In the last episode, the missionary found themself in Tombura just as Christmas was approaching, surrounded by displaced families who, despite having almost nothing, treated one another like long‑lost relatives. People shared second‑hand clothes, food, and whatever comfort they could muster, while the missionary, Sister Natalia, and Dr Véronique listened to stories of escape and loss. On Christmas night the whole community gathered under the trees, lights hanging above them, the refugees honoured as special guests. As the music grew, a gentle rhythm spread through the crowd until everyone—locals, soldiers, visitors, even the grieving doctor—joined a slow, healing dance. Though the missionary had arrived feeling helpless and empty‑handed, they quickly realised that these people, living with so little, carried a wealth of generosity and spirit that lifted everyone around them, turning sorrow into shared hope.
The first time I met him, it was in the middle of the night. He was standing in the road, flagging us down. He looked fierce with his beard, his army fatigues, revolver at the ready. I stopped and he approached the car looking tough and impressive, one could smell the guerrilla fighter. When he saw who we were, he relaxed and his greeting was very friendly. He had been informed over the radio that we were on our way to visit Yambio and he told us that we were welcome.
Yambio is the provincial headquarters of Western Equatoria. It is named after Chief Yambio, one of the chiefs of the ancient Azande people. Here in Yambio I started my work in South Sudan in 1988, when it was still in the hands of the government. I had left the area at the end of 1990 before it was liberated by the SPLA. This was my first visit after the liberation, in which this bearded fighter, Commander Kuol, had played a leading role.
He called over a few soldiers who brought us glasses of water. They had prepared accommodation for us, and there was still hot water for us to take a bath if we wanted. For a moment I protested, and said that we could go on to the mission station or the house of the bishop. But Commander Kuol made it clear to us that we were his guests that night; we visit the church and the bishop’s house the following day. It was said in a friendly manner, but at the same time it was clear that we had no option; it was more or less an order. He showed us to our beds in one of the houses on the main street of Yambio. A few soldiers were sleeping on the veranda in front of the house. I hoped that they had not been ordered to give up their beds for us.
I woke in the morning when Kuol took his jalabia1 from under the bed in which I was sleeping. It was then I realized that the commander had given up his own bed for us. He was an SPLA soldier, and a Moslem. Washed and dressed in his jalabia, he looked more benign than last night, and he went along to the mosque to say his prayers. Kuol also has a Moslem name, but he finds his tribal name more important.
Yambio has a small mosque, and before the town was liberated by the SPLA at the end of 1991, the Moslem Arab traders had their own imam. Very few of the local population are Moslem, but in the past I never noticed any tension here between Christians and Moslems; they even attended each others’ festivals. Few soldiers of the SPLA are of Kuol’s faith, but he comes from the Blue Nile province which is predominantly Moslem, so he is Moslem and proud of it.
All that was a few years ago. Recently, Kuol and I recounted our first meeting, and Kuol explained that the Koran asks Moslems to be especially hospitable to guests, or ‘sons of the road’, as he calls them. They should extend hospitality to non-Moslems too. But that had not been the only reason why he had insisted that we be his guests. He had needed time to clean up the bishop’s house, as we were the first to visit the church after the liberation of Yambio. All buildings which had been empty when the SPLA arrived had been requisitioned by the liberators, including the property of the church. The church vehicles were now used by the SPLA. Kuol explained that these cars had been given for Sudan, to serve the people of southern Sudan. All the priests who had used these cars in the past had fled to the Central African Republic or to Zaïre. Was the SPLA not now serving the people here? Even if this was the case it took a bit of time before I got used to the fact of seeing soldiers drive around in the Land Rover which I used last year. Being still somewhat afraid of this soldier in those days, I had kept silent. But Kuol wanted to talk. One of the things that he had wanted to know was, why had the priests left when they heard that the SPLA was approaching Yambio? I ventured that there were horrible stories about the SPLA, spread especially by the government troops, stories about looting and killings. Kuol is not touchy in these matters, and rather than defend the SPLA, he fires back at me: are Catholics afraid to die? Moreover, he points out that many of the soldiers who behaved so badly call themselves Christian. He is disappointed with us; he got most of his education in a Christian school and he certainly believes in a life after this one. He expected that we, priests, who talk about heaven, would be less afraid to die. I admit that I preferred to go on living for a while longer. He thinks that we should provide priests for the SPLA, as he considers that it is not right that he, a Moslem, must lead the soldiers in prayer before a battle. Most of his soldiers belong to one or other Christian denomination. I explain that I am not too happy with the way he mixes war and religion. I do not believe in Holy War, Jihad, which is preached by his Moslem brothers in Khartoum.
The Commander does not appreciate my remark. He asks me to remember the Crusades, in which my forefathers had killed his forefathers. Could I defend that? Were those attacks on Islam truly Christian? I allow that I am not particularly proud of that part of our history. He adds that the word Islam comes from the same root as the Arabic word salaam, peace. ‘Islam’ really means ‘making peace’, he assures me. That is what he is fighting for, peace in his country. He seeks the fourfold peace: peace with God, peace with oneself, peace with one’s neighbour, peace with the whole of creation.
I ask Kuol whether he is trying to convert me. He rejoins that he would be satisfied if I did not see in every Moslem a fundamentalist. I promise not to generalize, on condition that he stops talking about the Crusades. Kuol goes on to explain that he, as a Moslem, is not proud of the way in which the government in Khartoum keeps calling their followers to holy war against the people in the south. He has studied the Koran and wants me to know that the jihad of the Koran differs greatly from the aggressive war this government is waging against the southern Sudanese. Jihad is a war against pagans to be taken up if they make it impossible for Moslems to live in peace, and Kuol and I agree that the people in the south are not pagans, and that the perpetrators of the war are often the northern fundamentalists. The fundamentalists in Khartoum do not let the people of the south live in peace. Moreover, only a truly holy leader can call for a jihad, and Kuol thinks the present leaders in Khartoum are not devoted Moslems. They are power-hungry people who use Islam to get more power. He points out that whether the people in the south are Moslem or not, has very little to do with this war.
This conversation with Kuol was the first of many that we had over the years. At first, the local people, just like myself, had been a little afraid of Kuol, because of his fierce demeanour. He was amused when I told him that we had been afraid of him. But gradually the people had come to respect him. Some even started to like him, because he was a just man who could be relied upon. He is a soldier not only interested in war, but one who also tries to understand the social problems behind the war. He wants to read more about economics because without it peace will not last. He is a man keen to learn from those whom he meets.
One of the local women who had joined the movement fell in love with him, or perhaps it was the other way round; I am not quite sure how it started. I only remember that during one of my visits to Yambio, Kuol met me one evening and asked me to buy him a Kaunda suit when I next went to Nairobi. People often made such requests of me; what was unusual in the commander’s case was that he came with the money for the dress suit. He announced that he was going to marry Miriam, whom I had known as Mary. The whole town was excited about this marriage between one of the SPLS commanders and a local girl.
In the next episode, shadows lengthen around Yambio as the missionary senses that something unspoken is stirring beneath Kuol’s steady composure. Whispers drift through the returning crowds, the relief workers move with a tension that no one quite names, and even Kuol’s sharp remarks seem to carry hidden meanings. As night falls, small choices begin to feel like turning points, and every conversation hints at deeper currents just out of sight. Something is shifting—though whether it brings danger, truth, or an unexpected ally remains to be seen.
