A hut in Wau, South Sudan, March 2011

Lately, I’ve been thinking about South Sudan—a place that shaped me in ways I am still trying to understand. It has been nearly a decade since I last walked its dusty roads, coordinated life-saving aid, and faced the raw, unrelenting challenges of a nation in turmoil. The memories often linger, uninvited, especially one particular day—a story I have rarely shared, but which continues to haunt and teach me in equal measure.
 
It was during my tenure as the humanitarian expert in South Sudan, between 2010 and 2014. On this day, I was part of a mission to a village north of Juba that had been attacked by militias. The devastation we found upon arrival is etched into my mind: the smell of decomposing bodies under the unrelenting sun, vultures circling to scavenge, and the silence of a place emptied of life. Houses lay in ruins, blood smeared the walls of the church and the clinic—places meant to offer sanctuary had instead borne witness to unimaginable violence. It was as though the world had momentarily ceased to function, suspended in a tableau of horror.
 
The journey back to Juba that evening presented a new trial. We were stopped on a desolate stretch of road by a young man, barely older than a boy, armed with a gun. He was visibly nervous, his hands trembling as he pointed the weapon at us. We were travelling in a vehicle belonging to a humanitarian partner organisation, and the sight of this frightened youth only deepened the surrealness of the day. He barked incomprehensible words at us before switching to broken English. There were no clear demands—just a desperate, anguished scream from someone clearly battling his own demons.
 
What does one do in such moments? I don’t know if I acted out of wisdom or sheer survival instinct, but I remember speaking to him softly, keeping my hands visible, trying to project calm. We offered him food, and his response was nothing I could have anticipated. He broke down, crying like a lost child. The gun lowered, and with tears streaming down his face, he apologised for threatening us. He took the food and then walked away, his small frame disappearing into the fading light of the savannah.
 
The weight of that day still lingers. That young man, whose name I will never know, left me grappling with a profound realisation: trauma does not discriminate. The violence and suffering that had ravaged the village were, in a way, mirrored in the desperation and anguish of that boy. Both victims and perpetrators are shaped by the same brutal cycle of conflict and loss.
 
This memory, as painful as it is, remains one of the most transformative experiences of my life. It is a stark reminder of the fragility of humanity but also its resilience. In that fleeting moment, when we offered him food and received his tears, there was a connection—a recognition of shared vulnerability.
 
I have not spoken about this day much, but as the memory has been resurfacing recently, I feel compelled to honour it and the people it involved. Perhaps it is my way of making sense of it all, or maybe it is simply the right thing to do: to remember, to bear witness, and to acknowledge the lessons embedded in the most harrowing of experiences.
 
South Sudan taught me many things. It showed me the depths of human suffering, but also moments of grace and redemption. These memories are a part of me, and while they sometimes feel like scars, they are also badges of resilience, empathy, and, above all, humanity.
 
As I write this, I can still see that young man’s face. His eyes, filled with fear and sorrow, haunt me. I often wonder what became of him. Did he find peace? Was he able to escape the conflict and rebuild his life? Or was he consumed by the same cycle of violence that had shaped his world? These questions will never have answers, but they remain with me, urging me to remember his humanity amidst the chaos.
 
The village we visited that day is another lingering memory. The sheer destruction and the lives lost are a testament to the horrors that countless communities across South Sudan endured—and continue to endure. It’s difficult to reconcile such devastation with the beauty I also found in the people and landscapes of the country. South Sudan, with its rolling plains, powerful rivers, and communities brimming with resilience, is a place of stark contrasts.
 
During my years in South Sudan, I encountered so many people who fought every day to protect their dignity and their families despite the odds stacked against them. Women who would walk for hours to collect water or find firewood, men who laboured to rebuild homes that had been destroyed time and again, and children who smiled and played, even when the world around them was crumbling. Their strength is humbling.
 
That day on the road also taught me something deeply personal about the work we do as humanitarians. It reminded me that even in the darkest moments, small acts of kindness and understanding can have a profound impact. Sometimes, the act of simply acknowledging someone’s pain—offering food, a gesture of reassurance, or a word of compassion—can shift a situation from one of violence to one of connection. It is a lesson I carry with me in every mission, every meeting, and every decision I make.
 
As the years have passed, my career has taken me far from South Sudan. Yet the experiences I had there have never left me. They shape the way I approach humanitarian work and my interactions with the people I encounter. I strive to see the humanity in every individual, to understand the complexities of their experiences, and to approach each situation with humility.
 
To those who have lived through South Sudan’s conflict, who have lost loved ones, and who have faced unimaginable challenges, I carry your stories with me. To that young man on the road, whose vulnerability revealed to me the enduring humanity beneath the violence, I hope you found a path forward. And to myself, I remind that these memories, though painful, are a testament to the importance of the work we do.
 
This story is not easy to share. But as I sit here in Caracas, so many miles and years away from that road north of Juba, I feel the need to bear witness. It is my way of honouring the people I met, the lessons I learned, and the humanity that continues to inspire me in the face of despair. These stories are not just mine; they are part of the collective memory of everyone who has worked and lived in South Sudan. By sharing them, I hope they serve as a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit and the profound impact of even the smallest acts of compassion.