Showing posts with label Floods. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Floods. Show all posts

Sunday, December 10, 2023

Sudan & S. Sudan: From faculties to refugee camps: War has displaced thousands of university students

"The Renk Transit Center [in South Sudan] does not qualify as a refugee camp. It’s a settlement designed as a transit point for about 3,000 people, but Renad, Nyamiji, Nosemba and Emam have been stuck here for several months. More than 18,000 souls are crowded together, due to the incessant flow of arrivals from the neighboring country [Sudan] and the impossibility of transferring refugees to more suitable places. Seasonal rains have flooded and cut off entire roads. Here, the living conditions are dire, because everything is lacking: shelters, clean water, enough food, adequate sanitation, health and educational services". Read more.

From EL PAIS International
Written by LOLA HIERRO Renk (Sudán del Sur)
Dated Saturday, 09 December 2023; 19:46 WET - here is a copy in full:

From faculties to refugee camps: The war in Sudan has displaced thousands of university students


Sudanese higher education students – who have been forced to flee their homes due to violence – now live in poor conditions as displaced people, without any certainty about their education and their future


Nosemba Walaldin, 23, at the Renk refugee transit center in South Sudan, in November of 2023. LOLA HIERRO


Emam Omam is almost an economist. Nyamiji Daniel is almost a programmer. Nosemba Walaldin is almost a teacher. And Renad Abdalkhaman dreams of being a surgeon.


These four students were all at different stages of completing their university degrees. They had the worries and responsibilities typical of twenty-somethings. That is, until a war blew up their lives. They have been forced to exchange their houses for the huts of a refugee camp. Classmates and study time have been replaced with loneliness and endless, empty hours.


Students such as Emam, Nyamiji, Nosemba and Renad have been damaged by the armed conflict that Sudan has been experiencing for the past eight months. The condition they’re facing isn’t as visible as a disease, nor is it as irreparable as death, but its impact is of immense proportions for hundreds of thousands of young people who, overnight, have been forced to replace their dreams of the future with the uncertainty of a life filled with need, danger and precariousness.


Of all the humanitarian emergencies in the world where there isn’t sufficient assistance, South Sudan is almost at the bottom. While it’s obscured in the media by other crises – such as Gaza or Ukraine – there hasn’t been a single day without refugees and catastrophes in this African country for almost a year. South Sudan is on the brink of collapse, with 9.4 million people in need of humanitarian assistance, or 76% of the population. Only 40% of the funds needed to address this have been secured, according to the UN Agency for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA).


Emam Omam was a student at the Omdurman Islamic University, near Khartoum, the Sudanese capital. “I studied Economics because Sudan needs economists. Maybe I could get a job,” he explains. On April 15, 2023 – the day the war began – he was preparing for an exam. “I waited to see if the situation would calm down and I could finish [my courses]... but that wasn’t the case. My degree has stopped, everything has stopped. I no longer know what’s going to happen,” the young man sighs.


Sitting on a mat on the ground – in the shade of a canvas tent that barely offers protection from the intense heat – four young women of similar ages speak about what their life has been like since the violence pushed them out of their homes and classrooms. They’ve been living at a temporary shelter for refugees in Renk, a border town between Sudan and South Sudan.


Emam Omam, 25, was an Economics student at Omdurman Islamic University, near Khartoum. LOLA HIERRO

“Those were very good times. As soon as I got up, I wanted to go to class, see my friends, have a good time with them, have fun. There was no time for anything, I was busy from morning to night,” recalls Nosemba Walaldin. The 23-year-old was in the last semester of her Information Technology degree, which she was completing at the University of Khartoum, the oldest university in the country. Nosemba missed the last exam that was required for her to finish her degree.


Nyamiji Daniel, 22 – a South Sudanese woman living in Khartoum – was studying the same subject at the same institution, but one grade below Nosemba. “I lived with a Sudanese family, because I [was employed as a domestic worker]. I got up at five in the morning, started working at six, then went to class and came home at four. From then on, I finished the rest of the housework,” she explains. Nyamiji studied and worked at the same time. She admits that this wasn’t easy… but now, she says that she would turn back the clock without hesitation.


“I had just finished my high school diploma and was planning to study Medicine. [Becoming a surgeon] is my dream,” says Renad Abdalkhaman. Having just turned 18, she’s the youngest of the four girls, but the most determined. She speaks loudly and clearly.


