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Long Walk Home

By DiAnn Mills

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Ch a p t e r 1
Warkou, along the Lol River in southern Sudan
2003
Paul Farid drew in a breath and held it, the magnificence of the unfolding springtime terrain
filling his senses. Captivated by the lush earth below him, he scanned the area for signs of
government soldiers who might have his plane in their sights. He could see for miles across the
vast southern Sudan. Herds of gazelle, antelope, and zebra, along with an occasional lion, dotted
the plain—some finding shelter from the scorching sun beneath a lone tree while others raced
aimlessly about. Birds scattered in a rush of flapping wings, rising above the tall grass into a
cloud and soaring gracefully across the sky until they found another spot to roost. A tingling
fluttered in Paul’s stomach. The sensation greeted him every time he flew over Sudan. The
mystery and splendor lured him in, like an intoxicating spell that refused to let him go. He was
the intruder, the only one who had not dwelt among the southern Sudanese for centuries.
Paul did not intend to lose his Mitsubishi MU-2—a twin-engine turboprop aircraft, the
missionary cream of the crop—to any Muslim bent on destroying or confiscating food and
medical supplies targeted for the needy civilians. Sometimes Feed the World (FTW) had
permission from the government in Khartoum to deliver provisions to the starving masses caught
in the civil war strife, but not today. Despite the danger, Paul was bringing much-needed aid to
the village of Warkou in the province of Bahr al-Ghazal. It lay along the Lol River in a setting so
breathtaking that it rivaled man’s thoughts of paradise. He had committed to help those affected
by the government’s genocide in this beautiful but turbulent land.
The countryside looked peaceful, serene, as though untouched by the forces that could erupt
at any moment into an explosion of violence and mayhem aimed at the innocent. Not far to the
east, the White Nile snaked through Sudan. Some called the river the lifeblood of the country.
Others claimed the waterway as the entrance to Eden. To the inhabitants, it served as a symbol of
hope.
Just to the west of the plane, a worn path would serve as Paul’s landing strip. A few cows and
goats ambled in the middle until the noise of the jet engine seized their attention. At the sound of
the aircraft’s high-pitched screams, the animals scrambled.
Paul focused his attention beyond the makeshift landing strip and noted the grass huts of
Warkou, which meant “bend of the river.” He peered closer to view the several craters below.
How many had been killed or wounded in the latest bombing? Not a single person roamed
beneath him. When the distinct hum of a plane alerted the villagers, they ran for bomb shelters.
He didn’t blame them. They had learned to keep their mouths open so as not to damage their ears
from the concussion of the bombs and to run for shelter when the bombing and shooting started,
but many still became casualties. Nothing saved their churches, schools, and medical clinics. The
bombs were crude—metal drums filled with explosives and metal—designed to inflict maximum
death and destruction.
With the area cleared before him, Paul put down the flaps and cruised over the rough landing
strip. He studied the area in all directions for debris and ruts along the dirt path, taking special
note of blowing dust to calculate the direction of the wind. He laughed at three cows headed in
different directions from the incoming plane. The following moment, he circled the area and
repeated his inspection.
Certain of flying into the wind, he snatched up his landing checklist with his left hand and
gripped the control wheel. With both feet on the rudders, Paul used his right hand to quickly flip
switches and levers in a steady, organized flow. Once completed, he ran through the checklist,
then replaced it in a tight, upper-left-hand corner until needed again. No matter how experienced
the pilot, one little mistake could make the difference between a safe landing and tragedy.
“Here we go.” Adrenaline raced through Paul’s veins. He loved flying, but he loved his
mission and the God who had called him to serve the southern Sudanese more. The cost did not
matter, only the purpose.
At the beginning of the runway, he placed the landing gear switch in the down position. The
speed of his plane decreased and created tremendous wind noise inside the aircraft. He lowered
the airspeed to 130 knots, then to 110, using the precision necessary for a smooth, safe landing.
When the wheels touched down, dirt and dust flew everywhere, alerting the countryside to his
presence. If the Government of Sudan soldiers were in the area, they now had no doubt of his
location.
Once the engine ceased its earsplitting hum, Paul double-checked his procedures before
climbing from the cockpit and taking shelter under one of the wings. He wiped his forehead,
already beaded with sweat.
“Hello,” he called to the still-unseen villagers. He knew they understood Arabic. “I have food
and medical supplies from Feed the World.” His gaze swept over every hut and tree in the area,
knowing those who hid among them could hear every word but were afraid to show their faces.
He would be fearful too. “I need to speak to Dr. Larson Kerr.”
From behind a hut an elderly man appeared, then three more men and two women. Slowly
more people crept forward with mothers and children lagging behind.
“Greetings from Feed the World.” He waved, grinning. “Is Dr. Kerr available?”
“Yes, I’m here.” A woman stepped from the group. Shorter than the towering Dinkas, she had
a ruddy complexion and thick mass of sandy-colored hair, worn in a ponytail, that immediately
set her apart from the ebony-skinned, dark-haired villagers native to this land.
Larson Kerr is a woman?
He’d heard tales about the doctor’s tenacious ability to work incredibly long hours and travel
to remote areas in the name of healing. Dr. Kerr also ventured into the oil-rich regions to aid the
injured and help the victims caught in the cross fire of war to reach safety. He had skimmed
documentaries of how the doctor was the first to climb from the bomb shelters to seek out the
wounded. The words flooded his memory. As he gazed into her impassive face, respect and
admiration sealed his thoughts.
Dressed in khaki shorts, a faded T-shirt with the logo of Ohio State, and hiking boots, she
walked toward him with long, purposeful strides. In the States he would have been amused at her
pace, but not here. Here he understood what drove her.

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