How the story of a Zande old woman and a Chollo Boy epitomize the horrors of war in South Sudan

My reflections on constant wars and insecurity plaguing our country and how an average citizen perceives this situation.

By Amb. Anthony Kon, Juba, South Sudan

Friday, 17 March 2023 (PW) — As a former South Sudan Ambassador to the Arab Republic of Egypt, I am compelled to share my experiences and thoughts on the constant wars and insecurity plaguing our country and how an average citizen perceives this situation. It is my hope that through my account, readers will reflect on the importance of peace, not only in South Sudan but also in the neighbouring countries that share a similar situation. My first story of a Zande old woman and this of a Chollo Boy from Malakal can be good plots for excellent movies showing the horrors of war in South Sudan.

The story of a Zande old woman

In a series of articles, I will be sharing stories that illustrate the impact of the conflict on the lives of ordinary people. One such story is that of an Azande old woman, whom I met in Egypt in the aftermath of the December 2013 incidents that led to the deaths of many in Juba.

I was in my office in Cairo on the third day of the disturbance in Juba when my Egyptian secretary informed me that there was an old South Sudanese woman who wanted to see me but was prevented by the embassy security at the gate. I instructed my secretary to allow her to come to my office, where she was seated and waiting to see me.

As I greeted her at the door, I couldn’t help but notice that she was an Azande woman who resembled my mother. She appeared sad and pale, like someone who hadn’t slept in days. She sat on the floor, but I asked her to sit on one of the chairs, which she eventually did. She looked at the picture of Dr John Garang, which was facing her as if she wanted to say something to him.

After a while, she looked back at me and began to cry. Although I didn’t understand the reason for her tears, I sensed that it was much more than usual. I implored her to stop crying until she finally regained her composure, after which I asked her why she had come to my office.

She replied, “My son, I came to your office not to beg or seek any help from you,” and then fell silent. She continued, “Look at me. I am too old. See my body. How long do you think I am going to live? Not much.” She went on to tell me about her experiences during the Anya Nya war in the 1960s when she fled to Congo and returned to find that her family had either died or been killed by Sudan Government soldiers.

She had been a refugee for most of her life, fleeing to Central Africa and then Egypt, where she had stayed for many years until the country gained independence. She had hoped that the end of the war would mean the end of her suffering, but the events of 2013 shattered those hopes.

“Why are people fighting in Juba when the Arabs have left?” she asked. “This war has killed all our hopes of returning home. Can I continue to be a refugee? Don’t I have a right to live and be buried in my land of ancestors?” She pleaded for the violence to stop and for peace to be restored.

“I have been running from country to country for more than fifty years,” she said. “I need peace, and I want to return home and be buried in Yambio. That is my only wish. Please tell the president to bring peace. We’re tired of living in other people’s countries.”

Her words resonated with me on a deeply personal level, as I too had experienced the horrors of war and the loss of loved ones. But her story was just one among many in South Sudan, where constant conflict has led to the displacement of millions of people and the loss of countless lives.

It is imperative that we all work towards peace, not just for ourselves but for future generations. The old woman’s plea is one that we must heed if we hope to build a better future for South Sudan and the wider region.

The story of a Chollo Boy from Malakal

In 2014, I had a personal encounter that brought the South Sudan conflict closer to home. One day, I felt unwell when I arrived at my office in Al Maadi, Cairo. The combination of tense traffic and a depressing BBC radio news report of fighting in Juba Bor Road between the government troops and rebels had put me in a low mood.

Despite my state of mind, I entered the embassy and began my day as usual, browsing through the daily newspapers hoping to find something uplifting. Unfortunately, all the newspapers carried news of the fighting in South Sudan and the mass displacement of people from their homes. It was a bleak picture, and my spirits sank even further.

At this moment, my secretary informed me that the embassy’s accountant was waiting outside with an urgent topic to discuss. I had hoped to hear some good news about our salaries, which had not been paid in months, but as the accountant entered my office, I could see that something was wrong. She was wearing a woollen jacket due to the cold weather outside. She looked sad and absorbed in thought, contrary to her usual lively personality.

