For South Sudan to prosper, we need to end tribalism and promote more literature.
How can young people change the narratives of countries trapped in constant wars, insecurity, injustice, tribalism, and poverty, and set a path for a future free from these burdens? South Sudan, my home country, stands as a stark example of such struggles. For decades, it has been engulfed in a cycle of violence; beginning with local raids between neighboring tribes, escalating into large-scale political wars like those of 1991 and 2013. These wars have displaced millions, destabilized the nation, deepened poverty, and, most destructively, fueled a generational hatred between ethnic groups, especially the Nuer and the Dinka.
What haunts me most is not the wars that have already occurred, nor the property lost, nor even the lives ended. My deepest concern lies in the normalized inheritance of enmity, the way hatred is passed down like a family heirloom, and the way revenge is seen as a duty rather than a curse. The root of this lies in how communities are structured; villages are built from closely related families, where blood relation determines one’s allies and enemies. This makes it dangerously easy to identify and target entire communities during times of conflict.
Imagine a different reality: What if every village in South Sudan were made up of people from different tribes? Would raids still be possible? Would the government or rebel groups be able to justify attacks on entire regions? Would civilians still be manipulated to fight wars on behalf of political elites simply because of shared tribal affiliations?
Children are especially vulnerable to indoctrination, but also uniquely open to transformation.
I have personally witnessed the effects of this ingrained hatred. Take the story of Wanjang Panom, whose father was killed when he was a toddler. Raised by a mother and grandmother who constantly reminded him of this, Wanjang grew up harboring deep resentment. Twenty-five years later, he killed two young men who were merely related to the original killer. Or the story of an old man who starved himself because his son refused to avenge a nephew’s death, symbolically serving him food meant for two until the son caved in and committed murder. Such stories reflect a society where revenge is glorified and peace is ridiculed.
The cultural teaching that “when your person is fighting, you join without question” is now weaponized by politicians. This culture needs dismantling, and I believe literature is the most effective weapon to do so. We must introduce a new subject in schools that directly addresses the dangers of inherited hatred and blind loyalty based on blood ties. Through real stories like Wanjang’s, students can learn how these cultural norms breed violence, and why they must be rejected.
I propose a policy known as “The New South Sudan Resettlement for a Promising Future,” which combines education and resettlement to end the cycle of violence. It promotes the creation of villages that mix tribes, breaking the alignment between geography and tribal identity. This, paired with an educational curriculum that unpacks how tribal loyalty and revenge perpetuate conflict, can rewire the minds of the next generation.
Children are especially vulnerable to indoctrination, but also uniquely open to transformation. Teaching them that their parents’ political loyalties often resulted in suffering and displacement will help them see the cost of tribalism. Most of the time, the very children of loyal soldiers and tribal defenders are those who grow up in refugee camps, impoverished and without opportunities.
The curriculum must highlight that revenge never restores the dead but only ensures more suffering. Imagine students learning about a boy who avenges his father’s death only to be hunted in return. Literature allows us to step into such stories, to feel the weight of vengeance, and to question its purpose. Real-world examples, such as the young man who had to flee Kakuma camp in 2015 after committing a revenge killing, will make the consequences real and tangible.
The subject should elevate characters who choose reconciliation over violence. Literature can redefine masculinity — not through violence and body counts, but through the courage to forgive, to protect peace, and to build communities across ethnic lines. We must stop praising killers and start honoring bridge-builders.
Moreover, literature can foster empathy. Stories allow readers to inhabit the lives of “the other”,; those once deemed enemies. The 2013 conflict, rooted in the Dinka community’s belief that the Nuer were their historical enemies from the 1991 war, is an example of how unresolved grief and stereotyping festers into renewed conflict. Children of victims were raised to hate, and that hatred now threatens future peace.
Even the deeply rooted enmity between the Murle and the Luo Nuer, perpetuated through the raiding of children and women, is fueled by oral traditions that glorify retaliation. Literature must challenge these toxic myths by offering alternative narratives that show the human cost of these cycles.
In 2021, a young man in Kakuma camp was killed in revenge for a crime committed years prior. This wasn’t just a personal loss; it was a lost opportunity, a broken dream — stories like his need to be told and discussed in classrooms.
Finally, literature can shift focus from divisions to commonality. By highlighting shared struggles, values, and histories,, such as the collective fight for independence,, books can build a sense of national identity that supersedes tribal affiliations. When a Murle child is taught that the Luo Nuer are not enemies but fellow citizens, just as they once were comrades in the independence movement, we begin to stitch the nation back together.
This is how we build a different South Sudan. Not through bullets or tribal loyalty, but through stories that heal, teachings that unite, and communities that reflect the diversity we must embrace. The journey to a prosperous South Sudan begins in the minds of its youth, and literature is the path that leads them there.