These four young people now live at the Renk Transit Center. More than 400,000 people have arrived through this border point over the last eight months, fleeing the civil war unleashed between the army and the paramilitaries of the Rapid Support Forces (RSF). This conflict has brought daily armed attacks to the streets of Khartoum, resurrected ethnic clashes in Darfur and has led to the forced displacement of more than six million people. It has also caused the suspension of exams and the closure of educational centers from the first days of the conflict.


The Renk Transit Center does not qualify as a refugee camp. It’s a settlement designed as a transit point for about 3,000 people, but Renad, Nyamiji, Nosemba and Emam have been stuck here for several months. More than 18,000 souls are crowded together, due to the incessant flow of arrivals from the neighboring country and the impossibility of transferring refugees to more suitable places. Seasonal rains have flooded and cut off entire roads. Here, the living conditions are dire, because everything is lacking: shelters, clean water, enough food, adequate sanitation, health and educational services.


Renk Transit Center, on the South Sudanese side of the border with Sudan. With capacity for 3,000 people, it was sheltering over 18,000 by the end of November, 2023. ALA KHEIR (UNHCR)


19 million children left without class


Among all the traumas that any exodus caused by violence entails, there’s that which is faced by the students. Up to 19 million children are out of school, according to UNICEF and Save the Children. And an undetermined number – it could be more than 200,000, if we look at the latest enrollment figures provided by the government, from 2017 – have been left without a university. While Khartoum has always been a city proud of its intellectual tradition, in recent years, its higher education system hasn’t grown in size, due to poor funding, political interference and the economic crisis. There have been protests before, during and after 2019, when dictator Omar al-Bashir was deposed in a coup. This was followed by the massive floods of 2020 and the COVID-19 pandemic.


Nyamiji Daniel, 22, is displaced. A South Sudanese woman living in Khartoum, she was studying Information Technology. LOLA HIERRO


For refugee children in places such as Renk, at least there are some schools that different humanitarian organizations have set up in the camps. But the situation faced by students who were enrolled, or set to enroll, in the universities and technical colleges is a separate drama. Their specialized training cannot be found just anywhere. Hence, they suddenly find themselves in an inescapable state of limbo.


This is a cruel addition to the rest of the traumas that they carry, as they already have stories of fear and loss behind them. Renad – the youngest of the four young women interviewed – was born in Khartoum, but her parents emigrated to Saudi Arabia when she was a baby. At 16, they told her that they were going back. She was excited to get to know her country of origin… but that joy didn’t last for long. She hadn’t even been living in Sudan for a year when the attacks began.


“The first day, we hid at home. We heard shots outside. That night, a bomb fell right next door,” the teenager recalls. She has lost something much more important than her studies. “My father and my uncle went out one day to get something to eat and they never came back. We spent a month waiting for them. When we didn’t hear any news, my mother and I came here,” she concludes. Her voice trembles – the strong energy that emanates from her falters a little. “I feel totally destroyed. They’ve destroyed my future, our futures,” the teenage laments. She’s been at Renk since August 20.


Nosemba worked at a law firm in the afternoons after university. In her free time, she went out with her friends. “I’m still in contact with two who are in the White Nile [state]. I’ve lost track of the rest of them.” She arrived at the transit center on August 17, after a nine-day trip with her family, during which she almost lost a brother. “On the way some armed men stopped us, they wanted to take one of my brothers with them. We gave them everything we had so they would leave him,” she recounts.


Nosemba Walaldin, 23, was in the last semester of her Information Technology degree when she was displaced. She had been studying at the University of Khartoum. LOLA HIERRO


The Scholars at Risk network (SAR) has chosen Sudan as one of the most worrying cases in its 2023 Free to Think report. The group warns that the civil war has seriously affected the education sector, including higher education. “In the early days of fighting, students and faculty members reported being forced to flee or being trapped, unable to flee, with no food, water, or electricity,” the report denounces. SAR has also reported on militants who have killed, injured or raped students and teachers, warning that Sudan may face a serious shortage of teachers for the next school year, due to the number of people who have fled the country.


According to an SAR estimate, armed clashes and looting have damaged at least 104 public and private higher education facilities and research centers during the first five months of fighting. In at least one case, on June 4, the Sudanese Armed Forces appear to have targeted an institution of higher learning, bombing the campus of the International University of Africa during clashes with the RSF. 10 people were killed.


