Yesterday was my birthday. Friends in the neighborhood showed up at our door with cake and balloons in hand. They said on their walk over many of the children in the subdivision came running to ask where they were going and who the goodies were for. The rest of the day I spent receiving little visitors bearing homemade construction paper and crayoned cards, newspaper wrapped candy, and personally designed beaded bracelets. These are beautiful children ranging in age from 6 to 11 doing what children should be doing at that age--frolicking joyfully. I truly thank them for making my birthday special.
Unfortunately for King Deng, his blissful childhood where he helped his father tend animals in his village was cut short by war. The strife was not of his people's making, but they suffered greatly. He did not have the luxury of frivolity once his village was attacked. Once that happened, he and his peers were running for their lives never to see their parents again. And King Deng was no longer a-boy-who-would-be-King. He became, by the acts of horrible circumstance, a boy king, who led his People through the worst time of their lives. And continues to lead them, through their assimilation to the foreign land his father foreshadowed, and where they strive to remain true to their roots.
In the Jurbile tribe, like most of the tribes in Southern Sudan, there was no record keeping, no paper and pen, and no "apps". So when King was assigned to Group 1, Zone 1 bound for the U.S. after years of interment in a refugee camp in Kenya, he, along with the other children who were designated as "The Lost Boys and Girls of Sudan", was assigned the same date of birth January 1, 1979 by the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. King does not celebrate this "birthday".
But what he and his people are preparing to celebrate is the first anniversary of Southern Sudan's separation from Northern Sudan on July 9. Last year on July 9, 2011 a referendum was passed allowing the one nation, formerly called Sudan, to divide the land theoretically in half forming 2 distinct nations. My husband and I are looking forward to sharing this day with King and his people, to dance to their tribal music, to see all their colorful vestments, and to feel their joy...
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
King Deng: The Book of Osmosis
When King and I met, he did not want to discuss his story or any of the details of his life. He said it would be too emotional for our meeting. He wanted me to read his book and ease myself into the subject matter. When the book arrived 3 weeks later, I devoured it. I was horrified at what he had been through: his family killed, his village destroyed, nearly getting eaten by hyenas, running for his life. And that was just the beginning.
I tried to stay focused. I marked up the book with underlines, dog ears and notes all over the place. I created a diagram of my superstructure--the emotional arc--that I teach to my students at the university in my writing and screenplay classes. Before I met with King again, I wanted to present him with my approach to ensure for myself I was indeed the right person to help him tell his story.
I was familiar with The Lost Boys of Sudan as many of us are but his story was different. From a young age growing up in his village he knew he would be King. He always looked at life in the context of how something would effect his people. He was not the typical child--self-focused and whimsical--but rather contemplative, looking at life through a lens of profundity. He knew deep inside from early on he was here for an important purpose.
King Deng comes from one of the most primitive cultures on our planet. They hunted for food, built shelter from branches, collected water from streams. But there was unrest all around him. Not from the neighboring tribes but from strangers that penetrated his country in search of natural resources, most notably the mother of all resources--oil. When he was kidnapped to be recruited by the militia, he knew he had to escape to save his people. And that was still just the beginning.
He wasn't the King in his mind. He was a King in his soul. His tribe members regarded him as their would-be King as a young boy and the minute their village was ransacked and they ran for their lives to ceaselessly trek through a blazing desert, in that instant, he became their leader, although he was just a boy leading other boys--and girls.
In my mind, I put myself in that desert, I put myself in the refugee camps in which he was interred, I felt the pain of him getting shot in the stomach, I felt his dehydration, I felt his will to survive to lead his people. I felt I was here to tell his story.
We scheduled our second meeting and this time I did the drive to meet him in his area. King brought with him a lovely lady from a non-profit organization that helped refugees settle in Georgia. I shared with King my vision for the film and he welled up. He said what I described was what he saw at night as he slept.
But I needed to know more. We decided to meet regularly at the mid-point between us--the Perimeter Mall food court. We would go deep. Little did I know how deep...
