ON THE WEBGo to www.courier-journal.com/lostboys to:

Solomon John fell in love in a Kenyanrefugee camp, but immigration policieshave left his wife and young son there,waiting, while he works in Louisville tobring them to his side.

Adut Bak, the wife of Benjamin Aguek,bought meat in Eldoret, Kenya.

The red tape

For the Lost Boys, happiness can hingeon their ability to navigate immigrationregulations. One man has won approvalfor his wife to join him in Louisville. Hisfriend has not.

Wives and siblings

Family is strong in the traditions of theLost Boys, and that can mean theirwives are chosen by their parents. Andthey work to aid siblings who couldn’tleave the camps.

Sora Martin, left, the wife of Martin Nhial,with her sister-in-law, Josephine Nhial.

Solomon John works at UPS and worships atResurrection Episcopal Church.

Lost Boys, torn families

A love worlds apart

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DeGONIA SPRINGS, Ind. —Their bedroom was buried un-der a pile of bricks. The kitchen

cabinets were smashed, thewalls coated with mud.

But a week after a tornadoswept through their town in ru-ral Warrick County, retirees Jimand Donna Lutz are simplygrateful to be alive. And, like

hundreds of other familiesacross southwestern Indiana,they’re focusing on starting over.

“After being through some-thing like that, you have an alto-gether different outlook,” saidJim, 68, standing in front of hisdestroyed home several days af-ter the storm. “Things aren’t asimportant.”

The tornado was Indiana’sdeadliest in three decades, kill-ing 23 people in Vanderburghand Warrick counties. At least500 homes were destroyed, andoverall storm damage is expect-ed to be in the tens of millions ofdollars.

Disaster-relief experts pre-dict it will take a year or longer

for the American Insurance As-sociation, said the cost of tree re-moval and other land damage,for example, isn’t covered bymost homeowner policies. Andshe said families who haven’t up-dated their insurance to reflectthe value of additions or renova-

for some tornado survivors to re-build.

The federal government willprovide some assistance, alongwith churches, insurance com-panies and non-profit groupssuch as the American Red Cross.

But not all of the destructionwill be covered.

Julie Pulliam, a spokeswoman

Tornado victims trying to put their lives back togetherMany must start over with nothingBy Alex Davisalexdavis@courier-journal.comThe Courier-Journal

See TORNADO, A4, col. 1

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L O U I S V I L L E , K E N T U C K Y | courier- journal .com | A G A N N E T T N E W S P A P E R

With less than 48 hours before Louisville’ssmoking ban begins, many businesses are serv-ing notice whether they will go smoke-free.

Most large restaurant chains, such as Apple-bee’s and O’Charley’s, say they will end smokingwhen the ban begins a 12:01 a.m. Tuesday.

But people will still be able to light up in hun-dreds of businesses.

The Louisville Metro Health Department hascompiled a list of 291 groups and businesses thatsay they are exempt.

Among them is Bearno’s in the Highlands,where Kelly Frith, 40, last week said she ispleased that she’ll still be able to enjoy a cigarettethere and at some of her other favorite haunts.

“If you don’t like smoke, don’t go to The BackDoor and don’t go to the Left Field Lounge,” shesaid, citing two bars.

Chester Clements, who puffed away as hewatched a football game at The Back Door,which will also be exempt, said he wasn’t tooconcerned about the ban.

“I (already) can’t smoke when I’m at work,” he

Many claimsmoking banexemptionsLouisville businesses, groupsprepare for new rules TuesdayBy Joseph Gerthjgerth@courier-journal.comThe Courier-Journal

See SMOKING, A6, col. 2

The Rev. Fred Daley, a gay Ro-man Catholic priest, grew in-creasingly disturbed by Vaticanpronouncements over the yearsthat homosexuals were unfit forthe clergy.

The situation escalated whensome church leaders suggestedthat homosexuals were respon-sible for the sex-abuse crisis. Da-ley was so angry he did some-thing last year that almost noother homosexual Catholic cler-

ic in the country has done: Hecame out to his bishop, parish-ioners and his entire communityto show that homosexuals arefaithfully working in the church.

