The day South Sudan officially became an independent nation, I was standing in Bor among a crowd of dignitaries, officials, and locals, witnessing history unfold. It was a profoundly emotional moment for everyone present. After decades of relentless conflict and unimaginable sacrifices, the people of South Sudan saw their lifelong dream realized.
As the Sudanese flag was lowered and the South Sudanese flag raised in its place, the crowd erupted in cheers and tears. It was a moment of pride, resilience, and hope—a culmination of years of suffering and resistance. I felt privileged to stand among them and document the occasion. I captured hundreds of photos, each one telling a story of liberation, and later donated them to the South Sudanese Archives to ensure this monumental day was preserved for generations.
Building a Life in a New Nation
Life in South Sudan wasn’t easy, but it was intensely rewarding. When I first arrived, I lived in a shipping container—a stark, functional space that mirrored the rawness of the environment around me. Despite the austere living conditions, I was committed to the mission. Over time, I spearheaded efforts to build permanent offices and guesthouses. What should have taken five years was completed in one, largely because I took on the project management role myself, ensuring deadlines were met and quality was maintained.
By my second year, I had moved into a small guesthouse—a single-room studio with a toilet, shower, and stove. While it offered more comfort than the container, it wasn’t exactly luxurious. The view from my window was a brick wall topped with razor wire, a constant reminder of the volatile environment I was living in. I tried to bring a bit of life to the space by planting chili peppers. They were the only plants that could survive the punishing heat and torrential rains.
The simplicity of life stood in stark contrast to the intensity of the work. South Sudan quickly became one of the most impactful duty stations I had ever experienced.
Work Amid Chaos
The situation in South Sudan was anything but stable. The intensity of the environment was unparalleled, with weekly attacks, displacements, and emergencies. As the Area Security Coordinator for both the UN and NGOs, I carried significant responsibilities. Beyond my regular duties, I conducted road assessments with local government officials and security staff to reopen routes after heavy rains, ensuring aid could reach isolated areas.
Every week brought new challenges. One day, I’d be flying in an MI-17 helicopter with peacekeepers; the next, I’d be in a Cessna Caravan or P750 plane delivering supplies or doing assessments. At times, we even relied on massive MI-26 helicopters to drop food in areas otherwise unreachable. The work was relentless, yet it felt meaningful—feeding half a million people monthly for six months during hostilities tied to the census and referendum.
Our team operated in extreme conditions, with staff living in small tokuls (traditional huts) and moving constantly to new locations after completing distributions. Every six weeks, I took a rest and recuperation (R&R) break in Uganda. The week off—two travel days and five days to rest—felt like a lifeline. However, the breaks were bittersweet. It took three days just to mentally decompress, leaving only two days to feel “normal” before gearing up for the next round of challenges.
The environment took a toll on everyone. With constant flooding, bacterial infections were unavoidable. I was medevaced four times during my time in South Sudan. But oddly enough, after leaving, I didn’t get sick for six years. My immune system seemed to have built up a remarkable resistance from the ordeal.
Triumphs and Tragedies
The triumphs were often overshadowed by tragedies. One of the darkest moments of my career came during one of these R&R breaks. I received an urgent call from Juba: one of my staff in Bor, a young man named Sierra, had been killed.
UN personnel, especially from our agency, were rarely targeted. But this incident marked a turning point. Sierra had been traveling on a road I had assessed four months earlier. Sitting in the middle seat of a truck, he was struck by a Kalashnikov bullet, which killed him instantly.
I flew back to Bor immediately and made the decision to halt all operations. This wasn’t something management could dictate. I gathered the staff and told them we wouldn’t restart until they felt ready. To honor Sierra, the staff suggested we use all our agency vehicles to travel to Juba for his funeral.
The funeral was a heart-wrenching experience. To my horror, the family had chosen an open casket. Seeing Sierra like that left me in shock. I had been asked to speak at the service, but I couldn’t summon the words. It was, without a doubt, the worst moment of my entire career. Sierra left behind a wife and three young children, now without a provider.
A Life Saved
Not all the emergencies ended in tragedy. One day, a 35-year-old international consultant collapsed in front of me. He had suffered a stroke and couldn’t move. I called for help, and with the team’s assistance, rushed him to the peacekeepers’ medical facility. Thanks to swift intervention, his life was saved.
He was medevaced out of South Sudan and spent months in rehabilitation. Remarkably, he recovered fully and even wanted to return. While I admired his dedication, I wasn’t convinced it was the right decision given the harsh conditions. A few months later, he was working for another UN agency in Juba, thriving once again. Today, he continues to work in global emergencies, undeterred by his brush with death.
Reflections on South Sudan
My time in South Sudan was a kaleidoscope of emotions: triumph, tragedy, hope, and heartbreak. I witnessed the birth of a nation, the resilience of its people, and the brutal realities of conflict.
Despite the hardships, I wouldn’t trade those years for anything. The intensity of the experience—both professionally and personally—shaped me in ways I’m still unpacking. South Sudan was a place of raw humanity, where every decision mattered, and every action could mean the difference between life and death.
It’s a part of my life I’ll never forget.