Promise and peril

Above the vast expanse of the East African plains, signs of human life finally come into view. Hardly the congested maelstrom of its neighboring capital cities of Kampala and Nairobi, Juba spreads outwards in moderation, a seemingly sedate outpost along the Nile. As the plane circles, the thatched, pointed roofs of tukuls, mud huts not usually befitting a nation’s capital, appear, dotted among the city’s more robust structures. 
    
After touching down, the weary arrivals pile into the stiflingly claustrophobic room that makes up this “international” airport’s baggage terminal and immigration hall. Some are returning home after years away, having left to escape the war and to seek out opportunity in neighboring Uganda and Kenya, or beyond, and anxiously await the reunion beyond these walls with their long-separated families. One man spots a woman outside — most likely his mother — and waves excitedly. She puts her hand to her face in exaggerated joy. Drawn back by the promises suggested by independence, and the prospect of lasting peace, what is actually to come for this man and other returnees, and for those who waited out the continent’s longest running civil war, is increasingly uncertain.
    
On the streets of Juba, and other semi-urban centers like Rumbek and Torit, the excitement in late 2011 remained palpable. The boyish face of John Garang, the founder of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army, which fought and won against Khartoum’s rule from the North, stares down approvingly from billboards throughout the capital, and t-shirts commemorating the July 9 day of independence are still very much the fashion du jour. But while nobody expected an easy transition to statehood for the world’s newest nation, just how calamitous an infancy it has proved to be has shocked those who for so long sponsored the idea of a sovereign South Sudan.
    
Nearly 40 years of civil war since united Sudan’s independence from British control in 1955  have naturally taken their toll — all the more so since one of the costs, and a principal motivation, of that guerilla war with the predominantly Arab North was a deprivation of development in the South. In terms of infrastructure, the country is virtually starting from scratch, with no homegrown electricity generation, 100 kilometers of paved roads in a country of approximately 660,000 square kilometers and no running water. In late fall of 2011, at the end of the rainy season, huge swaths of the country — nearly all of the northern half — were inaccessible by car, and even those routes with “safe passage” were a pock-marked mess, littered by the carcasses of trucks and vans left to rot after succumbing to one of many craters. For South Sudan, infrastructural development should be the number one priority of the new government, but the persistent threat of violent conflict both with Khartoum and among communities within the south is siphoning its resources and attention.
    
Cattle raiding — the practice of stealing another group’s livestock — is certainly not a new phenomenon among the country’s largely pastoral communities, but the scale of the raids and the collateral damage inflicted on civilians have escalated dramatically. At a certain point the term “cattle raiding” no longer does the violence justice; in December, a series of cyclical clashes between the Murle and Lou Nuer tribes in the largest and least developed state, Jonglei, prompted the release of an open letter by the Lou Nuer calling for the extermination of the rival group. In due course, “6,000 to 8,000” Lou Nuer youths brazenly attacked Murle villages over the span of several days and killed more than 3,000 people, according to a local commissioner (the figure has yet to be confirmed by the government). Despite tracking the column of fighters for weeks, neither United Nations peacekeepers, nor the SPLA (South Sudan’s army) soldiers deployed to prevent their approach were able to intervene, as the raiders’ forces dwarfed their own.
    
And particularly troubling in post-independence South Sudan are relations with the North, as the prospect for a return to war grows more imminent by the day. The two are linked by oil, a vital resource for both struggling economies, the majority of which lies in South Sudanese territory. Once extracted, however, it must pass through the North, up to Port Sudan. Since independence, the two sides have been unable to agree on a transit fee for the oil, leading Khartoum to seize shipments and Juba to halt its pumping altogether in January. And as the North suppresses an internal rebellion on its southern front, it has bombed the disputed town of Jau on multiple occasions, wounding several SPLA soldiers, as both sides mass forces along their respective borders.
    
This was not the narrative envisioned by John Garang, nor by those who danced in the streets on July 9 in cathartic jubilation. And it is certainly not the foundation of a new and better life envisioned by returnees — neither the more than 100,000 from the north, nor members of the diaspora who bring with them technical skills essential towards rebuilding a country. Blessed by largely untapped natural resources, South Sudan has the potential to be an economic powerhouse in East Africa, but the same conflict that has stunted its growth for decades continues to fester.
    
Back in the arrivals hall, the developmental depths out of which this nascent country will need to rise are on full display. The returnee jostles for position at the end of a conveyor belt, which unceremoniously dumps a suitcase to the floor while its owner scrambles to retrieve it, pushing people aside, before the next one falls on top. At the immigration desk, desperate hands wave passports at the two unfazed officials while a European NGO employee argues with another who has rebuffed her visa. It is not an easy thing to leave Juba Airport. Finally, passports stamped, bags collected and blood pressure high, the man steps out into the late morning sun of South Sudan, the world’s newest nation.