Something sinister might have happened, which was unusual for her. I said, “Good morning, madam. How are you? How is your family?” She looked at me, not knowing what to say, but she remembered she had to respond. She said, “I am coming to report to you, your Excellency, that I have a little Chollo boy of 11 to 12 years from Malakal brought to the office just now by one of my Chollo relatives.

The boy sneaked through the immigration and security checks in both Juba and Cairo airports and found his way to Cairo without his parents or relatives. He has no passport, no travelling documents, and no money. He is now in my office.”

Upon hearing this news, I couldn’t help but say, “What the hell is going on? What is happening at Juba and Cairo airports?” I wondered how a boy of such a young age could manoeuvre his way through both airports without being detected or stopped by anyone. I concluded that something must have been wrong in these airports. I immediately instructed the accountant to bring the boy and one of the Chollo elders who had brought him to my office.

As I waited for them to arrive, my thoughts wandered to the dire situation in our country at that time. My mind started to be flooded with Images of dead bodies scattered on the streets of Juba, Malakal, and Juba-Bor Road, along with images of people fleeing to the neighbouring countries. I could see schools and shops being closed, banks looted, and people seeking refuge in the UN camps.

At that time, I asked myself in silence, “Was this the same country we had fought for since 1955? Was this the promised land we had envisioned for ourselves after years of struggle? who was to blame for this destruction and loss of lives? I remembered the story of the old Zande woman when she asked, “why are people fighting in Juba when the Arabs have left?”.

I couldn’t help but think of the leaders who had sacrificed their lives for the cause of our country’s liberation. What would we say to them about our country’s current situation? What would we say to Dr John Garang, William Deng, Agrey Jaden, Gordon Mortat, Father Saturlino, Kerbino Kuanyin, Clement Umboro, Joseph Odoho, Francis Ngor, Aziboni Manderi, Andrew Wieu, Alisapana Mulla, Alfred Wol Akhoc, Samuel Abu John Kabashi, Alex Bakumba, Kamilo Dhol Kuac, Samuel Gai Tut, Benjamin Bol Akok, Gordon Koang, Eliah Duwang Arop, Albert Mayar Akon, Darius Bashir, Ali Guwattla, Ngondeng, King Budwe, Akwot Atem, Nyikang, Ariathdit, Giir Thiik, Alder Ma’nger, Abdulrahman Sule, Benjamin Luke, Bari Wanji, Moris Abal and countless others?

Answering such questions without blaming the destruction and suffering of innocent people on someone was difficult. It was clear to me that we all were responsible for the destruction and death of people. The elites had the greatest share in this destruction. We had placed our selfish interests above national interests and preached hate speech in our communities instead of love.

Our country had become community and tribe-focused, emphasizing elements of disunity in our institutions to that of unity. We defined ourselves in terms of tribe and region rather than as a united nation. We accepted each other only as long as we came from the same tribe or region. Gone were the liberation days when we were united, fighting the same enemy.

I asked myself how we could fix the situation in our country. My mind drifted back to the days of the Government of High Executive Council between 1972 and 1983 when Abel Alier and Joseph Lago presided over the governments.

Images of those times began to come back to me intensely. I could see Speaker Clement Umboro sitting in the highchair in the parliament, listening to debates between the members of SANU and Southern Front political parties. Each tries to convince the House of his point of view. All were highly educated and focused on national issues of common concern. They had no time to waste on petty religious and tribal issues.

To them, everything was purely national politics and the people’s interest. The SANU group was composed of members of all tribes, and the same was true for the Southern Front. Joseph Lago, a Madi from a small town, and Samuel Aru, a Dinka from Rumbek, led SANU. Abel Alier, a Dinka from Bor, Peter Gatkouth Goal from Nuer, and Hilary Paul Logali from Bari led the Southern Front.

Images of people sitting in public places, such as the Juba hotel, Senior Rest House, and Greek Club, started to come back to me. I could see people sitting in groups composed of members of each political party. I could see Nuer, Zandi, Dinka, Murli, and Balanda sitting in one group and in another group, the same. People were divided along political lines, but no physical or armed fighting existed.

There was no hate speech against one another. The fighting was all intellectual inside the parliament, and all were friends and relatives once they left the parliament. Such was the norm. There was a climate of peace and harmony.

