By Matik Kueth
Sudan is bleeding, and in its wake, it’s pulling down the innocent, the voiceless, the misplaced. I write this with a heart heavy with unbearable sorrow. As I put these words down, I am mourning. I’ve lost eight members of my family, people I shared laughter with, stories, meals, they were part of my world, making life brighter. Now, they are gone. Taken. Snatched by a war that makes no sense and that they never chose. And my grief isn’t just mine. From our Bul-Nuer clan of Mayom County, we’ve lost more than 50 men. But these aren’t just numbers. They’re human beings, sons, fathers, husbands, brothers, people who once had dreams and felt alive with hope.
How many more South Sudanese families are suffering silently? How many mothers are holding onto hope that their sons will come back, not knowing that they’re already buried under foreign soil?
The fighting between Sudan’s Swift Support Forces (RSF) and the Sudanese Army (SAF) isn’t ours. Still, it’s tearing us apart. Our people are caught in the fighting, some forced to pick a side, others manipulated into joining. Many young men are being recruited into both groups, fighting against each other, unknowingly killing their brothers. What’s worse than dying at the hands of someone who speaks your language, shares your blood, and carries your heritage?
To every South Sudanese still in Sudan, whether in Khartoum, Omdurman, Bahri, Al-Jazirah, Kosti, or elsewhere, I urge you: come home. I know our country isn’t perfect. I know South Sudan carries its scars and unfinished battles. But here, at least, you’re not dying for someone else’s fight. Here, even in our struggles, you are part of something that truly belongs to you.
We fought hard for our independence. Our parents gave their blood so we could have a land to call our own. Many of us grew up dodging bullets, hiding in bushes, fleeing hunger. Yet, in 2011, we stood tall and proud, becoming a nation. Sure, there was a civil war in 2013 and again in 2016. We cried; we buried loved ones once more. But this land is ours. Our story is ours. And our hope, unfinished, remains alive.
So why are we dying in Sudan’s war? Why are we sacrificing ourselves under a foreign flag, for a fight that doesn’t even see us?
Most of those who lost their lives weren’t fighters from the start. They were refugees from conflicts past. They were workers, traders, students, sons and daughters just trying to survive. Now, they’re pawns in a war not theirs. Used, lied to, thrown away, forgotten amid the chaos.
To South Sudanese youth especially: don’t let yourself get caught up in this destruction. Don’t fight in this war. Don’t pick up a gun for RSF or SAF. No one really wins here. You won’t be a hero. You won’t be remembered with honor. You’ll just be another name lost in grief, another life cut short far too soon.
We need you back home. Your hands, your minds, your strength, they’re needed here to help rebuild. South Sudan still faces hunger, insecurity, and political challenges. But we’re healing, slowly, painfully. And in that pain, there’s purpose.
To everyone, hearing this: please, come home before it’s too late. Don’t let your life be lost in a war that isn’t yours. Don’t let your name disappear in a foreign land. We’ve already lost too much. Let’s not lose any more. Let’s stand up, for ourselves, for our future, for South Sudan.