The town of Juba is a fast-growing jumble of haphazard construction along the eastern bank of the Nile. This was my first visit. I stood alongside the dusty road across from the Bedouin Bar and Hotel, waiting to meet a colleague. It was dusk; the few cars that passed by raised clouds of red dust in their wake. A blue van drove by, then braked suddenly and backed up to where I stood. The driver rolled down his window, leaned toward me and said excitedly, “I KNOW YOU!” Puzzled, I met his gaze but did not recognize him. “Where might we have met?” I asked.

“You’re Sister Marilyn! We met in 1998 in Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya!” He jumped out of the vehicle and wrapped me in an enthused hug.

“What is your name?” I asked. As soon as he said “John…” my memory kicked in with his surname: John Bullen! No wonder I hadn’t recognized him. The only time we’d met before was 12 years earlier in a different country, when John had been about 14 years old. Now he was a strapping 6-foot man. We had spent a few hours together one afternoon when I was working in Kakuma Refugee Camp. I had listened to his story and his dreams. I had let him write his name in my notebook. I had given him a few dollars.

When I expressed amazement that he had recognized me, he said, “I would never forget your kindness or your face. In fact, I have been looking for you in Kenya and Sudan for the past 12 years. Whenever I see a Sister, I ask if they know you… Today is a miracle; this is the most wonderful miracle.”

The lesson in this encounter is certainly not that I am memorable, but rather that refugees are rarely paid attention to. They thirst for recognition and welcome. And when someone does listen, does want to hear their story, does treat them with basic human respect, it creates a precious, indelible memory. These are small things, but oh, so important.

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