come with you?" "We can't look after him," the soldier said. "We're leaving here and he's too little to walk into the desert." "I can go," insisted Monyde. "I want to go." I was surprised at his boldness for such a young boy. "He's not taken care of in this village," said the soldier. "He's always beaten by other kids who have parents. He's tried to leave with a lot of passersby, but they said he was too young to survive the journey across Ajakageer. He's been left in the world without hope of anyone caring for him."

He made people laugh with childish questions. He was a little comedian.

Everything around us looked ugly and wild. We couldn't find happiness in ourselves, and no one could put it in us.

That day I became exhausted and fell back. I couldn't keep up, although there were still many people behind me. From out of nowhere many antelope ran toward me in a cloud of dust. I was scared and stood still, not knowing what to do. A voice behind me yelled, "Move out of there." But it was too late to move. As they were about to run me over, the leading antelope saw me standing there in my red underwear and skipped aside just before knocking me down.

"That leading antelope saved your life," said a soldier. "They could have danced all over you." "Go after them," I told him. "Shoot us some animals with a fire eye from your gun. Even monkeys. Go shoot."

The only talk among us became the huge desert that lay ahead. More than halfway to Ethiopia, everyone feared and dreaded this most dangerous part of our journey, the desert of Ajakageer.

The youngest boys were selected to ride on the tanker. I had never ridden on a vehicle before. The first one I saw in the village came so noisily, running fast and raising clouds of dust, that I ran from my goats. I came out of hiding after the dust clouds subsided, having forgotten my goats, and printed my feet along the tire tread marks. I kept my eyes on where the vehicle had gone, amazed by how fast it ran and knowing that if it returned, I couldn't outrun it and that it might knock me up into the trees.

When the tanker started moving, I saw that the trees were running backward. I was so scared from the rocking about that I grabbed a soldier's clothes to keep myself from falling, which annoyed him.

That night, in the desert of Ajakageer, Benjamin and Emmanuel fell off the tanker and we had to shout loud to get the tanker to stop so they could climb back on. An hour later Monyde fell off. We shouted again but this time our weak voices from the back of the tanker were not heard by the driver, who was plunging in and out of the desert holes made by the mud during rainy seasons. The soldiers banged and banged on the cab, but the driver was drunk and he did not hear for a very long time.

That evening the driver let me back on the truck because there was a night and a half day's walk until the next village where we might find water. The road narrowed and the driver had difficulty following what was a footpath. Sometimes he lost his way. Then he would turn round to find the track again and begin following it once more.

In the middle of the night we ran into three lions. The driver blew the horn to scare them, but they didn't move until the soldiers fired their guns. They ran into the grass, but a few minutes later one lion jumped onto the tanker and nearly pulled a boy off.

Monyde, who had been given a bowl of water, brought it to me so that I could drink and wash my eyes. I was so grateful for that.

At night I usually slept on the gravel road because the wet grass made my skin itch. When we were told we had to walk three more days to reach the last town in Sudan on the border of Ethiopia, I fell asleep wondering if I could make it through the rest of the desert, or if I would be one of the ones to end up under a skulls tree.

After Monyde gave me water at the river we became best friends and traveled together in the following days. I believed that he would be a good leader when he grew up because even though he was very young, I got courage from him because he never complained of any difficulties.

At Pochala, after walking three days, Monyde suddenly became sick. They said it was yellow fever. Kuany did everything he could to help Monyde, but he died in only two days. He'd crossed that whole desert, even though they said he couldn't do it. He'd survived when many big people died. But we buried him just a half mile from safety. I was so sad to lose my brave friend. I knew I would never forget him. We suffered another sadness in Pochala when the SPLA conscripted Kuany, who had been caring for us. Without our uncle, it was really not safe for us, little boys alone. Without Monyde and Kuany, I was beginning to give up hope that we could survive.

