The choice of an official language plays a decisive role in the forging of national identity. Its importance in the intertwined processes of nation-building and state-building cannot be overstated. In South Sudan, language is not merely a tool of communication; it is a repository of history, displacement, survival, and aspiration.

Across the Equatoria states, Arabi Juba functions as a lingua franca, while various vernaculars of Arabic are spoken in states bordering Sudan. The Interim Constitution of Southern Sudan (2005) designated both Arabic and English as official working languages, while recognizing all indigenous languages as national languages. This distinction is significant: foreign languages were never elevated to the status of “national,” but rather retained as functional instruments of governance. Following independence, and shaped by a long and painful struggle against Arabization, Arabic was removed from its status as an official language in the Transitional Constitution of 2011, perceived by many as the language of oppression.

Decades of war and displacement, however, produced a population whose linguistic realities are far more complex than constitutional texts can capture. South Sudanese returning from East Africa brought with them English, Swahili, and their indigenous languages. Those displaced northward speak Arabic in its many forms, often alongside their mother tongues. Those who remained within the country adapted linguistically according to geography, trade routes, and markets. Members of the diaspora returning from Western countries further enriched this already layered linguistic landscape.

The state inherited a people marked by varied histories and tongues. In this context, it may have been prudent to retain both English and Arabic as official working languages, acknowledging the lived realities of a significant portion of the population. Alternatively, such a shift required a robust and far-reaching adult literacy program to accompany the elevation of English. While the youth are now educated primarily in English—often within school systems that prohibit the use of other languages—the most affected group has been the middle generation, many of whom are not bilingual. This linguistic gap has translated into a tangible loss of productivity and participation in public life.

Despite its removal from official designation, Arabic remains a working language in practice. It is heard in streets and markets, classrooms and churches, on radio and television, and within government offices. This reality is unlikely to shift fully until the emergence of a new generation educated entirely in English. The adoption of English as the sole official language was not an elitist project; many among South Sudan’s political and military elite do not command it fluently. Rather, English emerged as a default choice—one unburdened by the historical weight Arabic carried, despite being, itself, a colonial language. No single indigenous language presented itself as a viable national alternative, a reminder that the consolidation of a national language requires both time and a shared emotional commitment that cannot be legislated.

Nation-building is an intergenerational endeavor. So too is the development of a national language. The recent conflict, marked by ethnic violence and profound suffering, has tested South Sudan’s fragile social fabric. Yet moments of shared humanity persist. During a visit to Duk Padiet, I was struck by how Dinka and Nuer were spoken interchangeably among local residents, the displaced, and seasonal migrants. Folk songs in multiple languages continue to preach reconciliation, peace, and coexistence. The wounds are deep, and there are no shortcuts. Still, dialogue remains essential. What better way to reconcile than by speaking in a language we all understand—or better yet, in each other’s tongue?

Language is often described as the weapon of one’s enemy. Yet it is equally a tool of reconciliation. While languages can carry structures of dominance and exclusion—as seen in racial, gendered, and hierarchical constructs embedded in many tongues—they are not inherently evil. Indigenous languages, largely free from such imposed hierarchies, offer powerful pathways for healing. This is not to deny that discrimination is a human tendency, present in all societies and reflected in all languages. Rather, it is to affirm language’s capacity to humanize, rather than divide.

External narratives about South Sudan often flatten its complexity, polarize its people, and embolden hardline positions. Assertions of linguistic hegemony or deliberate politicization of indigenous languages frequently overlook local realities. Teaching the Nuer language to children displaced in Protection of Civilians camps is not evidence of exclusionary intent; it is an act of preservation amid existential threat. Bari, the local language of Juba, is taught in surrounding communities, while other indigenous languages are taught across the country from Primary One to Primary Three, albeit with limited resources. Community schools, churches, and associations continue to play a vital role in sustaining linguistic diversity, supported by recent efforts from the Ministry of Education to translate curricula into several indigenous languages.

To declare South Sudan a failed state-building project on the basis of linguistic oscillation or ethnic conflict is both premature and ahistorical. Nationhood is not forged in a decade. Setbacks, losses, and periods of recalibration are part of the journey. South Sudan belongs to its people—past, present, and future. Though we stumble, our diversity remains our strength. With prudent leadership and a commitment to enlightened self-interest, there remains a path toward a state that reflects the dignity, plurality, and shared destiny of its citizens.

Language will not save South Sudan on its own. But neither will peace be possible without it.

© Apuk Ayuel Mayen. All rights reserved.