In recent years, there’s been a growing demand for higher education in refugee camps. Some initiatives have been developed, mainly thanks to the internet, which allows for online studies to be offered. There are also some scholarships, such as the Albert Einstein German Academic Refugee Initiative (DAFI), a program sponsored by the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR) in 50 countries. It aims to ensure that refugees with strong academic abilities can pursue a university degree or higher education in a third country. But there are very limited spots and options. According to UNHCR, only 1% of the global refugee population finds a path to higher education, compared to a third of young people worldwide.

Renad Abdalkhaman, 18, had just finished high school and wanted to start studying medicine to become a surgeon. Then, the war broke out in Sudan. LOLA HIERRO

Of course, Nosemba, Nyamiji, Renad and Omam would like a scholarship like the DAFI, since all four of them dream of going away to continue their education. The young aspiring surgeon would like to go to the UK or Turkey. Nosemba – who would like to teach about new technologies – thinks that North America could be a good option. Eman wants to get a postgraduate degree in Political Science, while Nyamiji is happy to go wherever she can find a job.


For now, their dreams are farther away than ever before. These young people – along with others like them – feel that their future plans, their intellectual concerns and their efforts have all fallen on deaf ears. There are no guarantees that they’ll leave the refugee camps any time soon, even though they want to shake off a situation and a label which they don’t identify with at all. They’re university students, not refugees. They don’t understand how their lives have taken such a turn from one day to the next. Just thinking about this affects them deeply.


“If I start talking about how I feel, I’ll probably start crying. Life here isn’t good and, psychologically, I’m not well,” Nosemba acknowledges, with a broken voice. “I just hope we can get out soon and continue with our lives,” Renad adds. “The more time you spend in a place like this, the more tired you feel.”


View original: https://english.elpais.com/international/2023-12-09/from-faculties-to-refugee-camps-the-war-in-sudan-has-displaced-thousands-of-university-students.html


END

Sunday, November 05, 2023

South Sudan: These people are eating the unthinkable

NOTE from Sudan Watch Ed: According to this report, parts of South Sudan have been underwater now for 4 years. Other areas, 2 or 3. Some 15% of the country is submerged year-round, as opposed to 5% several years ago.

Also, according to research from Oxfam, humanitarian appeals for extreme weather events have increased eightfold from 20 years ago. And though certain sudden-onset disasters break through with social media pleas and a surge of donations, on balance the world’s most aid-dependent countries wind up as either have-somes or have-almost-nothings. 


“The humanitarian system is not able to keep up,” said Harjeet Singh, the head of global political strategy at Climate Action Network International. “For us, the mind-set had always been, ‘We can do it. We can build resilience.’ But now we see we are failing.”


Read more, and click link below to see this report and its amazing photos. 
 
From The Washington Post
By Chico Harlan
Dated November 2, 2023 at 6:00 a.m. EDT - here is a copy, minus images:

Years into a climate disaster, these people are eating the unthinkable

In South Sudan, war and semi-permanent flooding have left people to scavenge for food, with long-term consequences for their health


Image: A young man unloads a large bag of sorghum at a makeshift port on the exterior of the Bentiu internal displacement camp. The camp sits under the water level, protected only by a massive, rectangular mud dike. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


CHOTYIEL, South Sudan — It was 1 p.m., her children still hadn’t eaten, and every item on Nyaguey Dak Kieth’s “long to-do list” pertained to surviving another day. So Nyaguey grabbed a plastic bucket and an empty sack and set off from her village surrounded by floodwater. Those waters had upended her life, but also provided a food option — not a desirable one, but one of the few left.


Water lilies. They’d been keeping her family alive for two years.


They were bitter. Hard to digest. They required hours of manual labor — cutting, pounding, drying, sifting — just to be made edible. Nyaguey could still remember her initial shock at eating them, figuring they’d be a short-term measure. And now, with the floodwaters holding their ground, she could trace a two-year arc of distress in what the lilies had become: sustenance so vital that people were slogging farther and farther into the waters to find them, before someone else did.


“I can see some lilies here,” another woman told Nyaguey after a group of four had walked 20 minutes out of town, reaching the edge of the waters.


