By Isaac Chol Aguer
Once upon a time, someone wise said, “The real monsters are those walking beside you, hiding behind ties and polished shoes.”
And today, on the International Day of the African Child, I cannot help but feel that our monsters have learned to dress well, deliver speeches in air-conditioned halls, and pose for photographs beside children they neither know nor care to know.
This week, South Sudan’s National Legislative Assembly, in its wisdom, invited a group of well-rehearsed, well-groomed children to mark the day. Cameras rolled. UN agencies applauded. Speeches were delivered. The children read lines of hope and resilience, carefully coached by diligent teachers — to whom I offer my deepest respect. Among those voices was Mary Adut, a young girl whose words struck like a dagger in a complacent heart.
“The reason education was completely inadequate during the liberation struggle was the conflict itself. But now, we have you our leaders, and we believe in you to invest in education for us.”
Powerful words. Words to shake a parliament. But will they?
I cannot help but notice a bitter irony. While these children spoke of education and a better tomorrow, their age-mates were outside the gates, barefoot, selling candies, polishing the shoes of strangers for a few pounds to take home to their mothers, or standing by dusty roads with empty eyes and even emptier futures. The DOC (Day of the African Child) celebration became another elite ritual — a stage set not for the children, but for the powerful to perform their concern.
Dear Honorable Rt. Speaker, with all due respect: what if the next DOC wasn’t inside Parliament? What if, instead of rehearsing speeches in English and dancing for foreign diplomats, you walked to the street corners of Konyokonyo, or Gumbo, or Wau market? What if you sat with the teachers still holding the line in dilapidated schools without chalk or salaries, yet refusing to abandon their duty? What if you listened — really listened — to the children who have never set foot in a classroom because their fathers died in a war they don’t understand and their mothers can barely afford a meal?
I do not write this to dishonor those children who performed so well in Parliament. They, too, are part of our national story. Their teachers have done an admirable job, and their messages were strong. But the stage is too small for only a select few.
If this country is to heal, if it is to rebuild from within, then the roots must be nourished. And the roots are not in Parliament. The roots are on the streets, in IDP camps, in rural villages without roads, in the hands of those who sell mangoes and polish your shoes while you adjust your tie for another speech.
Let the next DOC be for them. Let the streets have a voice. Let the Legislative Assembly declare not only words of solidarity but acts of restitution. Build schools. Pay teachers. Feed children. Not because a UN agency is watching, but because no nation stands tall when half its children kneel in the dust.
Someone once warned us: “The most dangerous type of ignorance is that which carries the illusion of wisdom.” And I fear we, as a nation, have perfected this dangerous art.
Enough performances. Time for action. Time to build from the roots.