“I’m as much a member of thechurch as anybody else,” saidDaley, of St. Francis de SalesChurch in Utica, N.Y., who wasordained in 1974. “I love being apriest.”

Researchers have estimatedthat thousands of homosexualclergy across the United Stateshave dedicated their lives to achurch that considers them “in-trinsically disordered” andprone to “evil tendencies.”

Soon, the Vatican will back up

Gay priests fightfor acceptanceChurch considersthem ‘disordered’By Rachel ZollAssociated Press

See GAY, A11, col. 1

By Pam Spaulding, The Courier-Journal

At the Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya, Rhoda Nyanthic waits for the day she can be reunited with her husband, who lives in Louisville.

It was war that drove them from Africa, but love is leading them back.The Lost Boys, refugees from a long and bloody battle in their homeland, are reconnecting with the lives

and loved ones they left behind. In the four years since 200 of the young men were resettled in Louisville, some have learned of family

members still in villages and refugee camps. Others have returned to their homeland to try to find wives.This week, we’ll introduce you to their love stories, which reach across the ocean and against the odds.

ON THE BOOKS PAGE�Read reviews of thenew books “Lost Boys ofSudan” and “They PouredFire on Us From the Sky”on the Books page, I-5, intoday’s Arts & Leisuresection.

�See streaming video from Africa, with commentary byreporter Katya Cengel.�See slide shows of Pam Spaulding’s photos, withcommentary by Cengel.�Read Cengel’s personal diary of her journey to Africa.

TODAY ON A7-A10 MONDAY IN FEATURES TUESDAY IN FEATURES

ON THE WEBGo to courier-journal.com for:�A searchabledatabase ofnearly 300businesses thathave notified themetro govern-ment that theywill be exemptfrom the ban. �Our onlineforum, whereyou can tell uswhat you thinkabout the ban.�More storieson the ban.

INSIDE�Challenge tolaw could comefrom bingo halloperators. �Basic ques-tions about theban answered.�Tips for thosewho want toquit smoking.Stories, A6

METRO | B1Judicial changesJudicial retirement an-nouncements might setoff a “a seismic shift” onthe bench in JeffersonCounty courts.

FEATURES | E1Polo team mounts upThe women’s polo team atthe University of Louisvilleis looking to establishitself for the long haul.

CLOSER LOOK | A12European time bombAs France struggled lastweek to contain violenceby enraged youths, Euro-peans watched with be-wilderment and alarm.

Louisville: Showers likelyearly, clearing by after-noon. Mostly clear andcooler tonight. Increasingclouds tomorrow.

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Now begins a new chapter in the saga of the LostBoys, whose story already is legend: 17,000 youngmen from war-ravaged Sudan — children withhomes destroyed, parents killed or sisters sold into

slavery — who dodged soldiers, lions and crocodiles on anagonizing African odyssey. More than half made it to a refu-gee camp in Kenya.

By 2001, about 4,000 of those had been welcomed intothe United States to find new lives, about 200 in Louisville.

Four years later, they are forging new ties to their scat-tered families. Some pay rent for apartments in Louisvilleand Nairobi; some send pictures to sons they have neverseen. Some talk on crackly phone lines to mothers they canno longer picture or cousins they long thought dead.

But, most of all, they think about wives. While thousands of Lost Boys were brought to America,

fewer than 100 Lost Girls, who fit the same profile as theyoung men, came. Most of the young women, traditionallyworth money when they marry, were absorbed into familiesin the Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya. The young menremained on their own, visible and vulnerable to beingdrawn into the ongoing war in Sudan.

When the office of the United Nations High Commis-sioner for Refugees and the U.S. State Department decidedto resettle many of them, even though most of the youngmen were over 18, romance did not enter into the equation.

“You know, at that point, I don’t think we were thinkingabout that,” said Joung-Ah Ghedini, public information offi-cer with the U.N. refugee agency. “It’s a valid point.”

“One of the failings of this process was that it was per-ceived that this was a group of unaccompanied young menwho … were orphans and had no family attachments,” said

Sasha Chanoff, a former Kakuma camp relief worker. “The fact was, a number of young men were married and

had children, (but) they knew if they said anything theywould be taken off the list for resettlement.”

