Working
in South Sudan taught me lessons about power, authority, and survival that I'll
never forget. Some moments were uncomfortable, others eye-opening, but all were
crucial in helping me understand working in the context of conflict.
Growing
up in Uganda in the 1990s, my view of soldiers was shaped by fear. Soldiers
were figures of authority who couldn't be questioned. I remember the violence
of the National Resistance Army (NRA) and later the Uganda People's Defense
Forces (UPDF) in northern Uganda. They were often brutal and showed little
regard for civilians' rights.
This
fear of soldiers stayed with me as I got older. In 2015, I took a Hostile
Environment Awareness Training (HEAT) course in South Africa, where the trainer
made one thing very clear: "The man or woman with a gun makes the
rules." The message was simple: when dealing with soldiers, you obey.
When
I arrived in South Sudan in 2015, I found myself in a situation that would
challenge everything I thought I knew about dealing with a man with a gun.
I
travelled with a staff team from Turalei town in Twic County to Kuajok town in
Gogrial, the state capital of Warrap, about 110 kilometres away. The roads were
so bad that when it rained, they turned into streams, and the black cotton soil
became muddy, making it almost impossible for vehicles to move. I was based in
Kuajok town but had been supporting field staff in Turalei for a week. On our
way to Kuajok, we encountered a military vehicle loaded with tons of maize
flour stuck in the mud about 10 kilometres from Wunrok town. The soldiers
demanded we pull them out before we could continue our journey.
My
team didn't want to help. They feared that if we tried, our vehicle would get
stuck, too. When we declined to help, tension broke out between my team and the
soldiers. Some of my colleagues exited the car to confront the soldiers to
allow us to pass. As tensions rose, I remembered the advice I had been given in
my security training and tried to de-escalate the situation. I was the boss and
wanted to keep the peace. But my colleagues weren't having it. No one listened
to me in the heat of the moment. They were arguing with the soldiers, pointing
fingers in their faces, and refusing to cooperate. The soldiers became more
agitated. I was shocked. These were armed soldiers, yet my colleagues weren't
afraid.
I
watched in disbelief as my South Sudanese colleagues confronted soldiers who
were clearly not used to being challenged. I feared something fatal would
happen. It made me realize that these people, many of whom had survived the
Civil War or had been child soldiers, had a completely different perspective on
authority and fear. To them, the sight of a soldier with a gun was not a signal
to submit—it was a challenge. I sat in the vehicle, and questions ran through
my mind: Why did I come to work in South Sudan? How could I survive the Lord's
Resistance Army in northern Uganda only to get killed in a foreign land? I
feared for my life.
Our
driver engaged with the military's driver, and eventually, the military's
driver agreed and urged his colleagues to let us go, understanding that trying
to pull their heavily loaded vehicle out of the mud would likely break down our
own. The soldiers reluctantly let us leave. As we continued our journey, I
tried to explain to my teammates that soldiers with guns held power in such
situations, and we needed diplomacy to get ourselves out of the situation. But
they disagreed. One even said, "Sir, who doesn't have a gun?" They
were used to fighting, and they weren't afraid. I realized these men had lived
through things I could never fully understand.
That
day taught me a lot about resilience. My colleagues had faced unimaginable
hardship and had learned to stand up for themselves in ways I could only
imagine. They were not afraid of soldiers because they had seen too much to be
scared anymore. They had survived war, poverty, and violence, and their courage
came from that survival.
In
2017, after working for over two years in Kuajok, I found myself in another
situation that also challenged my understanding of the military. I was due to
fly from Wau to Juba and to Uganda for a much-needed break. Wau is about two
hours by road from Kuajok, and one needs to travel the distance to catch a
flight.
On
this fateful Thursday morning, the driver, Deno, and I set off from Kuajok to
Wau, and things took an unexpected turn. Midway through the journey, we ran
into a roadblock. A fully loaded military pickup truck with a flat tyre. The
soldiers had stopped in the middle of the road and placed two machine guns,
three AK 47 and other weapons on the road to create a roadblock. They were
waiting for someone with a spare tyre to help them. It appears they had been
waiting for help for a while.
Deno
stopped our vehicle and told me to stay inside. He got out to talk to the
soldiers, and when he came back, he told me they wanted to speak with me. I
stepped out, feeling uneasy, and approached their commander, with Deno as the
translator. The commander asked if we could give them one of our spare tyres,
and I quickly realized this wasn't just a request—it was a demand. The soldiers
expected us to comply. They said they would hold us until someone rescued them
if we didn't give the tyre.
I
didn't feel comfortable. Giving the soldiers the tyre meant going against
humanitarian principles, but I didn't want to escalate the situation. I asked
the commander if I could call my supervisor for approval, and the commander
agreed. But one soldier was clearly annoyed. He thought I was trying to call
high-ranking officials in Juba and demanded that I decide there and then.
Understanding
the tense situation, my supervisor advised me to give them the tyre and leave.
Reluctantly, we handed over the spare tyre and continued our way. I caught my
flight in Wau, and Deno returned to Kuajok. On his return, Deno reencountered
the soldiers at the same spot where we left them. He discovered that the tyre
had burst shortly after we left, and the soldiers blamed us for it. They told
Deno the tyre burst because we gave it to them in bad faith. It made me realize
how complicated dealing with soldiers and trust can be in a place like South
Sudan.
Through
these encounters, I learned valuable lessons. In South Sudan, power is often
about survival. When dealing with soldiers, sometimes you must comply to stay
safe, but there are other times when resistance is all you have left. I learned
that authority is complicated, and so is resilience. The people of South Sudan,
especially the young ones, have shown me what true courage looks like. And it's
not always about the weapons you carry—it's about the will to stand your ground
when everything around you collapses.
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