By Francis Bok
Winner of the Books for a greater Life/Suze Orman First e-book Award
May 1986: Seven-year-old Francis Bok used to be promoting his mother's eggs and peanuts close to his village in southern Sudan while Arab raiders on horseback burst into the quiet market, murdering males and collecting the ladies and youngsters right into a workforce. Strapped to horses and donkeys, Francis and others have been taken north into lives of slavery below prosperous Muslim farmers.
For ten years, Francis lived in a shed close to the goats and livestock that have been his accountability. After failed makes an attempt to flee--each bringing critical beatings and demise threats--Francis ultimately escaped at age seventeen. He endured via legal and refugee camps for 3 extra years, profitable the eye of United countries officers who granted passage to America.
Now a scholar and an antislavery activist, Francis Bok has made it his lifestyles undertaking to strive against global slavery. His is the 1st voice to talk to an envisioned 27 million humans held opposed to their will in approximately each kingdom, together with our personal. break out from Slavery is instantaneously a riveting experience, a narrative of desperation and triumph, and a window revealing a global that few have survived to inform.
Read Online or Download Escape from slavery: the true story of my ten years in captivity and my journey to freedom in America PDF
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Additional resources for Escape from slavery: the true story of my ten years in captivity and my journey to freedom in America
The sun was hot, like sitting too close to a fire. Some days we had to wait for hours for our turn to let the animals drink. Once they had drunk their fill, I was instructed to take them back to the pasture. If that place had been eaten clean, then I would have to find a grassier place. My main responsibility, I soon began to understand, was to keep from losing goats. I spent a good part of my day chasing goats back into the herd. Hamid spent his days watching me at that task. Beyond telling me what to do, Hamid had little to say to a homesick Dinka boy almost half his age.
I felt my father’s love every day. He had eight children, four older than this eager seven-year-old running in his shadow. But he always talked to me, encouraged me. He often would hug me and hoist me up on his shoulders and let me ride him on his visits to his friends in the village. ” every morning. That he had named me “Piol” was an honor. ” Francis was my Christian name, but in my village I was Piol Bol (my father’s name) Buk (his father’s name). ” He laughed at my question. Then he explained that out of all his children I was the one who wanted to work the hardest, the child who always got what he wanted, the one who would never give up.
My father swung me up to his high shoulders like a sack of beans— and I laughed. Maybe if I could explain to them the differences between us, life would be better; maybe they would send me back to my village. Maybe…maybe…maybe… I also decided that it was important for me to understand these people. They were rich and powerful. These murahaliin killed Dinka men and made Dinka women and children work for them. They were at the top and we were at the bottom. I had played enough games as a child to know the difference between winners and losers.