“Not enough,” Nyaguey said, and the group kept moving. “It looks like somebody already collected most of these.”


Climate disasters are often perceived as finite events — with an emergency and a recovery, a beginning and an end. But as these disasters grow in magnitude and frequency, striking poor countries dependent on a stretched humanitarian system, some are no longer just passing crises, but permanent states of being. That dynamic points to the extraordinary stakes in global climate talks, which center on the question of how wealthy nations can foot the bill for climate-related destruction — even when that destruction is chronic.


Image: Nyaguey Dak Kieth wades through the water dragging a bag of lily bulbs. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Image: The stark frame of Nyaphar Majok, who's in her mid-80s and is the mother of Nyaguey Dak Kieth. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Image: Freshly picked bulbs. The bulbs require hours of preparation to be made edible. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


In South Sudan, parts of the country have been underwater now for four years. Other areas, two or three. Some 15 percent of the country is submerged year-round, as opposed to 5 percent several years ago.


One extreme season has followed another, with major rainfalls flowing in from countries upstream, such as Uganda and Ethiopia. Over time, the soil below has turned sticky, sealing the waters in place. Subsistence farmers are bracing for the possibility that their land has changed for good — giving way to a new water mass the size of Lake Michigan, with 1 million people displaced because of flooding, their crops destroyed, their cattle now scattered bones.


South Sudan illustrates how even robust investments in relief aid are no match for the cataclysms that climate change, war and corruption have unleashed on many countries. This landlocked nation — which only gained independence from Sudan in 2011 — benefits from more Western funding than its neighbors, with much of it from the United States.


That money allows for day-to-day triage — upholding mud dikes, maintaining city-sized displacement camps, and providing food aid to some but not all who are hungry. But it isn’t enough to help people recover.


The United Nations has been forced to pare back projects aimed at helping communities adapt or become more resilient. Major nations have yet to establish a long-planned international fund aimed at helping countries deal with climate disasters, and once created, it is likely to be too small by multitudes.


Image: Map


South Sudan’s own government, ranked as one of the world’s most corrupt, can’t convince investors to fund its own projects for climate adaptation, which exist by the dozen — but mostly only on paper. The consequence is that Nyaguey, and hundreds of thousands around her, are in the same emergency mode of two years ago. Only weaker, sicker, more tired, more stressed.


“It’s devastating,” she said. “When will this ever end? I am just so, so tired.”


Nyaguey, 43, had been poor, but not desperately poor, before central South Sudan’s inundation. She had been a maize farmer. She had a small disposable income. She bought sugar, coffee, shoes for her 10 children, and had free time to meet with friends, who would sometimes laugh with her until late at night. But her old home is now submerged, and her new home is a makeshift mud hut in one of her county’s only two villages still poking out of the water. She rarely sees her husband, who has two other wives living in different places.


Her entire days are “devoted to the lilies,” she said, and collecting them has proved so punishing — two-hour walks, hours more in the water, lugging them back home — that she’s developed chronic coughs, regular fevers, and found herself many mornings asking if she could bear to return to the water. “As long as my children are alive,” she’s told herself, “I’ll keep going.”


After deciding against the first patch of lilies, Nyaguey and the other women trekked farther away from their village, deeper into an eerie landscape of dragonflies and sickly brittle trees twisting halfway out the floodwaters. For as long as possible, the women tried to keep themselves dry, laboring through a slightly elevated but muddy path. Time in the water meant exposure to poisonous snakes, untold bacteria, and run-ins with submerged thorns. But then there was no choice. After 40 minutes, they saw a patch of lilies, blooming in abundance, in deeper nearby waters.


Nyaguey waded in first.


“Can you stand?” one of the women asked.


The water was chest-high.


“Come in,” Nyaguey told the others, and she opened her bag.


‘Not able to keep up’


The explanation for Nyaguey’s unconventional food staple begins 300 miles away from the flood zone, in a compound in South Sudan’s capital, Juba, where the United Nations’ food agency tracks the money coming in: Compared with what’s been requested, it is less than ever before.


For decades, the world’s humanitarian aid has lagged behind need, which comes primarily from a handful of national donors. But the gap was less dire before Ukraine’s wartime needs siphoned off a portion of aid money, before that war triggered a rise in food prices, and — more broadly — before human-caused pollution accelerated the number of crises. According to research from Oxfam, humanitarian appeals for extreme weather events have increased eightfold from 20 years ago. And though certain sudden-onset disasters break through with social media pleas and a surge of donations, on balance the world’s most aid-dependent countries wind up as either have-somes or have-almost-nothings.


