15/09/2025
Why We Suffer (Spoken Word)
To the young South Sudanese boys—
the status you wear was never chosen.
It was carved into you by inheritance,
by birthright,
by homes that taught survival through violence.
Brittle hands that never learned gentleness,
hands that passed down war instead of love.
Steel bullets glowing in the night sky,
etching violence into our souls
before peace ever whispered our names.
To the boys searching for solid ground—
your feet only knew hardened earth,
mixed with glass, with blood, with thorns.
You walked miles chasing refuge,
yet found only broken homes,
mirroring the broken hearts of mothers
who could not provide.
To the parents who pushed their children to dream abroad,
to chase life in foreign lands,
to become breadwinners—
when they themselves had no bread.
To the young women who became mothers too soon,
not by choice but by circumstance.
Childhood stolen,
warmth replaced by responsibility.
Told to grow before their time,
their lives accelerated by pain,
by resentment,
by parents who carried wounds deeper than joy.
To the boys torn between dual identities,
with no guide, no map—
left to fight for manhood
without knowing the path.
To the daughters raised by mothers
who never received nurturing themselves,
who could not pass down patience,
who could not give the love that war had taken.
To the families scattered,
fractured by displacement,
by exile,
by unkind stories of war.
And to the promised lands—
sold to us as light and love,
but waiting with a different battle.
A new system.
A quiet war.
A softer wound that still bleeds.
These invisible scars we bear,
the pain we swallow in silent nights.
This is the story of the South Sudanese boy.
This is the story of the South Sudanese daughter.
This is the story of parents who sought hope in a new home—
only to find another fight.
By Kuolnyang Malou