Their villages were attacked mostly at night. The boys, some as young as 4 years old, ran into the surrounding forest

They then started walking to a refugee camp in Ethiopia, where they stayed until the Communists overthrew the government in 1991 and forced the young boys to leave at gunpoint. Chased by Ethiopian government tanks and armed militia, the boys frantically tried to cross the River Gilo, where thousands drowned, were eaten by crocodiles or shot.

walked for more than a year back through Sudan to Kenya. Only half of the original boys, about 10,000-12,000, survived the journey, arriving at Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya in 1992. The majority of them were between the ages of 8 and 18

They walked for days, then weeks, then months and finally for over a year. They walked anywhere from 700 to 1,000 miles, first to Ethiopia, then back to Sudan, then south to Kenya, looking for safety. Ten and eleven year olds were the elders. Seven and eight year olds became each others' parents, binding one another's wounds, sharing sips of muddy water, burying their dead. When the littlest ones became too weak or tired to continue, the older boys picked them up and carried them. Some boys, too exhausted to go on, simply sat down and died of starvation or dehydration. Others lagged behind, becoming easy prey for lions.

gave the United States government reason to resettle some 4,000 of these now young men in America.

120 "Lost Boys" have made Chicago their new home.

It is no small irony that several of the boys who came to Chicago were on flights to USA on 9/11 and thought they were bringing the war with them; they were diverted to Canada where they stayed for a few days before they were allowed to enter the U.S.

“We don’t talk about our parents anymore,” Haidar said, fumbling with the broken buttons of a donated shirt. “Even if we go back, we won’t find anybody.”

John Prendergast, co-founder of the Enough Project, which fights to end genocide and crimes against humanity, worked closely with the Lost Boys 20 years ago. “Those survivors seemed to have a one-time story, never to be repeated,” he said. “But here we are again.”

But the Sudanese have essentially been at war with themselves for 56 years, with few respites. Today, this war grinds on in many of the same old places, in many of the same old ways.

assault on civilians, unleashed in the south in the 1980s, the Nuba Mountains in the 1990s and Darfur in the early 2000s.

The bloodshed in Nuba is directed by some of the same officials responsible for previous massacres, like President Omar Hassan al-Bashir, in power since 1989, and Ahmed Haroun, governor of the state that encompasses the Nuba Mountains. Both are wanted by the International Criminal Court on charges of crimes against humanity for the bloodshed in Darfur, and Mr. Bashir has also been charged with genocide.

Since even before independence in 1956, Sudan has been dogged by center-periphery tensions often expressed in exploding shells.

Haidar was a slave, having been kidnapped by Arab horsemen when he was 6, along with his brother, and pressed into bondage herding goats. Slavery was an acute problem during the north-south civil war and seems to be on the rise again. The kidnappers recently shot Haidar’s brother, he said. Haidar fled, finding other boys along the way and essentially giving up on his parents. “I don’t remember what my parents look like,” he whispered.

“But unless the war ends, it’s going to be very hard,” said Ahmed Mamoun, a caretaker. “I don’t see how these children will find their parents.”

They endured attacks from the northern army and marauding bandits, as well as lions who preyed on the slowest and weakest among them. The oldest boys carried the youngest in their arms. Many died from starvation or thirst. Others drowned or were eaten by crocodiles as soldiers forced them to cross a swollen Ethiopian river. According to U.S. State Department estimates, during an upsurge in fighting that began in 1987, some 17,000 boys were separated from their families and fled southern Sudan in an exodus of biblical proportions. Yet by the time the Lost Boys reached the Kakuma Refugee Camp, their numbers had been cut nearly in half.

74 percent of the boys survived shelling or air bombardment, 85 percent saw someone die from starvation, 92 percent said they were shot at and 97 percent witnessed a killing.

Scott Peterson, a journalist and the author of ''Me Against My Brother: At War in Somalia, Sudan and Rwanda,'' described the Lost Boys, whom he met several times during their itinerant years, as ''among the most badly war-traumatized children ever examined.''

