South Sudanese Battle Climate Change: Community Unites to Save Land from Devastating Floods

In the marshes of South Sudan’s AKUAK, Ayen Deng Duot stands surrounded by water up to her waist, chopping at the dense roots of a papyrus plant with a machete. She hurls the chopped pieces onto a makeshift embankment composed of vegetation and clay. This crafted barrier, once it hardens under the sun, will help enlarge the island that she and her family of six call home.

The roughly 2,000 members of the Akuak community have long employed this method of stacking mud and plants to construct livable islands in this waterlogged region by the Nile River, their chief explains. However, escalating flood levels in recent years have challenged their traditional ways, forcing residents to spend numerous hours daily gathering materials to prevent the rising waters from overtaking their homes. The region now faces its sixth consecutive year of severe flooding.

“Daily, we must engage in this labor to keep the waters at bay,” Duot explains during a brief pause. “We have no alternative. We must safeguard our homes as we have nowhere else to turn.”

The Akuak belong to the Dinka ethnic group, a clan predominantly composed of fishermen, who inhabit an area filled with water, grass, and papyrus. The landscape is serene and flat, requiring canoe transportation between neighbors. Scattered across the islands, traditional South Sudanese thatched huts known as tukuls peek through the greenery.

South Sudan ranks among the nations most vulnerable to climate change. This year alone, flooding has displaced over 375,000 people within this East African country, according to the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs. The nation also continues to grapple with the aftermath of prolonged conflicts.

A March 2025 report from the United Nations highlights that seasonal flooding in South Sudan has become increasingly severe and unpredictable.

The researchers note, “Floodwaters, which typically receded during the dry season from November to January, have altered the landscape permanently due to successive years of unprecedented flooding.”

Devotion to Homeland

The Akuak support themselves primarily through fishing, venturing to the nearest town only to sell their catch or in urgent medical situations. Bor, the state capital, lies 25 kilometers (15.5 miles) south, a journey that takes about five hours by rowboat.

Despite frequent floods prompting many to relocate to urban areas, the Akuak remain steadfast. “This land is our ancestral heritage. We’ve survived here through countless generations, learning to cope with and withstand the flooding. We cannot forsake our homeland,” declares Matuor Mabior Ajith, an Akuak fisherman. “We do hope for the waters to recede so we might once again cultivate crops.”

Historically, like other Dinka communities, the Akuak raised cattle, but they transitioned to fishing in the late 1980s as water levels rose, says their chief, Makech Kuol Kuany. “Life here has compelled us all to become fishermen,” he states. “We are poorer now than before, as we used to depend on farming, cattle, and fishing. Now, fishing nets and canoes are all we have left.”

Chief Kuany, aged 59, holds onto hope that the water levels might eventually decrease, reminiscent of the floods in the 1960s that persisted for nearly a decade. He believes about 2,000 Akuak still reside in the area despite the challenges.

The Exhausting Task of Building

Constantly battling the encroaching waters, 45-year-old Anyeth Manyang works on enlarging his island’s perimeter. He dives deep, surfaces with a hefty load of mud, and layers it over previously laid grass. “I’ve been doing this since my childhood, taught by my parents along with fishing,” he shares. “It’s exhausting because we do everything manually — cutting grass, gathering papyrus, hauling mud. By evening, every part of your body aches.”

His small island, around 50 square meters (538 square feet), bustles with life. Children dash from their tukul as nearby men engage in a game of dominoes. Sparse crops line the island’s fringe.

Kuany and Ajith point out a small puddle forming on the ground. “This happens when the soil isn’t packed tightly enough, leaving gaps for water to seep through,” Ajith explains. “We need to fix it promptly by adding more soil and grass.”

On a larger island, the community has constructed a church where elderly women prepare fish to offer to visitors. Near the water’s edge, 18-year-old Philip Jok Thon gestures towards a corroded sign, barely legible now. “This marked our school,” he says, referring to the community’s first educational facility opened in 2018, which closed less than two years later due to flooding.

“We desperately need our school back. We yearn to learn, to know more about the world,” Thon expresses. He dreams of moving to Bor, though he admits, “It’s very challenging. We’re not equipped for city life.”

Duot, the mother of six, prefers the familiar hardships of island life over the uncertainties of urban existence for her children. “In the city, they might end up in child labor or fall into bad company. It’s better they stay here, where we can work hard for them until our last days,” she concludes, returning to her task of splitting papyrus roots.