By Isaac Chol Aguer
When I was a student in Sudan’s public schools, no school year passed without a visit from the “inspectors” sent by the Ministry of Education.
To us students, these visits felt like surprise raids. But to the school administration, they meant only one thing: emergency.
The headmaster would become anxious. Classes were suddenly canceled under the pretext of an “urgent meeting.” Teachers would mobilize students for a general cleaning of the school yard. Even fallen leaves became a matter of national importance. The brightest students were lined up in the front rows, while we the students from the Southern part of Sudan “Junubeen” were quietly asked not to participate in answering the inspectors’ questions. Not because we were unworthy, but simply so the teacher wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of the “ministerial delegation.”
Today, we have a country of our own. A flag. A name. A future that we still haven’t quite figured out. a state that still rocks like a battered boat, just as singer Emmanuel Kembe once sang: “Nehni kulu fi Murkob Wahed” (“We’re all in the same boat”).
But reality shows that some of our officials still haven’t realized that this boat is not a poetic metaphor, it’s the fate of a nation.
What’s happening today isn’t much different from what used to happen in the classroom: superficial beautification to cover up deep structural flaws. The only difference is that now, the flaw threatens an entire country, not just a schoolroom.
What happened recently in Parliament was, indeed, promising. The President delivered a composed speech. His clear call to reject division was timely and necessary. Even the Speaker of Parliament, Madam Nunu Kumba, showed that she is in tune with the public mood and the language of social media, perhaps she’s even reading this article now.
She spoke about how some ministers disrespect the authority of Parliament. She pointed to the irresponsible behavior of certain MPs and stressed the need to preserve the dignity of the legislative house. Despite her deputy’s absence, she affirmed that the legal quorum had been met, sending a clear message: We’ll proceed with those present, but we won’t ignore those who are absent.
The setting was proper. The musical band played skillfully. The decorations looked fine. But none of that hides the accumulated pain. As doctors say, the “spasm” has now reached the spinal cord. Some of us are no longer even able to scream.
Security is deteriorating. Even General Wakouzi was not spared from an armed attack by unknown assailants. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs accepted foreign prisoners from the United States, yet no one knows how many they are or what will happen to them. Will there be more of them, will they be locked up in Juba Central Prison, just a stone’s throw from the Passport Office, the Central Bank, and the most crowded market in the capital? No one answers.
Meanwhile, children are in the streets instead of in school. They don’t wait for inspectors. They know nothing of “beautifying the classroom.” All they know is hunger and loss.
And so, we welcome the Parliament’s return and say: better late than never. But we don’t want the return of appearances without substance. We don’t want officials who only perform their duties when pressured or reprimanded. We don’t want to see a country run with the same mentality as a teacher who decorates a classroom with select students while sidelining others to avoid embarrassment.
We want officials to understand that every act they commit is counted against or, for the nation, its future, and the generations to come.
We want to build a nation…
Not just beautify classrooms.