It was November 1987. As was the custom for boys in the Dinka tribe, William spent much of his time tending to his family's cattle in the bush several miles from his village in the Upper Nile region and camping out at night with his two brothers and a couple of cousins. One afternoon, they heard the sound of gunfire near the village, but dismissed it, figuring that bandits had come to raid for food. ''The next morning, we were about to go home when we saw the smoke,'' William continued. ''I climbed a tree and saw that my whole village was burned.'' When the boys went to investigate, their fears were confirmed. ''Nobody was left standing. Some were wounded; some were killed. My father was dead in the compound. So we just ran away. I was 5 years old at the time.''

and displaced huge numbers of people.

weakened by sleeplessness and disease, they crossed from the Sudan into Ethiopia and back, with many dying along the way. The survivors are now in camps in Kenya, the Sudan and Uganda.

origins in traditional forms of migration

Since 1983, the Sudan People's Liberation Army (SPLA) and the Sudanese Government have been at war in southern Sudan. The conflict has already claimed more than 500,000 lives and displaced huge numbers of people. Among these were at least 20,000 children, mostly boys, between 7 and 17 years of age who were separated from their families. These 'lost boys' of the Sudan trekked enormous distances over a vast unforgiving wilderness, seeking refuge from the fighting. Hungry, frightened and weakened by sleeplessness and disease, they crossed from the Sudan into Ethiopia and back, with many dying along the way. The survivors are now in camps in Kenya, the Sudan and Uganda.

ince 1983, the Sudan People's Liberation Army (SPLA) and the Sudanese Government have been at war in southern Sudan. The conflict has already claimed more than 500,000 lives and displaced huge numbers of people. Among these were at least 20,000 children, mostly boys, between 7 and 17 years of age who were separated from their families. These 'lost boys' of the Sudan trekked enormous distances over a vast unforgiving wilderness, seeking refuge from the fighting. Hungry, frightened and weakened by sleeplessness and disease, they crossed from the Sudan into Ethiopia and back, with many dying along the way. The survivors are now in camps in Kenya, the Sudan and Uganda. Photo: After years of separation, a Su

Since 1983, the Sudan People's Liberation Army (SPLA) and the Sudanese Government have been at war in southern Sudan. The conflict has already claimed more than 500,000 lives and displaced huge numbers of people. Among these were at least 20,000 children, mostly boys, between 7 and 17 years of age who were separated from their families. These 'lost boys' of the Sudan trekked enormous distances over a vast unforgiving wilderness, seeking refuge from the fighting. Hungry, frightened and weakened by sleeplessness and disease, they crossed from the Sudan into Ethiopia and back, with many dying along the way. The survivors are now in camps in Kenya, the Sudan and Uganda.

Others set out for refugee camps in Ethiopia.

Some travelled with friends or relatives, others slipped away on their own at night. Few had any idea of what lay ahead of them. They believed the trek would last only a few days and discovered that they faced a harrowing journey of 6 to 10 weeks. Continually under threat, they would flee for their lives, losing their way in the wilderness. Often they lost everything en route

to soldiers, swindlers or bandits. Many fell victim to killer diseases. Others were so weakened by hunger and lack of sleep that they could go no further and sat down by the roadside—prey for lions and other animals.

The survivors who reached the camps in Ethiopia started to lead a relatively peaceful life. But it was not to last. Following the change of government in Ethiopia in May 1991 they had to flee again, back to camps in the Sudan. This time the journey was during heavy rains, and many perished crossing the swollen rivers or were hit by aerial bombardment. The luckier ones made it to a camp where they received help from the International Committee of the Red Cross.

This relative security was shattered again late in 1991 when fighting erupted around them, and they and children from other camps were on the move once more, eventually heading for Kenya.

The harsh memories remain as well. As 14-year-old Simon Majok puts it: "We were suffering because of war. Some have been killed. Some have died because of hunger and disease. We children of the Sudan, we were not lucky."