I tried to stay focused. I marked up the book with underlines, dog ears and notes all over the place. I created a diagram of my superstructure--the emotional arc--that I teach to my students at the university in my writing and screenplay classes. Before I met with King again, I wanted to present him with my approach to ensure for myself I was indeed the right person to help him tell his story.
I was familiar with The Lost Boys of Sudan as many of us are but his story was different. From a young age growing up in his village he knew he would be King. He always looked at life in the context of how something would effect his people. He was not the typical child--self-focused and whimsical--but rather contemplative, looking at life through a lens of profundity. He knew deep inside from early on he was here for an important purpose.
King Deng comes from one of the most primitive cultures on our planet. They hunted for food, built shelter from branches, collected water from streams. But there was unrest all around him. Not from the neighboring tribes but from strangers that penetrated his country in search of natural resources, most notably the mother of all resources--oil. When he was kidnapped to be recruited by the militia, he knew he had to escape to save his people. And that was still just the beginning.
He wasn't the King in his mind. He was a King in his soul. His tribe members regarded him as their would-be King as a young boy and the minute their village was ransacked and they ran for their lives to ceaselessly trek through a blazing desert, in that instant, he became their leader, although he was just a boy leading other boys--and girls.
In my mind, I put myself in that desert, I put myself in the refugee camps in which he was interred, I felt the pain of him getting shot in the stomach, I felt his dehydration, I felt his will to survive to lead his people. I felt I was here to tell his story.
We scheduled our second meeting and this time I did the drive to meet him in his area. King brought with him a lovely lady from a non-profit organization that helped refugees settle in Georgia. I shared with King my vision for the film and he welled up. He said what I described was what he saw at night as he slept.
But I needed to know more. We decided to meet regularly at the mid-point between us--the Perimeter Mall food court. We would go deep. Little did I know how deep...
The Day I Met My King
I received a call out of the blue from a prominent Reverend of one of the southern mega-churches in the area saying she wanted me to talk to a very special man from Southern Sudan about making a film about his life. She said she was referred to me by a number people in the community. When she mentioned this project, my name kept coming up as the "go to" filmmaker. She told me he was a very important person in his community and had an incredible story to tell. I was intrigued so I called him.
When I got him on the phone, I could barely understand what he was saying because of his thick accent. But the one thing he did say that was clear was, "You come here with your camera and film me." I called the very Reverend back and said I had a hard time understanding him and my process was more complex than showing up with a camera. The Reverend instructed me to set a meeting with him and have him bring his cousin who speaks English well.
He asked me to come to him, which was south of the Atlanta airport. I was 20 miles north of the city so with normal Atlanta yuk traffic, we were 2 hours apart. I insisted he come to my neck of the woods for which later, after I learned the horrific details of his journey, I felt deeply regretful. For he had swum across the Nile and Guilo Rivers escaping gunfire on the shores from the land he called home and gunfire on the opposite bank of the neighboring country intent on keeping him out while waves, bullets and crocodiles overtook 5,000 of his People in one day.
I made this request of him before I got a Garmin so it's easy to understand my desire not to inconvenience myself. I did not have to put myself out to earn a good living. Folks who wanted my expertise typically came to me. I had made films on tough subjects before but I admit I wept from a very deep place when I processed my request later in our relationship. This was not a typical business meeting to discuss a project.
Sans Garmin, King Deng arrived with cousin in tow. On this brilliantly sunny day, I came out to greet them and was immediately struck by his exuberantly joyful presence such that we embraced before a word was spoken. His skin a blue-black, his clothes impressively stylish and neat as a pin. His cousin was warm and friendly. They both had infectious smiles. Their demeanor had no hint of what they had been through. King's capacity for forgiveness was palpable akin to Nelson Mandela. A clear and crisp feeling washed over me--this man had the presence of God within him.
