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Full download First Raise a Flag: How South Sudan Won the Longest War But Lost the Peace Peter Martell file pdf all chapter on 2024
Full download First Raise a Flag: How South Sudan Won the Longest War But Lost the Peace Peter Martell file pdf all chapter on 2024
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FIRST RAISE A FLAG
PETER MARTELL
3
3
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by
publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University
Press in the UK and in certain other countries.
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison
Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America
Map viii
Chronology ix
A Note on Names xi
Author’s Note xiii
Preface xv
1. Just Divorced 1
2. The Cattle Pen Commanders 17
3. The Bog Barons 37
4. A Postman and an Arrow 53
5. The Venom Rebellion 69
6. Tarzan and the Zebra Bus 79
7. The Men Too Tall for Tanks 99
8. The War of the Educated 119
9. The Man Who Fell to Earth 139
10. The Land of Kush 161
11. A Looter Continuer 181
12. The Brown Caterpillars 207
13. The Other City 231
14. The War Within Ourselves 245
15. Freedom Next Time 269
Notes 277
Acknowledgements 309
Index 311
vii
CHRONOLOGY
ix
CHRONOLOGY
1963 The First War. Anya-Nya rebellion.
1972 Peace. Addis Ababa agreement ends seventeen years of
war.
1979 Oil. Major finds announced around Bentiu. Jonglei
Canal begins.
1983 The Second War. Fighting breaks out in Bor on 16 May.
Rebels form the Sudan People’s Liberation Army,
SPLA.
1989 President Omar al-Bashir seizes power in military
coup.
1991 South–South War. Mengistu falls and SPLA flee
Ethiopia; the rebels splinter after Riek Machar launches
a coup. Khartoum advances.
2002 Talks. Khartoum and SPLA meet in Kenya. Riek
Machar rejoins SPLA. Meanwhile, war in Darfur
escalates.
2005 Peace. The 9 January deal ends 21 years of war.
2011 Referendum. 98.83 percent choose a separate nation.
2011 Independence of South Sudan declared on 9 July.
2012 Oil War. Juba stops production in January, fighting
erupts in March, with a deal signed in September.
2013 Civil War. Fighting breaks out in Juba on 15 December.
2014 War. Major towns swap hands multiple times.
2015 Peace ignored. An August peace deal is celebrated, and
broken.
2016 Collapse. Machar returns in April, but flees fighting in
July.
2017 Famine declared in February. Warnings of genocide.
2018 War continues. Peace efforts stall, again.
x
A NOTE ON NAMES
xi
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is the history of how a country was made, but I did not set out to
write that story. I came to South Sudan as a reporter, a bystander cov-
ering the end of one long war who became caught up in a new one.
Writing such a narrative history brings with it many challenges.
There is the obligation to record; I have seen how factual reports I
made just a few years ago have subsequently become twisted into new
and dangerous narratives. Memories are not fixed, but can change in
time as a consequence of the suffering people have endured.
But the story is also a personal one; I wanted to share what I saw and
heard. The stories told are selective and subjective. I recorded eye wit-
ness testimonies of key events—often for the first time—but there are
still so many voices missing. This is the story of what I witnessed and
the people I was privileged to meet.
Recording such stories meant including graphic violence of the most
brutal kind. Retelling them risks reliving the trauma for those who
have suffered. Yet to gloss over the details would be a betrayal of the
courage of those who came forward to entrust a stranger with the
darkest moments of their lives. To understand what has happened is the
only way there can be hope of solutions. Reconciliation requires for-
giveness, forgiveness an acknowledgement of what happened.
For South Sudan, the legacy of the last few years will echo far into
the future. The understanding of those years will define what the very
nature of the country means to its people.
xiii
PREFACE
In the dry season, when the grass grew yellow and thin and crackled
underfoot, the bones bleached under the sun poked through the under-
growth. Twisted creepers curled up between the eye sockets of the
skulls, some so small they must have been children.
It was July 2011, days before South Sudan would declare indepen-
dence as the world’s newest nation. I had come to the army barracks in
Juba, the capital-to-be, to see the place that for so many symbolised
why they voted overwhelmingly to split from Khartoum in the North,
to divide Sudan and form their own country.
People called the barracks the White House, and there were few
places in South Sudan that evoked as much terror. For over two
decades, this was the government in Khartoum’s main torture and
execution site in the South. It was where it dealt with those it believed
supported rebel forces: activists and aid workers, priests and nuns,
doctors and nurses, academics, students, civilians and soldiers. Security
officers would march them out of their work, homes, or off the streets.
They were removed without question, trial, or need to account for
them. Thousands vanished.
The bones were left where the bodies had been dragged and dumped.
You could see them from the edge of the dirt track that wound its way
along the gentle sloping hillside. Soldiers said there were more piles
deeper into the field, but you couldn’t go further, even if you wanted to.
Red skull and crossbones signs tied onto thin poles were pushed into the
hard earth. They warned of landmines once laid to defend the base, or
artillery and mortar shells which had failed to explode.
xv
PREFACE
‘That was the place of our nightmares,’ college student Mabil
William had told me before I visited the barracks, as we drank tea on
a roadside stall. ‘If you heard someone was taken there, you had said
goodbye to them already. They were not coming back.’ William’s father,
a teacher, had been accused of backing the rebels and was taken at night
by soldiers. He was bundled into a pickup truck that was last seen
heading towards the White House. He was never heard of again.
‘When I voted for separation, to say bye-bye to Khartoum, it was
places like that we were waving an end to,’ William added, a quiet and
shy young man. He wanted to be a teacher like his father had been.