“The humanitarian system is not able to keep up,” said Harjeet Singh, the head of global political strategy at Climate Action Network International. “For us, the mind-set had always been, ‘We can do it. We can build resilience.’ But now we see we are failing.”


By those grim margins, South Sudan is a have-some. It gets more requested aid than Somalia, which is facing its worst drought in decades. It gets far more than Chad, where declining harvests and shrinking water supplies have ignited conflicts. Majority-Christian South Sudan is supported in particular by the United States, which backed its long fight for independence from predominantly Muslim Sudan; since 2011, U.S. administrations have given South Sudan $9 billion in aid. Before a projected dip this year, the aid groups operating in South Sudan had typically received about 70 percent of their requested funding, with the World Food Program (WFP) as the biggest recipient.


But that level, in a country beset with problems even before the flooding, is still dire.


Image: A reinforced dike protects the Bentiu camp as well as the areas around it, including an airstrip. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Image: Women wait in line at a food distribution center at the Bentiu internal displacement camp. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Image: A group of houses covered with tarps on a small island of high ground surrounded by floodwater near Bentiu. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Mary-Ellen McGroarty, WFP director in South Sudan, has been put in the position of choosing which hungry people are offered help. For the last two years, even the hungriest have been given only half-rations. Nyaguey said her family goes through its month’s allotment in five days. While WFP still does carry out some resiliency-building work, it has had to significantly scale back certain programs that could help the country long-term, including one to help farmers plant rice, a crop that needs to be submerged.


“We have all these huge, aspirational goals. But we’re way down here,” McGroarty said, lowering her hand to the floor.


People unsure about their next meal can’t use their energy in other ways that might help them recover, McGroarty said. The half-rations amount to 292 grams about two-thirds of a pound — of cereal per day.


“Have you seen what 200 grams of cereal looks like?” she asked.


South Sudan depends on the “disaster begging bowl,” as Oxfam termed it, because so many earlier catastrophes and blunders prevented any degree of self-sufficiency. Prospects were once bright for this fledgling nation, but rival leaders, representing different ethnic groups, tipped it into several years of civil war, resulting in the deaths of an estimated 400,000 people.


Image:  Men unload 50 kg bags of cereals for distribution at the Bentiu displacement camp. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Its economy could have boomed with one of the world’s youngest demographics, but most of those young people ended up never regularly attending school. Its government could have capitalized on the combination of oil revenue and fertile land — building roads, shipping food — but elites have instead siphoned off “staggering” sums from public coffers, according to the United Nations, while leaving the country with almost no infrastructure. Flooding has merely intensified a food crisis that had already been among the world’s gravest.


In many of the countries deemed most vulnerable to climate change, violence and corruption are force multipliers. South Sudan says it does have climate plans of its own, and government documents list page after page of priorities that would make for a country with better irrigation, more renewable energy, infrastructure that could better withstand disasters. But the government says more than 90 percent of that funding would need to come from “international investments.” For now, most projects, including those aimed for the short-term, have the same status: “Yet to be implemented.”


“If you say [this work] will cost $100 billion and you have nothing, nothing will happen,” said Lutana Musa, the director general of climate change at South Sudan’s Environment Ministry.


The government’s shortcomings play out in the flood zone, an area where rival factions fought during the civil war, with territory changing hands more than 10 times. Many people, then, took shelter at a displacement camp in Bentiu, a grid of tents holding 120,000 people.


Because of the flooding, managing that camp has required even more resources and aid. The floodwaters have risen higher than the camp’s surface, which is staved off from ruin only because of miles of dikes, built in haste, with a combination of U.N. and South Sudanese money, two years ago. Even one dike failure could inundate the camp in three hours, said Joshua Kanyara, an engineer with the United Nations’ migration agency, whose group helped in the construction.


Some international officials say privately that it makes more sense for the flood zone to be written off, with people encouraged to relocate elsewhere. But the government can’t offer the basics found in the aftermath of other disasters — financial aid or prefab accommodation on higher land. Even if it could, experts say, there is widespread distrust: The regional governor has been accused by the United Nations of authorizing brutal extrajudicial killings. And a labyrinth of ethnic disputes makes people uncertain they’d be safe in a new area.


