In 1988 and 1989, a few months before we flocked to Ethiopia, Yirol was overflowing with soldiers—men described as troops of the Intifadha Battalion. They were bound for war in Rumbek under the command of Commander Salva Kiir Mayardit.
Their temporary barracks were located in Panliet Abuok Akech, in the neighborhood of Pan-Liet Chieng Ciiri. Dispatched to Rumbek through Payii, they were first stationed in Yirol town. It was there that I first saw Commander Salva Kiir Mayardit, an opportunity I owed to my late aunt, Awadia Manyol Tianic, and a prominent cameraman at the time, Malual Gordon.
He appeared at a rally attended by many citizens of Yirol. He spoke first in Arabic, and his speech was interpreted by a well-known, audible local interpreter (Agamlong), who spiced the Commander’s words with humor, sometimes twisting them to the amusement of the crowd. His speech was calmly measured, truthful, and emotional—deeply inspiring to all present. We were excited by the military fatigues worn by his troops, who were well-equipped with tanks, numerous Ural vehicles, and heavy weaponry, including ZPU‑1, ZPU‑2, ZPU‑4, KPV 14.5 mm, and other impressive armaments.
Many peculiarities stood out during that time, but two individuals left a lasting impression: a brown-complexioned soldier named Makuei (whose father’s name I cannot recall) and a local singer from the Agar community named Makuen‑Gok. Makuei was lanky and handsome, distinctly different from those around him; with his brown skin, one could easily mistake him for an Arab. Tragically, he was later killed in the same war.
Makuen‑Gok was a talented singer and dancer known for enthralling performances. He owned a special ostrich feather, called Nyiniing, which he treasured and used to captivate his audience. Like many other children, I felt a surge of joy whenever I spotted him walking through the market. His favorite place to perform was under a mango tree in the main market, where he was often gifted tobacco—which he fondly called Awang—by Akech Maguarpiau.
Makuen‑Gok regarded tanks as his bulls and sang songs praising his favorite tank, whose driver, Manut, was my closest friend. If I recall correctly, his song went like this:
“Thon ee Wun e raise, Thon ee Wun e Salva, Thon e Wun e Kiir Mayardit Thon e Ruu kieu x2, yin Manut guup Thon ee jath be kiu, yin Manut guup Thon e jath be Thon kiu, dieet ee Maliik, kue Thoon nook, kong la deet da Manut, Kong la deet da Manut.”
Makuen‑Gok was a top‑notch entertainer who kept Commander Salva cheerful throughout the day. He remained by the commander’s side, almost like a shadow. After a few weeks, they departed for Rumbek, where the war began. The battles in and around Rumbek turned bloody, resulting in enormous losses: many troops lost their lives, and many more sustained injuries.
The wounded were returned to Yirol, where several medical assistants at Yirol Hospital cared for them. We lived near the hospital, and most of the men with bullet wounds and other injuries were lodged at our house. Each morning, they were brought under a mango tree in our compound, where a traditional orthopedic surgeon named Makuei Marial—from the wonderful land of Apaak Mapuor—treated their fractured bones. As their wounds were washed and dressed, they cried, and we cried with them. It was a painful experience; witnessing grown men shed tears from pain was emotionally draining.
Once they regained some comfort, I conversed with several of them. They grew fond of me. I would rush to grab groundnuts from the sack my grandmother had placed near our door for me. As a little boy, I enjoyed eating raw groundnuts, and so did they. That shared experience strengthened our friendship.
We used to walk in groups. The boys who strolled through Yirol with me at that time included John Juba Achinbaai (Malok), Kamis Paul Thok, and Adhuma Majur. Some days, we would go to the Shilak residential area to play with friends, often following our older brothers—like Tieng Paul, Kumchieng Pial (also known as Kumchieng Nyan‑Agar Elijah), Dhieu Kucdit Deng, Bec Nyuon, Mansur Azaki, Madit Machuei, Lat Machuei, Makogo Ater Matot, Gum Agok (aka Bat‑bat), and many others.
Our playful group engaged in a game called “Gorilla,” chasing each other and climbing trees. This included those I mentioned earlier, along with Makoi Majok Tooch, Telar Nyol Ajok, Achol Kucdit, and others. In those games, we found joy and comfort.
This piece aims to highlight that the liberation struggle was not limited to specific communities. It involved numerous non‑armed actors: food providers, canoe rowers who navigated crocodile‑infested waterways to ferry fighters across rivers and the Nile, experts like Makuei Marial who saved lives, boys who brought water to the wounded, women’s union groups that fed and housed leaders, and men like Makuei—the first casualty of the Rumbek war—all played significant roles.
The men who fought wars in different towns across South Sudan did not come from one community. They hailed from all parts of the country. That is where I first met a man from Yambio named Karlo. I also came to know Kon Ugwak from Jurchol and two others who became like family: Tong Atem and Makuei Wol. We possess firsthand knowledge of the liberation struggle.
In moments of reflection, especially alone in my room lying in bed facing the ceiling, my mind races through the events that preceded our independence. The war of liberation forged unbreakable friendships, yet those bonds shattered too quickly after independence. The struggle led by the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement/Army sustained 21 solid years of togetherness. Yet, just two years after attaining independence, division followed.
Do we ever think about this? Is there anyone close to President Salva Kiir Mayardit to remind him of people like Makuei—the brown‑complexioned man killed in Rumbek—and the thousands of his colleagues who fell in battles across the country? Does Makuei have children? Is our president aware of Makuen‑Gok’s fate? Does Makuen‑Gok, the moral compass of the troops, have children? What of those who tended the wounded? Does Makuei Marial, who volunteered his skills to set fractured bones and manage highly contaminated wounds without antimicrobials, have any children? If so, what has been done for them? Questions like these keep me awake at night. They have caused me insomnia, leaving me to contemplate for days on end.
I do not recall these matters to lay blame on President Salva Kiir Mayardit, who himself suffered like many of his comrades. Rather, I challenge myself and other South Sudanese to consider how we might reward our fallen martyrs through service. Improving the quality of life for all citizens would achieve this: affordable health services, free quality education, effective physical infrastructure—including a seamless road network across the country—and decent housing for veterans.
The pain born from remembering our fallen martyrs, and the hard work of the generations that sustained the liberation struggle with invaluable resources, ought to have been rewarded with the comfort and prosperity of our citizens.
Unfortunately, this has not happened. We have forgotten too quickly, become corrupt, and even descended into butchering one another along tribal lines, dwarfing the country with senseless wars driven by unnecessary power struggles.
Is it too late? No. Much can still be salvaged. We must think differently, attenuate political rivalries, and embrace peaceful coexistence. A judicious reflection of this kind can afford us a chance to focus on development—so that our collective resources are directed not toward war, but toward the vital services that truly honor our shared sacrifice.
Till then, yours truly, Mr. Teetotaler.
The writer, Dr. Sunday de John, holds an MBA and a Bachelor of Medicine and Bachelor of Surgery (MBChB) from the University of Nairobi, Faculty of Business and Management Sciences and Faculty of Medicine, respectively. He is the current Chairman of the South Sudan United Front-Progressive and can be reached via drsundayalong4@gmail.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.