Others, who weren’t married at the time, have sincereturned to marry in order to help preserve their culture, amission their tribal elders had given them.

“This is proving that they are ambassadors, that theyhave not forgotten their people,” said Dinka elder JosephMaker Kur at Kakuma.

Last spring and summer, a number of Louisville’s LostBoys returned to Africa to marry. Another half-dozen or soare working to bring their wives here.

This is their story — a story of family and affection sur-viving years of silence, separation and despair.

It’s a love story that, for many, is just beginning.

Rhoda Nyanthic, wife of Louisville Lost Boy Solomon John, was followed by local children as she walked in the Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya. She hopes to be reunited with her husband soon.

Africa never left ‘Lost Boys’Story by Katya Cengel and photos by Pam Spaulding | kcengel@courier-journal.com | The Courier-Journal

United Nations High Commission for Refugees

A 1993 photo shows the sprawling Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya soon after about 10,000 Lost Boys arrived there, ending a 1,000-mile walk to escape their country’s civil war.

LOST BOYS . . .

. . . TORN FAMILIES

HOW WE DID IT

�Writer Katya Cengel spent two weeks in Africa reporting on Louisville’s “Lost Boys,” as the recipient of a World Affairs Journalism Fellowship from the International Center for Journalists. �Courier-Journal photographer Pam Spaulding accompanied her at the newspaper’s expense. �Most conversations in Africa were obtained with the help of translators.

KA8 | SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 2005 | THE COURIER-JOURNAL LOST BOYS ... TORN FAMILIES | courier-journal.com

Rhoda Nyanthic lives in Kenya with son Mayen, 1, awaiting U.S. approval to join husband Solomon John in Louisville. He left Kenya in 2001 and returned briefly in 2003 to marry Nyanthic, but hasn’t seen his son.

Solomon John works the afternoon shift at a United Parcel Service warehouse in Louisville. He sends his wife$150 to $200 every month. To save money, he shares a two-bedroom apartment with three other Lost Boys.

KAKUMA REFUGEE CAMP, KENYA

Inthe stifling air of thesmall, mud home, the1-year-old boy presseshis wet mouth to a

photo of Solomon John. “Ba-ba,” the baby says cheer-

fully as he kisses the photo.In Dinka, his language, “ba-

ba” means father. But little Mayen Solomon

has never met his father, whoworks the second shift at Unit-ed Parcel Service in distantLouisville, Ky.

He only knows his father inphotos, like the one that hangsin a gold frame on the wall ofthe tiny space he shares withhis mother, Rhoda Nyanthic,and grandmother, RebeccaAdit. There are no closets intheir single-room dwelling, justtwo beds resting on the dirtfloor, two small tables and twosuitcases. The suitcases remainpacked — ready to go.

Even large camps like thisone, holding about 86,000 refu-gees, are meant to be tempor-ary homes. But Mayen’s motherhas been living here for 13years.

As the hot, dry days pass,she waits for mysterious bu-reaucratic processes to sweepher out of the camp, into thearms of her baby’s father inLouisville. She remembers thatSolomon Aluong John made hera promise: When he left theKakuma camp in 2001 as one ofthe Lost Boys being resettled inthe United States, he said hewould return and marry her.

“He told me,” says Nyanthic.“He promise me.”

John did return two years

later, and he did marry her. Buthe had to leave her behind untilU.S. immigration officials saidshe could join him.

Nyanthic has undergonepreliminary immigration in-terviews and awaits a Home-land Security interview nextyear that could finally lead toher being reunited with herhusband. Or it could leave themas they are now, caught be-tween continents and cultures,trying to reconcile an Africanwedding with American bu-reaucracy — and trying to keeptheir love strong despite in-tervening oceans and moun-tains of red tape.

Back in Louisvilleit’s work and study

As night envelops the Af-rican refugee camp, seven timezones away, Solomon John, 24,is starting his afternoon shift ata United Parcel Service ware-house in Louisville.