So, people stay where they are and try to survive.


Image: A World Food Program amphibious vehicle drives on the partially submerged road leading to Chotyiel. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Where everyone eats the lilies


One of those places is Chotyiel, a village of 5,500 people with no electricity, no running water, no cars, and only one way out: along a mile-long mud bank that leads to a main road. The Post was able to reach the village by embedding with WFP, traveling in all-terrain amphibious vehicles with five-foot-high tires.


In Chotyiel, the closest market is four hours away by canoe. Most people, including Nyaguey, can’t afford boats to fish.


That makes the village a fair place to see what two years of a diet dominated by one food can do to the body.


“Even I eat the water lilies, and I’m in government,” said Kim Kiir, the local administrator.


The people of the flood zone don’t eat the part of the lily visible from the surface — the white flowers and the circular leaves. Instead, they harvest the parts below, reaching into the waters for the bulbs, detaching them from a reptilian network of thick stalks. The seeds of those bulbs, after being sifted and pounded and cooked over the flame, yield a greenish porridge. It’s high in protein. Many say a little milk can leaven the harsh taste.


The floods have brought so many new stresses to Chotyiel that it’s hard to attribute a spate of sicknesses to any one factor. But officials in the village say the wrenching diet is a major contributor, as are the risks lily collectors face in the water. Several women have died of snakebites. Children regularly deal with severe constipation, and with their immune systems weakened, they and other villagers have also experienced a surge in diarrheal sicknesses. The village used to see one person per month die on average; now it’s three to five. In the week The Post visited Chotyiel, three children died.


“We are very, very vulnerable,” said Reik Chatiem, the deputy administrator for the county.


Image: Nyaguey suggests an area for picking lilies. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Image: Water lily bulbs cut in half sit on the floor of Nyaguey's mud hut in Chotyiel. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Image: Nyaphar Majok, mother of Nyaguey, spreads seeds taken from the bulbs of water lilies outside the mud hut where the family lives. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Across the flood zone, the number of people who are critically malnourished has increased dramatically over the last few years, according to data used by WFP.


Mamman Mustapha, head of mission for Doctors Without Borders in South Sudan, said there are compounding factors, beyond diet, that explain why. With so much land submerged, people are crammed closer together, allowing diseases to spread more easily. Some of the facilities where people used to seek care are underwater. At the same time, their challenges in finding adequate food have left many, particularly children, more vulnerable to infectious diseases.


“So you see how the dots connect,” he said.


Water lilies are a plant, not a base for a diet.


“It’s inadequate by itself,” he said.


Image: Seeds taken from the bulbs of water lilies are laid out in the sun to dry. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


The climate connection


Because the waters surrounding Chotyiel are neither draining readily into the ground nor flowing elsewhere, the only cure for the flooding is evaporation and time. The country would need three or four consecutive relatively dry years to reclaim its submerged land, said Richard Aludra, a water specialist at the Dutch Embassy in Juba.


That doesn’t appear likely to happen.


South Sudan’s central flatland — low-lying, at the crossroads of waterways — acts as a catch basin for extreme events happening in other countries, and it had always seen seasonal flooding. But over the last few years, those extreme events have happened in closer succession, with water rushing in so steadily that it’s broken the seasonal patterns.


The rainfall across East Africa is determined primarily by the ebb and flow of Indian and Pacific Ocean temperature patterns. Chris Funk, who runs the Climate Hazards Center at the University of California Santa Barbara, said that the volatility of the ocean has been supercharged, becoming hotter after having absorbed much of the excess energy caused by human emissions — equivalent to millions of underwater atomic bomb detonations over the last decade alone. Funk devoted a chapter of his 2021 book to the mega-rain event that jump-started flooding in South Sudan, saying that climate change “almost certainly” increased its magnitude.


“And if climate change contributed, it means it’ll happen again soon,” Funk said in an interview.


But while South Sudan’s future hinges on a contest between rainfall and evaporation, the country is way behind in trying to understand what might come next and how to defend itself.