We sat and talked about many of my projects. We screened a few of my shorter films and then he shared that a very famous actor who shall remain nameless here had expressed an interest in making his film. This A-lister Hollywood asset was going to play King and King said no to him. King declared in this moment I was the right person to tell his story. I challenged, "You said no to who? Can we call him back and get him on the hook again? I don't have the Hollywood machine behind me. I am an independent filmmaker." He replied vehemently, "I can see here you will tell my story, not your version of my story. The world will finally hear my voice." He concluded by asking us to join hands and pray. While King made recitations asking Muturo (the word for God in his language) to bless this holy union and welcomed me as his new "seestaaa" to the Jurbile tribe of Wulu, Southern Sudan, I was silently praying, Oh Dear Lord, there must be some way we can go crawling on our hands and knees to Mr. X and beg for forgiveness and ask him to please take us back.
I felt the magnitude of the weight of responsibility squarely on my shoulders. I was not going to disappoint my King. The next step was for me to start the immersion process, to completely inhale his life story in gut-wrenching detail. His book was due out in 2 weeks. He said he would send me a copy as soon as he received them. So I waited for my mailman mail to bring me my copy. That was the best place for to begin my journey...
When I got him on the phone, I could barely understand what he was saying because of his thick accent. But the one thing he did say that was clear was, "You come here with your camera and film me." I called the very Reverend back and said I had a hard time understanding him and my process was more complex than showing up with a camera. The Reverend instructed me to set a meeting with him and have him bring his cousin who speaks English well.
He asked me to come to him, which was south of the Atlanta airport. I was 20 miles north of the city so with normal Atlanta yuk traffic, we were 2 hours apart. I insisted he come to my neck of the woods for which later, after I learned the horrific details of his journey, I felt deeply regretful. For he had swum across the Nile and Guilo Rivers escaping gunfire on the shores from the land he called home and gunfire on the opposite bank of the neighboring country intent on keeping him out while waves, bullets and crocodiles overtook 5,000 of his People in one day.
I made this request of him before I got a Garmin so it's easy to understand my desire not to inconvenience myself. I did not have to put myself out to earn a good living. Folks who wanted my expertise typically came to me. I had made films on tough subjects before but I admit I wept from a very deep place when I processed my request later in our relationship. This was not a typical business meeting to discuss a project.
Sans Garmin, King Deng arrived with cousin in tow. On this brilliantly sunny day, I came out to greet them and was immediately struck by his exuberantly joyful presence such that we embraced before a word was spoken. His skin a blue-black, his clothes impressively stylish and neat as a pin. His cousin was warm and friendly. They both had infectious smiles. Their demeanor had no hint of what they had been through. King's capacity for forgiveness was palpable akin to Nelson Mandela. A clear and crisp feeling washed over me--this man had the presence of God within him.
We sat and talked about many of my projects. We screened a few of my shorter films and then he shared that a very famous actor who shall remain nameless here had expressed an interest in making his film. This A-lister Hollywood asset was going to play King and King said no to him. King declared in this moment I was the right person to tell his story. I challenged, "You said no to who? Can we call him back and get him on the hook again? I don't have the Hollywood machine behind me. I am an independent filmmaker." He replied vehemently, "I can see here you will tell my story, not your version of my story. The world will finally hear my voice." He concluded by asking us to join hands and pray. While King made recitations asking Muturo (the word for God in his language) to bless this holy union and welcomed me as his new "seestaaa" to the Jurbile tribe of Wulu, Southern Sudan, I was silently praying, Oh Dear Lord, there must be some way we can go crawling on our hands and knees to Mr. X and beg for forgiveness and ask him to please take us back.
I felt the magnitude of the weight of responsibility squarely on my shoulders. I was not going to disappoint my King. The next step was for me to start the immersion process, to completely inhale his life story in gut-wrenching detail. His book was due out in 2 weeks. He said he would send me a copy as soon as he received them. So I waited for my mailman mail to bring me my copy. That was the best place for to begin my journey...
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