Fourteen years ago, the people of South Sudan stood before the world with tears of pride and hope, not as rebels or refugees, but as citizens of a new republic. The flag rose into the sky on July 9, 2011, not merely as a symbol of sovereignty, but as a vessel of collective dreams—dreams rooted in suffering, sacrifice, and a longing to be governed with dignity.
In that historic moment, we declared that we would no longer be enslaved by foreign rule or erased by the injustice of others. We said we would build a new nation on justice, freedom, and equality. However, a promise made is not the same as a promise kept. The story of South Sudan since independence is not a tragedy of fate—it is a consequence of choices, systems, and mindsets that have resisted change.
At the center of our national stagnation lies a crisis of governance—not of capacity, but of will. State institutions, instead of rising to serve the public good, were bent to protect the interests of a few. Political appointments became instruments of patronage. Military ranks became tools of appeasement. Public resources became private wealth. The people, once the authors of liberation, were demoted to spectators of misrule.
Tribalism emerged not just as a social reality, but as a political strategy. It has torn the fabric of our citizenship. It kills our common identity by turning governance into ethnic arithmetic. Instead of “we the people”, our politics became, “we the tribe”. This betrayal of nationhood has fostered mistrust, normalized exclusion, and invited repeated cycles of violence disguised as negotiation.
But the decay does not end at the top. It has trickled into the mindset of the rising generation. What should have been a wave of enlightened youth, prepared to demand reform and build institutions, has instead produced many imitators of the same broken politics. Political sycophancy has become a career path. Defection is no longer shameful —it is celebrated. Criticism is not a tool for national improvement but a negotiation tactic for jobs. The rhetoric of justice is too often used to secure personal relevance rather than structural reform.
This culture must be called by its name: moral bankruptcy. It undermines every effort at renewal and cripples the possibility of a credible national dialogue. It strips our institutions of dignity and reduces public service to a marketplace of loyalty.
And yet—despite this grim reality—South Sudan endures. Our endurance is not blind. It is a defiant memory of who we once were, and a stubborn faith in who we still can become. The dream of July 9, 2011 has not died. It is wounded, yes, but it lives in the hearts of farmers who still plant, teachers who still teach, nurses who still serve without pay, and the youth who still believe that nationhood is worth struggling for.
To reclaim this republic, we must begin with a change in political language and logic. Leadership must no longer be glorified—it must be evaluated. Tribal identity must not be criminalized, but it must never again be used to justify political entitlement. Criticism must be rooted in principle, not proximity to power. We must reintroduce a political grammar based on merit, justice, equality, and service.
Practically, the way forward is neither mysterious nor impossible. It requires a four-part transformation:
First, a new constitution—not recycled, not elite-driven, but genuinely participatory— must define our rights, responsibilities, and limits of power.
Second, institutions must be rebuilt on competence, not kinship. Recruitment must be merit-based. Performance must be measurable. Oversight must be real.
Third, a mass national civic education must begin—not for elections, but for rebirth. Our people must learn again what it means to be citizens of a republic, not clients of a regime.
Fourth, national wealth must serve national goals. Oil must be converted into infrastructure, education, and healthcare—not mansions, convoys, and foreign bank accounts.
This is not idealism. It is national necessity.
Let this 14the anniversary not be another ceremonial parade of wounded speeches and recycled hope. Let it be the beginning of our intellectual and moral emancipation. Let it be the year we say, enough is enough—not just to bad leadership, but to a bad system that keeps recycling it.
We do not lack potential. We lack transformation. We do not lack history. We lack the courage to break from it. But history is not our prison. It is our reminder. We owe it to the martyrs who died for this flag, to the youth who still walk without shoes, and to the unborn children who will inherit what we either repair—or ruin.
South Sudan is not yet the country we imagined. But it can be. And it must be. The time to begin again is now.
The writer, Samuel Peter Oyay, is a South Sudanese political activist, strategist, and commentator with over two decades of experience in governance and management. He can be reached via samualjago@yahoo.com
The views expressed in ‘opinion’ articles published by Radio Tamazuj are solely those of the writer. The veracity of any claims made is the responsibility of the author, not Radio Tamazuj.