He wears a black, white andred necklace, the same kind hisson wears in Africa. John’sloose jeans hang low on hislanky frame, and sweat fallsfrom his face as he unpackslarge boxes, organizing thesmaller ones within to be putaway and later shipped.

Beginning at 2 p.m., he sortsthrough box after box in silencefor $9.50 an hour, $2 more thanhe made in a previous job,working as a janitor at CaritasPeace Center.

When he has money andtime, he takes classes at Jef-ferson Community College.This fall he is taking English

and math. He got his GeneralEducational Development cer-tificate in 2002. Every weekendhe buys a “Hello Africa” or“African Dream” phone cardand talks to his wife.

This isn’t the future hedreamed of when he, alongwith almost 4,000 other “LostBoys” fleeing a civil war inSudan, first learned they wouldbe relocated to the UnitedStates.

At cultural orientation class-es in the Kakuma RefugeeCamp before coming to Amer-ica, he was taught about things

he’d never experienced before,like winter, flush toilets anddialing 9-1-1. He was told aboutfree education, free meals anduniting with his family.

“In orientation they said youcan bring family, girlfriends toU.S. later,” John remembers. Butthey never said how much later.

Escaping the warcomes with losses

The brutal civil war in theirhomeland of Sudan still colorslife for Nyanthic and John.

The war forced John, hiscousins and uncle out of their

village in southern Sudan whenhe was 8. It claimed the cousinwho had helped carry him intheir flight across the swirlingwaters of the Gilo river in Ethi-opia. It separated him from hisfather and mother, who hassince died, and his siblings.

Nyanthic doesn’t rememberhow old she was when thenorthern army raided her ownvillage, killing her father andsending her and her mother onthe trek that would eventuallyend at the refugee camp.

She believes she is 23 now,the second-oldest child in her

family. Her two younger sistersjoined her in Kenya this year.They live in a mud hut nextdoor. Her older sister lives in avillage in Sudan.

The two meetand are joined

It was in the dirt and des-olation of the Kakuma campthat Nyanthic and John firstmet. He was a Sunday schoolteacher there.

“I just saw her at the church,and I felt attracted to her,” Johnsaid from the Louisville apart-ment he shares with other LostBoys. It was 1999. He had beenin the camp since 1992, and hehad known her family sincechildhood.

“I ask some of my friendswho are related to her whatthey know about her. It tookfive months before she agreewe can be friends.”

In Dinka culture the girlmust be pursued and almostalways, at the beginning, showsdisinterest. But the two soongrew closer. Nyanthic likedJohn’s excellent manners andhis straightforward behavior.“He’s not a liar,” she said.

The couple were married —for the first time — in 2002 in aDinka ceremony. John was inKentucky at the time, andNyanthic in Kenya. In a Dinkamarriage there is no certificateand, in some cases, no husbandpresent.

But the United States hasdifferent standards, so in 2003,after saving for a plane ticket,John returned to marry Nyan-thic again. This time, the cere-

One family, worlds apart

He works at UPS in Louisville, while she andtheir son live in a refugee camp in Kenya. Theywait for the day they can finally live together.

Story by Katya Cengel and photos by Pam Spaulding | kcengel@courier-journal.com | The Courier-Journal

See LOUISVILLE, A9, col. 1

SOLOMON JOHN. . .

. . . RHODA NYANTHIC

K THE COURIER-JOURNAL | SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 2005 | A9LOST BOYS ... TORN FAMILIES | courier-journal.com

mony included a certificaterecognized in the United States.John was able to spend threemonths with his wife beforereturning to Louisville. (Inkeeping with the Dinkas’ com-plex naming tradition, Nyanthicdid not change her name, norwas her son given his father’slast name.)

The next year, after theirson, Mayen, had been born,John, with the help of KentuckyRefugee Ministries, submittedto the U.S. Citizenship andImmigration Services an Affi-davit of Relationship for hiswife and child to join him in theUnited States. The procedureallows those who come to theUnited States as refugees andasylum-seekers to request refu-gee processing for family mem-bers.

Finally, after months of wait-ing, John’s wife had severalinterviews last week with theJoint Voluntary Agency, whichworks with the U.S. State De-partment on refugee matters.But she hasn’t been told whenher Homeland Security in-terview will be.

