In a Dying Nation, an Elderly Man of 10 : Africa: Civil war has driven 300,000 Mozambicans into drought-devastated Zimbabwe, where all they have is memories.

To a new arrival, “camp” must seem a bizarre designation for Tongogara, a colonial plantation turned refugee center near the eastern Zimbabwe border where 42,000 displaced Mozambicans wait for their particularly vicious civil war to wind down. Zimbabwe has taken in 300,000 Mozambican refugees so far--this in a Montana-size country where 4.5 million people--half of the population--are suffering the seventh consecutive year of drought. Every moving vehicle, every running child, is announced by a cloud trail of the fine ochre dust that eventually coats everyone and everything with the same earthy skin. In an ever-widening circumference, the thorn trees have been chopped down or stripped of their branches by residents seeking fuel for cooking or warmth against the Southern Hemisphere winter nights.

At the reception area in sight of the former owner’s swimming pool, now chain-link-fenced and dry, today’s cluster of displaced persons sit dazed on packed dirt, “guarded” by a contingent of bored soldiers lest one of the emaciated women and children be an infiltrator, a saboteur. Most speak a dialect related to Shona, the predominant tribal language of Zimbabwe, and so I’m able to communicate through Mark Nyahada, a deputy director of Save the Children’s southern Africa operation.

Mark is in Tongogara to supervise a new program, run cooperatively by his agency, the government and a U.S. team of psychologists and social workers from Duke University, aimed at both reuniting separated family members and counseling the youngest witnesses to unspeakable violence. “Some of these children,” he tells me in his very British accent, “have seen terrible things. They’ve been forced to kill their parents. Made to carry ammunition across enemy lines. Seen people locked inside houses that were then set on fire.”

In the late morning torpor of the reception area, where the only sounds are the buzz of flies and the murmur of the soldiers talking among themselves, it’s hard to imagine such atrocities--until I see the eyes of one little boy, who looks to be about 10 years old. His expression is exhausted, devoid of curiosity, the match in listlessness to that of the old woman beside him.

Mark notices the direction of my gaze. “That’s his grandmother,” he tells me. “His mother is still somewhere in Mozambique. They hoped the father would be here, but so far we haven’t been able to locate him.”

Mark beckons, and the boy comes over, joins us, and in the manner of men conversing, we squat facing each other. Unmoving, the grandmother stares through us as if watching another place and time. There are stretched holes in the lobes of her ears where jewelry once dangled. Mark estimates that she’s no more than 50, and yet she appears to me at least 20 years older than that.

There’s nothing childlike about this boy, nothing playful or energetic. Like so many people I’ve met in these camps, he has about him an air of distilled dignity, as if, stripped of every other possession, he has quietly guarded possession of himself.

The story he elects to tell us is, within this inhumane context, undramatic, even typical. Yes, he has gone days without eating. Yes, he and his grandmother have walked shoeless from a long distance. Yes, he’s hoping to find his father, who ran away from their village some time ago to avoid execution for being the brother-in-law of the wrong person. The boy is neither impatient nor especially interested, just tired. He has never been to school but clearly he’s intelligent, a survivor. If it weren’t for his size, for the absence of lines on his face, I’d think I was in the presence of a very elderly man.

Mark promises that he’ll circulate the boy’s photograph throughout the several refugee centers scattered along the frontier; he’ll even send it along to his counterpart in Malawi, where more than 1 million Mozambicans have fled. Perhaps the lost father will see it and contact authorities. Perhaps the story will have a resolution.

The boy nods, agrees, then rejoins his grandmother. Mark and I stand, brush off our knees and walk toward our Toyota. We’re running behind schedule, late for a meeting. Before I get into the car, however, I turn back for one last look. The boy is in the cradle of his grandmother’s thin arms. His mouth is at her empty breast.