The Dinka Agar History Project

Dinka Agar History Project 

‘Nobody wants guns. Even the youth, they don’t want,’ spits Machar Dhuol Manguak emphatically, as his grip tightens around a clutch of spears. The spiritual leader isn’t sure exactly how old he is, but he knows he’s the oldest man in Rumbek Town. Nobody else from his age set is left — nobody else with the same tribal facial markings remains.

I’m in Rumbek, central South Sudan, recording some of the little documented oral history of the Dinka Agar, building on a process that was started under the first phase of POF, several years ago. It’s a precious and urgent assignment involving a very special generation of elders.

War was first visited upon this land in 1955, and the unwelcome guest has yet to leave. Our mission is to capture wisdom and stories from a time before war — before they’re lost. One of the many consequences of conflict in South Sudan has been the disruption of cultural practices like rites of passage and oral storytelling. Many among the Dinka Agar community believe this has played a big role in the erosion of culture among the youth, who now run the cattle camps.

Dawn in Aliamtoc 1 section- Rumbek East County

Scarification

The facial markings are a series of deep, deliberate cuts etched across the forehead in parallel lines — usually five or six — running from temple to temple. They are raised and ridged now, like the bark of a tamarind tree, but they once bled fresh under the hands of a knife-wielding elder. The boy, 14 or 15 years old, would kneel in front of his community, gripping a stick between his teeth, forbidden to flinch. His two bottom front teeth were then knocked out with a metal awl and a stone. Bloodied and beaming, the boy would rise as a man, permitted to own cattle, join adult discussions, and finally… eat groundnuts(!). The community celebrated as a new generation of men passed into adulthood.

To my surprise, one of the elders we interviewed attributed the practice of scarification to the British. ‘They marked us so that they could tell which area and which tribe we came from.’ I was even more surprised when he expressed gratitude for this apparent fact. The list of thanks continued — rule of law, education, and modern medicine. ‘Back then there were no road ambushes, no indiscriminate killing of each other’s communities.’

The journalist in me refrains from judging his effusive gratitude for the one-time colonial rulers. The Brit in me cowers at the barrage of compliments. I’m well aware of the spirits that we Brits unleashed upon the land during our 56-year rule, spirits that haunt the rivers and wreak havoc on the plains to this day.

Scarification largely stopped among Agar communities when war with the North rudely disrupted the generations-long rhythm of life. Without the rite of passage, ‘the young men see it as an excuse to go around behaving like children. They now have nothing to show that they are adults,’ bemoans the fiery octogenarian Thondot Nyuon Rany, sat jauntily on a blue plastic garden chair.

Dating

‘These young people don’t even bother to date anymore,’ explained Mama Yar Matur Koriom, whose rosiness plumped out the would-be wrinkles on her face. ‘Nowadays you don’t know the partner of your daughter until she is pregnant.’ This outcry is unanimous among all the elders we’ve sat with this week. ‘You should come and date the girl in broad daylight, not just go in and love her at night.’

There’s a whole shopping list of scalding accusations towards today’s youth.

— ‘They smoke, they drink, and they no longer save milk for strangers.’

— ‘Revenge killing used to be targeted — a brother or a son of the guilty party — nowadays it is rampant, untargeted slaughter of anyone from the offending community.’

— ‘Strangers used to be welcomed into the community, sleep alongside them and their cattle, and be escorted to the border of the next clan to ensure their safety — these days they don’t bother.’

— ‘Marriage used to be for a long time, and difficulties would be worked out with the help of an uncle — today divorce is rampant.’

Debora Akur Mabor, Aliamtoc 2 section- Rumbek East County

The Guns

Mama Debora Akur Mabor laments, ‘When somebody used to be killed in the past, there would be mourning in the whole Dinka Agar community for that person. Today, people do not mourn and our people are killing themselves.’

‘Guns,’ says a younger Sultan from Rumbek Central County, resting heavily, shoulder blades hooked around the back of his chair. According to Majak Malual Kodi, the culture changed irreversibly in 1991.

The Second Sudanese Civil War was raging, led by the Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA) under its charismatic leader, John Garang. In August of that year, a senior SPLA commander named Riek Machar launched a coup against Garang, breaking away with a faction later known as SPLA-Nasir. His forces, largely Nuer in composition, accused Garang of dictatorship and of failing to prioritise South Sudanese independence. The split plunged the South into internal conflict. Amid growing distrust and ethnic violence — including the Bor Massacre — Garang authorised the arming of civilian cattle keepers to protect their families and herds.