Northern soldiers had left the White House only weeks before, the
last units to depart before the division of Africa’s biggest nation. For
the first time, Southern soldiers—and a journalist—accessed the com-
plex; I had spent several hot days persuading the men in black suits
from national security to allow me in.
The barracks are a scattered collection of low brick buildings with
tin roofs on a wide hillside a short walk from the University of Juba,
just south of the city centre. The official title of the barracks is Giada—
derived from the Arabic for ‘the commanders’—but the entirety of the
feared complex gained its popular name from the feature most visible
from the vantage point of the road, a couple of two-storey white-
painted hospital buildings. I was taken to a low, grass-covered bunker.
Our shoulders pushed the heavy metal door open, and I used my phone
to light the steep concrete steps down into the darkness. The air was
chokingly hot. It took time to see into the gloom, before someone
found the switch to turn on a bare hanging bulb, pulsing with the
erratic surge of electricity from a generator.
The soldiers and security men who supervised me were as grimly
interested in seeing these rooms as I was. As Southerners, they had not
been here during the torture, but had heard the stories. The air was
thick and intense, heavy with fuel fumes. The burly national security
minder rested his hand on my shoulder and peered over my head.
Large sacks of rubble lay in the corner. ‘These ones they used when you
were brought here,’ he said, prodding one of the bags with his shiny
long-pointed shoes. ‘They would lie you down, and then put this one
on your back, maybe two of them, maybe even three,’ he added, trying
to heave one up in his hand, but finding it too heavy.
xvi
PREFACE
‘The only time the door opened was when somebody was being
taken out to be killed,’ he said, turning to me with a strange grin. Then
he pointed upwards. A pair of handcuffs still dangled from the metal
girder in the roof, and he moved them open and closed like a jaw, with
a grating squeak. ‘They would hang you here for days,’ he said. ‘I doubt
if any other journalist has ever been down here before.’
His companion, silent until then, chipped in. ‘If they did, they didn’t
come out alive,’ he said.
We left minutes later, glad for the fresh air outside. Eyes adjusting
to the bright sunlight, we walked the short distance through the bar-
racks to another building, a whitewashed series of fetid storerooms,
now used as basic dormitories for soldiers, where grey mosquito nets
were draped over simple metal cots. The paint was peeling and smeared
with dark stains. When the North was in charge, prisoners dragged out
of the dungeon would be taken here and executed. For the soon-to-be
independent South Sudan, the torture chambers offered the starkest of
warnings that the future must not be like the past.
Major-General Marial Chanuong Yol Mangok was the new com-
mander of the barracks, a towering man with a shaved head, dressed
smartly in a scarlet beret and broad epaulettes with loops of gold wire
on his uniform. His fleshy hand gripped mine in welcome, and he con-
tinued to hold onto it as he guided my tour around the buildings. ‘In
the past, this place was a place of torture, of pain,’ Mangok said. ‘They
killed a lot of our people here.’
He looked straight at me, staring uncomfortably and holding my
gaze, saying the barracks should be set up as a memorial to remember
the crimes of the past. Hundreds if not thousands of bodies lay here,
too many for anyone to know, he said. ‘This is a graveyard—a mass
graveyard. We need it to be kept as a historical place in the future,’ he
said. ‘No more White Houses in the South, so that it will be a free
country, where justice and freedom is everywhere.’
I believed him. At the time, there was hope.You heard optimism at
every corner, a sense that change had come at last. The dead lying in the
grass around the White House might have had their names forgotten
and their deaths unmarked, but perhaps they had not suffered in vain.
* * *
xvii
PREFACE
Two and a half years later, I tried to visit the White House again.
Soldiers at a roadblock pointed guns at my motorbike long before I
could even reach the gates of the barracks. A stench of rotting flesh
drifted on the wind. Smoke rose above the buildings.
On 15 December 2013, after simmering arguments within the rul-
ing party erupted into fury, fighting broke out in the same barracks
between Dinka and Nuer members of the presidential guard. The
White House, where the torture that had blighted South Sudan was
meant to end, would be where the next round of war would start—
and this time it was a battle of Southerner against Southerner.
The battles kicked off a civil war of horrific proportions. Revenge
and retribution forced people to divide along ethnic lines. Scores were
shot in the streets, bodies lay scattered on the roads. Hundreds were
rounded up and forced into a room in a police station. The officers
opened fire with AK-47 assault rifles.
I’d also hear Mangok’s name again. Now head of the Presidential
Guard, a 4,000-man strong Special Forces unit known as the Tiger
Division with distinctive striped camouflage uniforms, he led Dinka
troops in massacres against Nuer comrades. ‘He executed orders to
disarm Nuer soldiers and then ordered the use of tanks to target politi-
cal figures in Juba,’ the United Nations Security Council wrote as they
ordered sanctions against him, including freezing his bank accounts and
a travel ban. ‘In the initial operations in Juba, by numerous and credible
accounts, Mangok’s Presidential Guard led the slaughter of Nuer civil-
ians in and around Juba, many who were buried in mass graves. One
such grave was purported to contain 200–300 civilians.’1
That was just the start. The people fled massacres, ethnic killings and
deliberate starvation. A man-made famine was declared. The UN
warned of the risk of genocide. It has become one of the most dramatic
failures of the international community’s efforts at state-building. Just
three years after independence, South Sudan was ranked worst in the
world in the list of failed states.2 The war would descend to levels of
depravity few could ever have imagined.
Independence was won but freedom was lost, for the new leaders
repeated the crimes of those they had ousted. The unity of purpose to
achieve separation broke down, and divisions and hatreds were
unleashed. Hope turned to disaster. Euphoric ideals collapsed with the
bloody, bitter reality of their implementation.
xviii
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