Apr. 7, 2022
Latjor Tuel loved to wake with the sun.
Those were the best memories for Nyalinglat Latjor, Tuel’s daughter — the mornings when he would bring his children with him to forests in British Columbia to pick huckleberries.
He taught Nyalinglat how to cook, taught her responsibilities, but also taught her not to take life too seriously.
When Nyalinglat was around eight years old, Tuel sat her down. He made a motion with his hand.
“You know, when I was your age,” he said, “I was this high, and I was walking around with a gun this tall. Bigger than me and you.”
That’s how she found out he had been a child soldier in South Sudan.
In February, Tuel was killed by police on the sidewalk of a busy street in southeast Calgary. Police say they used non-lethal weapons in an attempt to disarm him, then shot and killed Tuel after he attacked a police dog.
Tuel’s family and the Sudanese community say he was suffering from PTSD at the time he was killed.
His death has the community and family members asking whether police employed de-escalation techniques properly and whether police forces are properly educated on how to respond to individuals in mental health crises.
It has also raised questions on whether former child soldiers like Tuel have access to the supports they need in Canada to manage the trauma they’ve endured.
Calgary police declined an interview request for this story, as the incident is currently under investigation by the Alberta Serious Incident Response Team.
Tuel was born in 1980 in Malakal, South Sudan. After his father died, Tuel assumed that role in the family, teaching his siblings how to swim, settling disputes and supporting their mother.
But the family’s life would be disrupted when Tuel, at around age 11, became one of the Lost Boys of Sudan, referring to the 20,000 boys uprooted from their families by civil war, some forced into combat.
Later, Tuel completed his primary and secondary education at the Pinyudo refugee camp in Ethiopia, where he had two daughters, Nyalinglat and Nyanchiew.
Tuel migrated to Canada on Nov. 7, 2000. Those who knew Tuel described him as well-liked, quick to crack a joke and a person who often served as a mediator amid interpersonal conflict.
But his family said his experiences as a child soldier left him to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.
On Feb. 19, police say they responded to calls just after 3:30 p.m. that Tuel had allegedly assaulted someone with a stick and that he was carrying a knife.
In a video of the incident circulated on social media, Tuel can be seen sitting on a sidewalk with police at a distance. When Tuel stood up, police fired rubber bullets in an attempt to disarm him, they say. Another officer used a Taser on Tuel as he approached them.
Police say two officers fired their service weapons after Tuel allegedly stabbed a police dog in the neck with the knife. Tuel was pronounced dead shortly after.
Due to the public nature of the incident — Tuel’s death was filmed and posted online by bystanders at the scene — those who knew him say what has been lost in all of this is the father, brother and friend they knew.
“My father was a great man, incredible, amazing, did his best. He suffered a lot. The things that he saw, the things that he’s been through,” Nyalinglat said, wiping away tears.
“I just wish I had another minute, a second, even like five seconds to be like: ‘I love you. Goodbye.’ Just to say it once. So that he knows.”
Nyalinglat said the way that her father died was so violent, so sudden, it made her feel like he had been stripped of his dignity.
She also said that over the past month, she felt like her voice has been muffled. But she wants to change that.
“That’s what I came here to do,” she said. “To give some of that dignity back.”
Themar Tuel, Latjor’s younger sister, is crying some of yesterday’s tears today.
“Now it puts me back to thinking about my dad, because Latjor was our father even though he was our older brother,” she said.
Nyalinglat and Themar live in British Columbia and have put their lives on hold while dealing with the aftermath of Tuel’s death in Calgary.
Nyalinglat, who works as a model and a server, was finishing a shift at a restaurant when her mother called her, out of breath, telling her about what happened to Tuel.
The incident on a busy street at the hands of law enforcement, with videos on social media, turned death and grieving — usually a private affair — into an intensely public one. Themar said her children saw their uncle’s death online before she even spoke to them about it.
In March, hundreds attended a “Justice for Latjor Tuel” protest at Calgary’s City Hall to demand answers from the police, and an end to the systemic racism they believe was at play in the incident. Among other concerns, activists and community members said they took issue with Tuel’s body laying on the sidewalk for hours while police investigated.
Nyalinglat understands her father’s death has resonated with many people — especially members of the Black community — and said the support makes her feel less alone.
images expandA large protest was held at Calgary’s city hall on Feb. 25 following the death of Latjor Tuel.“We’re so, so grateful for that, we are,” she said.
“But on the other hand it’s been very difficult. Everybody’s always giving their two cents and this and that, and on top of mourning. It’s a lot.”
After the family voiced concerns with what happened at the scene, they received abusive messages online, some using racial slurs. Such comments on posts the sisters make has driven them largely off social media.
The day of the protest, a meeting was held between police representatives, Tuel’s family and South Sudanese community leaders. Nyalinglat was unaware of a second meeting after the family left and disagreed with a subsequent statement released by the police that acknowledged the officers involved in the incident were also “deeply impacted.”
She said moments like this have made her feel like the people who cared the most about her father have been pushed to the sidelines of conversations about his death.