John is excited that thingsare finally happening, but heknows that complications stillmay lie ahead. He has learnedto be patient, but patience canbe difficult.

This spring he learned hisson was sick with dysentery,without the proper medicine,and he felt he had to take moreaction. With the help of friends,he wrote to U.S. Rep. AnneNorthup, asking that her officehelp to expedite his case.(Northup’s office says it doesnot discuss individual cases.)

Again with the help offriends, John was able to sendsome medicine to the camp, butby the time it arrived, Mayenhad recovered on his own.

Life in campmeans few amenities

Nyanthic receives food fromthe Kakuma camp authoritiestwice a month. Sometimes itruns out before her next ration.And sometimes the water shebrings from the tap stand eachmorning doesn’t last until she isallowed to get more in theevening.

She and her son share withnine other families a primitivetoilet, a hole in the ground witha metal door. In the corner oftheir particular compound — adirt area surrounded by a circleof mud huts — a crooked sheetof metal and woven mats hangsfrom tree branches above asmall plastic tub and watercanister: the shower.

Nyanthic’s ceiling is made ofsacks stamped with “MaizeWorld Food Programme”; therust on her tin roof eats away atits “USA” markings.

From 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. the skyis a dark blue, the wind blowsstrong and no outsiders visitthe camp — it is too dangerous.The road leading to it is one ofthe most threatening in Kenya.Aid organizations drive in con-voys, armed guards at the ready.

Nyanthic says that three ofher distant relatives were killedduring an attack by the localTurkana tribe in 2003. Theattacks postponed her weddingand left her terrified of theTurkana, the camp’s only realneighbors, a fierce, seminomad-ic people who live in paper-covered mud huts near thecamp’s borders.

Nyanthic takes a gold bandfrom her ring finger and holdsit in the sunlight streamingthrough a square hole in thewall of her hut, a tiny windowwith green and yellow curtains.On the inside of the ring iswritten “S. Aluong,” John’s firstinitial and middle name.

“The only thing that makesme so patient is because I wantto be married to Solomon forlife,” says Nyanthic.

Outside, under the hole inthe wall, is a clump of purpleportulaca flowers, the onlyflower garden in the dustycompound. The flowers aresurrounded by upside-downglass jars. Similar jars also help

support the house’s slightlyelevated dirt entryway.

During the camp’s warm andarid days, Nyanthic leaves thedoor open and uses only acurtain for privacy and to keepout insects.

Several times a day shewashes Mayen and his knock-off NBA basketball outfits; shecannot afford diapers. In the

afternoon she sometimes sitson a log bench in the center ofthe compound.

If John has sent her money,she can buy meat, warm sodasor soap in a nearby shoppingarea, a street of one-story, tin-roof shacks with wood postsholding up tattered awnings.

There is little work in thecamp — no electricity, no run-

ning water, and little to doexcept wait and hope.

Nyanthic waits for John tocall her on the cell phone hebought for her, which shecharges on a community solarpanel in the camp. She waits allday and every evening, whenshe goes to collect water in abucket she carries on her head.She waits even as she lies down

Rhoda Nyanthic carried water from a central tap to her home in the Kakuma camp, where she has lived for 13 years. She receives food from the camp authorities twice a month, butsometimes it runs out before the next ration. “The only thing that makes me so patient is because I want to be married to Solomon for life,” she said.

Solomon John, in green shirt, led dancers at a southern Sudanese celebration at the Americana Apartments in Louisville last spring. “Many(Lost Boys) look to him as one of their leaders. And I think their trust is well placed,” says Bishop Ted Gulick, of the Episcopal Diocese of Kentucky.

LOUISVILLE |Lost Boy,wife awaitreunionContinued from A8

Nyanthic heldher son, Mayen,in the Kakumacamp. There islittle to dothere.

to sleep, to dream of a daywhen the waiting will be over.

Praying fora reunion

On Sundays, at ResurrectionEpiscopal Church on SouthernParkway, John helps to conducta Sudanese service held at 11:30a.m., or whenever most of theDinka worshippers show up.

