Southern Sudan

One of the highlights of my month at home this past summer was a trip that my mom, sister and I took to New York. Most of my extended family lives upstate, so a weekend in the greater Buffalo area means a chance to visit my dad’s parents, my mom’s mom and my Aunt Susan’s family (plus, quality snack time with Bison Brand dip!). This trip was particularly special for me because I got to meet my newest cousin – Juanita – for the first time. At one point during the trip, in between games of freeze tag and bouts of “horseback” riding with Juanita (who’s now 4) and her brother Joseph (6), we got to talking about Tanzania and Sudan, and Joseph piped up with, “why are all the houses in Africa round?” I fielded a lot of questions about Africa during that month at home, but I have to admit that that one was a first for me. I can’t remember how I answered it – probably by saying something about how all of the houses in the placed I’d lived in Tanzania were actually rectangular and essentially smaller, more basic versions of many houses you see in the States.

The question stayed with me, though, and it was one of the first things that popped into my head when I traveled to the field. In many ways, Sudan resembles the other areas of East Africa I’ve traveled through. The women – dressed in elaborate outfits of brilliantly patterned cloth – color the  dusty landscape as they walk to the market, towering stacks of produce or heavy sacks of sorghum skillfully balanced on their heads. Small children – dressed in America’s hand-me-downs – casually adjust the cloth keeping their younger brother or sister tied to their backs while they run out to see the foreign girl, eagerly shouting “good morning! How are you?” over and over, no matter the time of day. Minibuses – painted with slogans and bursting at the seams with paying passengers and the occasional chicken or goat – careen down the roads, honking madly at the traffic (animal, vehicle, human) that they encounter along the way.

However, Southern Sudan is far poorer than any other place I’ve ever lived or visited, and in this it resembles more closely the Africa of my cousin’s imagination. Juba, with its paved roads, restaurants and abundance of government ministries, international NGOs and UN agencies, is the clear exception to this. Outside Juba, though, the large cement buildings become fewer and far between. Instead, tukuls dot the landscape. Tukuls and laeks – the latter being larger, rounder, nicer versions of the tukul and that are the Sudanese equivalent of a barn. Given this ubiquity of thatched roofs and rounded mud walls, I’ve often found myself thinking that unwrapped Hershey Kisses would figure prominently in a Sudanese Candyland.

And then there are the other facts of life in Southern Sudan that aren’t nearly as picturesque. For instance, only 20% of the population has access to any kind of healthcare and both the immunization coverage rate and maternal mortality rate are among the worst in the world. Each year, an estimated 2,054 mothers die of complications associated with childbirth for every 100,000 successful live births, and 102 out of every 1,000 babies die before their first birthdays. On the whole, a child born in Southern Sudan is nearly twice as likely to die before the age of five than complete primary school. Speaking of primary school, it is estimated that only 27% of girls attend primary school, and in a region where early marriage is already common practice, women with no formal education are more than four times as likely to be married under the age of 15 as those who attend school. Only 6.4% of the population has access to improved sanitation facilities and the availability of clean water is similarly limited. Not enough schools, not enough health clinics … too few teachers, too few doctors, nurses and midwives (to say nothing of food, clean water and security).

Which is not to say there isn’t hope. In Central Equatoria State, I’ve met volunteer school teachers – young men who are single-handedly running primary schools in their villages. The government can’t afford to pay them and – having gone to university in Kampala after finishing secondary school in the refugee camps where they grew up – they could certainly be pursuing salaried jobs elsewhere. But upon returning to their villages after the signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement, they saw a need and they stepped up to fill it, doing their best to educate their young neighbors in schools that lack books, desks, latrines and often roofs. I’ve seen community health workers in Unity State slog through long stretches of swamps to bring de-worming pills and vaccines to children living far from even the most basic healthcare facilities. I’ve heard the songs that women in Lakes State sing – songs about gender equality, girls’ education and preventing violence against women. And I have heard the stories they tell of saving young girls in their communities from being forced into early marriage and of providing counseling to women and girls who have been victims of gender-based violence. Their examples are inspiring and humbling, to say the least - testaments to the capacity that we, as individuals, communities and organizations, have to bring about change.