Image: A boy paddles a canoe constructed out of plastic from a water container at an informal dock by a large dam protecting the Bentiu internal displacement camp from the floodwaters. Fishing makes up a part of the local economy with so much else having been lost. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Image: A dead catfish lies in a large pile of thousands of dry scales near a makeshift market where fish are bought, scaled and gutted after being sold in Bentiu. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


Image: Cow skulls and bone fragments are commonly seen in grassy areas sticking out of the flood zone. Scores of animals drowned because of the flooding or died because of food shortages in the aftermath. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


South Sudan’s national meteorological department is supposed to provide early warnings as a way to prepare for and reduce the scale of disasters. But the meteorologists there have no instruments for measuring wind speed, a critical factor in making weather forecasts. Many of the computers in a crammed office at Juba’s airport are wrapped in dusty plastic, and employees said they focus mainly on tracking the hourly conditions for the planes landing and taking off. The office is supposed to issue daily public weather bulletins, but it does not; one employee explained that the pay is low and so is the motivation.


“So many challenges,” said Mojwok Ogawi Modo, who runs the department. “They are huge.”


The information at their hands comes mostly from elsewhere — including WFP, which tracks climate patterns, as well as a Kenya-based regional climate center, which provides reports forecasting three months in advance. The forecaster, citing the ongoing El Niño event, recently predicted “abundant rainfall” over almost all of East Africa between October and December, with more flooding for South Sudan.


Funk, who tracks oceanic temperatures as well, also expects a surge in rainfall in East Africa. Because the oceanic patterns are slow-moving, they are also predictable, he said, and they can be used to mitigate famines and food shocks. He works closely with governments in Ethiopia and Kenya. But in South Sudan, he doesn’t know who to call.


South Sudan has taken some recent steps to set up a functional early warning system for climate events, receiving U.N.-led trainings, and distributing 20 tablets to local officials for weather monitoring, but the initiative is still at the beginning stages. Musa, the climate director at South Sudan’s Environment Ministry, said a better national early warning system could give South Sudan autonomy, and help yield localized data. That could help with village-by-village decisions about what crops to plant. About whether to raise dikes.


About whether to stay or leave.


In Chotyiel, Reik said the town never hears from the government, though he did hear secondhand about a U.N. report predicting increasing rain in the second half of the year. Mostly, he said, people in the village rely on traditional methods to predict the weather.


They track bird behavior.


They listen for a frog species whose sound changes based on conditions.


And they look to the sky.


The 100-pound harvest


Nyaguey had only been in the water for a minute, grabbing the first bulbs, moving barefoot in the water, when a fisherman emerged in a wooden canoe.


“Do you happen to have any shoes?” she asked him. “Right now thorns are pricking my feet.”


He said he didn’t. He paused to talk, flies buzzing around the eight or nine fish in his boat, and Nyaguey noticed his catch.


“What about passing me one of those fish?” she asked.


“I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry. My children really have nothing to eat.”


But he did say that a richer patch of lilies were up ahead. The women, wading carefully through the water, followed his advice.


They arrived at an area with lily pads the size of dinner plates, surrounded by the desiccated trees, their branches collapsing into the water. The floodwaters here were slightly shallower, waist-high, but Nyaguey and the others worked from a crouch, keeping their arms below the water, fighting to break the apple-sized bulbs from the stems. Nyaguey had honed her technique. Snap. Into the bucket. Snap. Into the bucket.


The women had started close together, chatting a bit, but they fanned out over several hundred feet, each operating in silence, other than the dragonflies. Snap. Snap. They worked for an hour, then two. The day went from hot to overcast to windy. Snap. Snap. Nyaguey’s bucket, floating on the water, filled with the greenish bulbs, and she dragged it with her from one lily patch to the next.


She’d have more than 100 pounds by the time she was done.


Nyaguey said the load would be too heavy to transport on the muddy path back to town. So instead she’d wade back through the floodwaters, letting the bucket float behind her, trying not to get lost. But then the floodwaters would end and there’d still be another quarter-mile on foot.


By then, she’d have been at work for hours. Her feet would be shriveled. She’d be exhausted. She’d lug the lilies back anyway she could.


Then it would be time to cook dinner.


Image:  A submerged sign for the Chotyiel health and nutrition center sits where dry land once stood. (Guy Peterson for The Washington Post)


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View original with photos and comments: https://www.washingtonpost.com/climate-environment/2023/11/02/south-sudan-climate-floods-war/


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