“He always has had a kind ofspiritual presence,” says BishopTed Gulick, of the EpiscopalDiocese of Kentucky. “Many(Lost Boys) look to him as oneof their leaders. And I thinktheir trust is well placed.”

When a Louisville Lost Boywas murdered last year, Johnread Scripture at his funeral. Atcelebrations marking the anni-versary of the southern Suda-nese uprising against the north,he leads dancers and singers.

And at church every Sunday,he plays drums and delivers amessage. It is one of longingand patience. He says he will-ingly will consign himself to afuture of manual labor so hecan provide something morefor his son.

“It’s really sad,” says John. “Isometimes say, why didn’t myancestors realize this (howimportant education is) beforemy time so I can enjoy it? Butit’s at my time, so maybe myson can enjoy.”

John says he sends his wife$150 to $200 every month. Healready has given Nyanthic’sfamily 25 cows — equivalent toabout $3,000 — for the mar-riage, as is traditional when aDinka man seeks to marry awoman. Her family would like25 more.

He saves money by sharing atwo-bedroom apartment in theHighlands neighborhood withthree other Lost Boys. John andtwo of his roommates are mar-ried but still waiting for theirwives.

The walls in John’s room arebare, the coffee table in theliving room covered with astriped bath towel. Meals aresparse, often eaten only twice aday, and decorations rare.

Unlike many Americans,John and his roommates areused to getting by on little andwould rather spend what extramoney they have on family inAfrica than on themselves.They know that even theircrowded and basic apartment isbetter than what their familieshave in Africa.

“That’s why we are alwaysworried,” says John. “It’s over-whelming sometimes to thinkabout it.”

Friends and helpers:‘Bring Rhoda Here’

Any extra money he earnsgoes to a Louisville friend,George Gans III, who puts themoney in an account called“Bring Rhoda Here.” Gans andhis wife, Dawn, taught John todrive and lent him money tobuy a used car.

When John sends Gans, theretired president and CEO ofPaul Semonin Realtors, a checkto help pay off the car loan,Gans puts it in the account.Gans lent John the suit for hiswedding.

John gets help from others,as well. He was able to get toAfrica to marry his wife withhelp from Bishop Gulick. EvaMarkham, an assistant profes-sor at the pediatric depart-ment’s Child Evaluation Centerat the University of Louisville,helped buy medicine for hisson. Friends with less moneyhelp in other ways.

“Last Thanksgiving, whenwe had one of the (Lost) Boysgive the prayer, it was not forhimself but for Solomon to getRhoda over here,” said DawnGans.

Another young Sudanesemother and her son alreadyhave been relocated to Louis-ville. Bul Deng, born just 17days after Mayen in the Kaku-ma camp, and his mother, MaryAguer, arrived last spring.

Bul is often the only child atthe Dinka church service onSundays. He runs from oneadult to another. When hereaches the front row, Johnscoops him onto his lap. For aminute Bul is silent; then hestarts squirming again, andJohn puts him down.

It is the closest he has evercome to holding his son.

John plays drums and delivers a message each Sunday at ResurrectionEpiscopal Church on Southern Parkway. At left is Gabriel Akec Kuai. Theplayful 1-year-old is Bul Deng, the son of Lost Boy Abraham Deng Choland Mary Aguer. She and Bul arrived in Louisville last spring.

HOW TO HELP

Tax-deductible donations to helppay for local Lost Boys’ educationcan be made to the CommunityFoundation of Louisville, designatedfor the Sudanese Refugee Educa-tion Fund, and sent to WaterfrontPlaza, 325 W. Main St., Suite 1110,Louisville, KY 40202.To help refugees being resettled inLouisville from various countries bydonating household items andfood, your time or your expertise,contact one of these agencies:�Kentucky Refugee Ministries,(502) 479-9180 or www.kyrm.org/help.�Catholic Charities, (502) 637-9786 or www.catholiccharities-louisville.org�Jewish Family & VocationalService, (502) 452-6341, orwww.jfvs.com (click on “SupportJFVS”).

TOMORROW: Wives and siblings deal with the distance