In August, fellow reporter Jason Patinkin and I crossed the border on foot from northern Uganda into rebel-held South Sudan. Over the course of four days, we trekked over 40 miles through the bush, accompanied by rebel soldiers, to shed light on one of the world's most overlooked conflicts.
Covering the war in South Sudan, which began in 2013, has always been challenging due to the risks and logistical hurdles of accessing remote areas where fighting is taking place. But covering the war and its humanitarian consequences has become particularly difficult over the past year. Since the beginning of this year, South Sudan's government has banned at least 20 foreign journalists, in an apparent attempt to silence reporters with a history of reporting critically about the government.
This systematic suppression of the foreign press (South Sudanese journalists have long faced imprisonment and death for their work) coincided with two important events. In November 2016, the United Nations warned that violence committed against civilians in the southern region of Equatoria risked escalating into genocide. Then, in February, the UN declared a man-made famine, warning that 100,000 people risked starvation as a result of the civil war.
Journalists seeking to cover these events were forced to choose between two equally dubious options: self-censorship or risky travel to rebel-held parts of the country. Few journalists have attempted the latter since fighting escalated last July. This was our second meeting with the rebels this year.
Martin Abucha (second from right) rests with his troops in rebel-held South Sudan. Photo by Jason Patinkin
We left the northern Ugandan town at five in the morning, heading along a rough dirt road towards the border with South Sudan. Our four-wheel-drive vehicle was stuffed with rebel commander Martin Abucha, a U.S.-South Sudanese citizen we planned to profile for our PBS NewsHour Weekend segment, a couple of tour guides, and several duffel bags stuffed with our tents, sleeping bags, emergency medical kits, and enough food to last us four days.
Just as the sun began to rise over the distant range of hills we intended to cross later that day, our car stopped in front of a stream. Because of the rain there was more water than usual. It's time to disembark and start walking, or “walking” as the South Sudanese call it.
We took off our shoes and walked through the cool waters of the stream. This was the first of many rivers we had to cross along the way, either on foot or in small, flimsy canoes dug from tree trunks. Each time we were afraid of the possibility of bumping into our camera.
The first part of our trip through northern Uganda was a lot like trekking through a national park. Driving past beautiful scenery and idyllic farming villages, we could almost forget that we were heading into a war zone, but we were given a reality check.
We had just crossed the border into South Sudan when, out of nowhere, two dozen armed men jumped out of the tall grass and surrounded us at gunpoint.
“Stop! Who are you and where are you going,” the soldier shouted in Arabic, Juba, from his hiding spot no more than 20 yards away, pointing his AK-47 at us. Another, standing next to him, held a rocket-propelled grenade on his shoulder, also clearly pointed in our direction.
We instinctively threw our hands up and exchanged puzzled glances. Did we accidentally run into government soldiers? Or maybe we have stumbled upon the “wrong” rebels? Abuchi's group, dubbed the Sudan People's Liberation Army in Opposition, is the largest but not the only armed group in Equatoria, a region rife with rival militias and bandits exploiting the security vacuum left by the war.
To our relief, and only after Abucha had answered a series of questions, this routine security check quickly gave way to a warm welcome. The platoon will accompany us for the next four days as we travel to their base and Loa, Abuchi's hometown.
Fighting the insurgency was no easy task. Given the widespread lack of basic infrastructure in the country, South Sudanese have been walking tens of miles since childhood just to go about their daily lives. For sedentary Westerners, maintaining a target pace of two meters per second (about five miles per hour) proved challenging in 90-degree temperatures, all the while filming and wading through thick, itchy elephant grass.
The advantage of the unwieldy terrain was that it kept us safe. During our four-day journey we did not cross a single road, but walked along a dizzying network of narrow paths that the rebels seemed to know like the back of their hands. An unwanted encounter with government troops, who tended to stick to roads and travel in vehicles rather than on foot, was highly unlikely.
The closest we came to government-controlled territory was visiting Loa, located just two kilometers from the main road, which is often patrolled by government soldiers. We couldn't stay long, but the hour we spent on the ground gave us a glimpse of what villages must look like in many parts of Equatoria: burnt mud huts, looted schools and hospitals, fallow deposits and, most strikingly, the absence of civilians.
The war has had a devastating impact on South Sudanese communities like Loa, but much of the events have remained under the radar of international media. Our four-day trip to rebel-held South Sudan provided us with a rare opportunity to report the truth, and for that we are grateful.