While my mind was lost in the past, I heard a sharp knock at the door. A 12- year-old boy entered, radiating energy, confidence, and bravery. I greeted him warmly, as did the person who brought him to the embassy. I immediately instructed my secretary to summon the Consul and the embassy security chief to the meeting.

When my staff arrived, I asked the boy to listen to his story. He explained that the rebels attacked the city on a scorching afternoon in Malakal. Gunshots echoed everywhere, and people fled for their lives. His mother and siblings ran ahead to the Nile and boarded a boat to cross to the other bank. As he and his auntie arrived late to the Nile and tried to jump into the water to reach the boat carrying his mother and siblings, soldiers stopped them.

Soon after the boat started sailing to the other bank, they heard the voices of women and children screaming from the side of the boat. They felt something was wrong with the boat as it was overloaded with people. At that time, they saw the boat sink, and almost everyone was killed, including his mother and siblings.

Sadly, the soldiers could not help as they had no rescue boats. Hearing his heartbreaking story, I expressed my condolences to him. I became much more interested to hear his story and how they finally made it to Juba with his auntie.

He said: “a few days later, the UN planes arrived to evacuate people from Malakal, and fortunately, my aunt and I were among those who boarded one of the planes and flew to Juba. We arrived with nothing but clothes on our backs as we had lost everything in Malakal during the chaos. My aunt was wearing a sleeping gown and slippers, and I was walking barefoot, having lost my shoes and clothes in Malakal”.

He continued to talk about life in Juba after arriving from Malakal. He said,” life was no better than in Malakal. We were told that heavy fighting occurred between the government troops and rebels. We could see soldiers everywhere in the streets and at checkpoints. Many people had left the city. Schools and shops had closed. We were constantly scared that fighting might erupt again in the city. We did not know where to run if fighting broke out again. Juba was unlike Malakal, where we could run to the Nile to cross to the other bank. My aunt and I were constantly scared, especially at night”.

He then described his journey to Cairo without a passport or visa. He explained that, while in Juba, he decided to search for his uncle, who he heard, had been residing in Cairo. He had also wanted to escape any potential fighting in Juba. He walked daily from the customs market, where he lived with his auntie, to Juba airport in the hope of finding someone who could assist him in travelling to Cairo.

He did not understand Egypt or the requirements of a passport or visa. He believed that travelling to Egypt was like that of Renk or Khartoum. He had observed people travelling from Malakal to Renk and Khartoum. He simply wanted to locate his uncle, as his father had passed away when he was young and he was informed that he had a brother.

One morning, he resolved to travel to Egypt and walked from the customs market to Juba airport, where he encountered an old woman from Equatoria with her sick daughter and a baby carrying a bag. He offered to help the woman carry the bag, and she agreed, thinking he was travelling with his family to Cairo. He followed them through all the immigration checks at Juba airport and was mistaken for the woman’s son, which enabled him to board the Egypt Air flight to Cairo.

During the flight, he sat on an unoccupied seat near the old woman, and the hostess believed he was her son. The woman had no idea who he was until they landed in Cairo, and immigration officials also assumed he was her son. This misunderstanding persisted until they exited the airport, and only then did the woman and her daughter realize that he was alone and without his parents.

Despite this, they kindly offered to take him to their house in the Helmia neighbourhood and tried to assist him in locating his uncle. Unfortunately, they could not locate his uncle and brought him to the embassy for assistance.

As the little boy finished his story, memories of the lost boys flooded back into my mind – how they had to trek hundreds or thousands of miles from South Sudan to Ethiopia and Kenya in search of safety and education and how they were finally resettled in the United States during the reign of President Clinton in the 80s. The images of destruction and death from that time came rushing back.

As I wrapped up the meeting by instructing the Consul to take care of the little boy until the Embassy could locate his relatives, a question resurfaced in my mind: Who is responsible for the plight of this little boy? And, for the death of his mother and siblings? It’s a question we must all answer.

To answer my part, we are all responsible, and how to fix this, we must all work for peace in our country.

The author, Ambassador Anthony Kon, is the former South Sudan Ambassador to the Arab Republic of Egypt.

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