It was a fateful shift. From that moment, recalls the Sultan, ‘the movement was over.’ The struggle for liberation had turned inward; South Sudanese were now fighting each other.

In 2023, over 60% of civilian deaths in South Sudan were attributed to intercommunal violence and community-based militias (Human Rights Watch, 2024).

As of 2017, civilians in South Sudan were estimated to possess approximately 1,255,000 firearms — about 9.6 firearms per 100 people (Small Arms Survey, 2017).

The guns also brought a culture of drinking, so that young soldiers ‘would not feel fear.’ They brought a culture of disrespect, explained my guide, Manas, because the youth now ‘felt as though they were more powerful than their elders.’ They brought a culture of rape too. ‘When a man goes into a woman’s mosquito net with a gun to love her, she can no longer say no or tell her family, because she fears he will kill her.’

The West

The shadows draw long to meet the night at the close of our third day of interviews. We tear up the straight road in our white Land Cruiser, creating rolling plumes of dust. Flame red licks the hem of the sky as cooking fires begin to light up patches of grass across Lakes State’s endless plains. Shadow puppets in the dust manifest into people, animals, and vehicles.

We pass the occasional broken-down lorry still resting lopsided on the road since the morning; four generations of passengers bump along together on one motorbike; pairs of young boys flog coupled cattle, turning to look at us as if to ask what we’re doing on the road; the goats, the egrets, the drunk old men, and the colourful band of dancing girls do likewise.

The straight, strategic road scars the orange earth, running all the way up to Khartoum. It makes me think of the rites of passage and the scars that turned these elders from boys into men…

Manas turns to me after some minutes of silence.
‘Jonty, you asked me earlier about why I think the culture has changed.’
‘Yeah!’ I shoot back, as though I wasn’t drifting off in the heat.
‘It’s the mixing of cultures,’ says Manas.
‘Which cultures?’ I enquire.
‘The Western culture, where you belong.’

***

Cattle camp youth and children from Rup section- Rumbek Central County

The People have the answers 

In the villages, dust covers everything in a thin, sepia coating, befitting the thick air of nostalgia that hangs over our interviews. But the elders also speak with lucidity about what is needed for the future:
‘Young men should not steal, they should not kill, they should not rape, they should respect their elders.’

All very well and good, I think to myself — but how do you change a culture?

‘Guns!’ shoots the young Sultan again, beneath the tamarind tree.
‘The government needs to disarm the youth… then the old men can safely return to the cattle camps from the villages to teach them how to live.’

My colleague, David Vincent, recalls having a Kalashnikov thrust into his small, soft hands for the first time during the Second North-South War, as we debrief over evening tea and boiled milk, fresh from the udder. We’re nestled between our tents in the cattle camp, young men singing in the distance, amid the sound of deep, satisfied lowing, a chorus of cicadas, and the occasional whine of mosquitoes zipping past our ears.

David questions how a mass disarmament can happen — the coordination, the trust required for communities to give up their means of protection. Yet he is upbeat about the future for the cattle camp keepers.
‘You know, POF (Peace Opportunities Fund) is the first ones who came along and involve the cattle camp community in the decision-making process for peace. Until then, the decisions had only been made for them by outsiders.’

POF worked with cattle camp leadership here in 2020 to begin to re-establish traditional dialogue groups known as Akut de Door.

In one memorable meeting, the cattle camp leaders from five ‘Sections’ or sub-clans were gathered together when one of the leaders received a call on his mobile phone: his community’s cattle had been rustled, and the tracks led, tellingly, toward another sub-clan.

The leader of that sub-clan, sitting just across from him, jumped up and disappeared out of the room. Within minutes, he returned to confirm that it was indeed his boys who had taken the cattle — and that they were now on their way to return them.

This was the breakthrough that was needed. Four of the five Sections subsequently made a pact, and decided to come back together to live in one sprawling camp — the camp where we now sit, sipping milk with the mosquitoes.

‘People have to remember that these cattle keepers, they want peace… and they have the answers among themselves!’ says David, relaxing into the tranquillity of the night with a reflective tone.

I stare into the dancing silhouettes of trees and cattle horns, feeling assured of the importance of our task.
‘The solutions for our future are rooted in our history,’ I ponder. ‘The voices of the communities must be central to any peacebuilding effort. Peace has to start here, with the local people.’

It’s been the privilege of a lifetime to capture something of this complex and compelling history. I hope it will help in some way, to put the voices of everyday people back at the centre of decision-making in government and NGOs alike.

The full interviews with the elders will be released later this year.