In the weeks following the shooting, Calgary police chief Mark Neufeld said the “dynamic” scene presented a situation to officers that was far from perfect.
“Front-line police officers get the cards they’re dealt, and sometimes their hand is less than ideal,” Neufeld told a police commission meeting held Feb. 23.
One member of the Calgary police commission asked the chief why a canine unit was used as a de-escalation tactic given its problematic historical use on non-white subjects.
The shooting also prompted calls for trauma-informed care and mental health support, including from Calgary Mayor Jyoti Gondek.
“While we await an investigation, we question de-escalation methods and use of lethal force,” Gondek wrote on Twitter.
“We question why mental health support is not embedded within community policing. We question how to strengthen newcomer support services to deal with complex trauma.”
Experts say complex trauma among former child soldiers is common. Moses Kulang, who grew up with Tuel in South Sudan, experienced it first-hand.
The Republic of South Sudan, where Tuel and Kulang were child soldiers, has been embroiled in a number of conflicts, the most recent of which being a civil war that killed nearly 400,000 and displaced around four million people.
Located in northeastern Africa with a population estimated around 12 million, South Sudan is the world’s newest nation, becoming independent from Sudan in 2011.
There are an estimated 19,000 children still being used in South Sudan as child soldiers at present, according to UNICEF.
Kulang said before he became a child soldier, life was good. His initial memories are peaceful: helping in his village, herding cows.
But then, suddenly, with a promise that they were being brought to school, Kulang, along with Tuel, were taken from their parents.
They ended up in a training camp to become child soldiers. He said they were disciplined and often went without food.
According to UNICEF, child soldiers in South Sudan are used in combat and domestic roles, in communication operations and as spies, guards and porters.
Kulang said the children were trained that even if their mothers or fathers arrived, they must be prepared to kill. The gun, they were told, is your mother.
“It was tough. But we got used to it, after some years,” Kulang said.
He said that at the time, seeing violence all around him, it all seemed normal. But years later, after spending time studying psychology, Kulang now understands it differently.
“I feel like a lot of us came to Canada and did not get the help they wanted,” he said.
“Because we were fighting and fighting comes with trauma — which I didn’t know back then.”
Kulang said he did a lot of therapy after arriving in Canada to make sense of what he went through.
But he said he recognizes that many in his situation are still struggling because they have not been connected with proper supports.
“There is a taboo. I think it is taking a toll on the community,” he said.
“And the reason it is taking a toll is because we are not used to going to see the therapist.”
Trauma borne by child soldiers doesn’t simply disappear, experts say — it lingers, sometimes undetected in the background, and can contribute to chronic pain, depression and other mental health symptoms.
It’s like a constant, interior battle of painful and unpleasant emotions, said Dan Devoe, a professor of psychology at Mount Royal University in Calgary who studies the brain and mental health.
“And on top of that, some of these individuals are going to relive those events quite frequently,” Devoe said.
“As a child soldier, they’ve been exposed to some very gruesome and unpleasant things. It’s not a thing of the past to them. It’s something that they’re still living with.”
Shelly Whitman, executive director of the Dallaire Institute for Children, Peace and Security, founded by General Roméo Dallaire, an organization that seeks to end the use of child soldiers around the world, said Canada needs to do a better job of recognizing and understanding trauma among former child soldiers.
“I would say there’s a dearth of available resources in Canada,” Whitman said.
Some former child soldiers, Whitman said, fear mentioning their military training with armed groups listed as human rights violators so as to avoid being disqualified from refugee status.
“So, we’ve got to start finding better ways to address it,” she said.
Jill Edgington Kirby is the team lead at the Centre for Refugee Resilience, a branch of Calgary Catholic Immigration Services that addresses trauma in refugees with culturally appropriate services. The centre is partnering with members of the Sudanese community to offer a program that addresses its specific needs.
She said the settlement process for refugees can itself be an ongoing trauma, stripping them of autonomy, community and familial supports essential to recovery.
“On top of that, when people land in Canada, they just have a lot of changes to navigate and learn about and overcome,” she said, adding many refugees are simply not in a place to process their trauma when they first arrive.
For those who work with former child soldiers in Canada, a line can be drawn from what happened to Latjor to the lack of comprehension in regards to the challenges he and others like him face.
Whitman said the tragedy of Tuel’s death may at last draw attention to the issue.
“If we could turn it around to an opportunity to do something different and do it well … that would be something that I think is really important,” she said.
The family initially had plans to bring Tuel back to Africa after learning that he had been expressing a desire to go home to visit his mother mere weeks before his death.
But challenges around securing visas for travel has led the family to arrange burial in Calgary on April 9.
“God willing,” the family has secured paperwork for Tuel’s mother to arrive before the funeral.
Nyalinglat and Themar are unsure how they will feel that day. For Nyalinglat, the situation still doesn’t feel real.
Sometimes, waking with the sun like her father used to, her mind wanders to the day ahead before it snaps back to reality — he’s gone.
“I can’t talk to him, I can’t look at him and have him look back. I can’t hear his voice,” she said.
“I don’t think it’s hit me yet, truly, truly hit me yet. And I’m so scared when it does.”