General

Sexual violence is off the charts in South Sudan – but a new female head chief could help bring change

Rachel
Ibreck, The Conversation, May 31, 2018

A woman
was recently elected as a senior chief in South Sudan
– a not unheard of, but very unusual occurrence. This surely a positive change
in a country ravaged by civil war and attendant sexual violence.
South
Sudanese women queue to vote. Mohamed
Messara/EPA

Rebecca
Nyandier Chatim is now head chief of the Nuer ethnic group in the United
Nations Protection of Civilians site (PoC) in Juba, where more than 38,000
people have sought sanctuary with United Nations Mission in South Sudan (UNMISS)
peacekeepers.
Her victory is of symbolic and practical importance.

South
Sudan’s chiefs wield real power, even during wartime. They administer customary
laws that can resolve local disputes but also reinforce gender differences and
inequalities, to the advantage of the military elite.
So could
a female chief work towards changing this? Admittedly, even if the new female
chief is determined to effect change — which remains to be seen — the odds are
against her. The chief and her community are vulnerable, displaced persons,
living in a sort of internal refugee camp, guarded by UN peacekeepers. Fighting
and atrocities have continued outside, especially in the devastated homelands of the Nuer
people. But the new chief has the support of the former head chief and a group
of male paralegals, who have celebrated her victory as an advance for gender
equality. Together, they might make a difference.
Chief
Rebecca Nyandier Chatim sits at the local community court between her deputy
and secretary. © Rachel Ibreck, Author provided
 

Women in
power
South
Sudan needs more women in positions of authority. The appointment of a female
chief gives a boost to the cause of women’s empowerment and provides a welcome
distraction from the general despair and frustration with the country’s
militarised, masculine leaders. In their internecine civil war, which broke out
in December 2013, they have targeted civilians and killed more than 50,000.
They have forced over 200,000
people into UN protection sites within South Sudan, and over 2m
across its borders.
Reports
of sexual violence are off the charts: the UN found
“massive use of rape as an instrument of terror”, and Amnesty International reported
it was “rampant”. Domestic violence is rife, too. A recent study from the
Global Women’s Institute estimated that over 65% of women and girls had
experienced some form of gender-based violence, double the global average. And
recently accusations emerged of rape and sexual exploitation by peacekeepers
and aid workers.
Of
course, women leaders cannot be expected to transform a violent patriarchal
order alone. They often have ambiguous identities; and they can even have
negative impacts. Chief Nyandier is now a chief but she was formerly a general
in a rebel army, the South Sudan People’s Liberation Army-in Opposition
(SPLA-IO). No doubt her military record has contributed to her status.
The
appointment of a female chief is very unusual, although not unprecedented.
There have been female Nuer chiefs since the 1990s, and there are other
established ways in which women can gain authority within Nuer society, by
becoming “socially men”,
or through claims of divine possession as prophets. But such women may even be
directly involved in violence. For example, in the current war, the prophetess Nyachol
has wielded spiritual authority over armed young men, cultivating some limits
on the use of violence, but also mobilising her followers to fight in defence
of the community and in revenge attacks on their neighbours.
Still,
South Sudanese women are uniting across ethno-political divides in protests
against atrocities or calls for inclusion at the peace table. They have yet to
gain real traction. But in the latest round of peace talks, one women’s
activist put their agenda succinctly:
“Peace is for the people, not the leaders.”
Patriarchal
chiefs
Chiefs
are in a position to make changes to social norms and arrangements. They derive
authority from their status as a formal institution of local government. Their
legitimacy rests upon their relationships with the people who select them.
Chiefs
act as mediators at community level and also try to “deal with
government
”; they have variously adapted to or resisted successive
predatory colonial and authoritarian regimes. Their customary courts are
transparent, participatory affairs that can deliver swift, tangible judgements.
They provide the most accessible, often the only available, judicial mechanism
and they have continued to preside over cases, amid the disruptions of conflict,
with little or no salary.
They rule
on all manner of disputes and accusations, but are especially engaged in family
matters, including domestic abuse, sexual violence, divorce and adultery.
Overwhelmingly, chiefs’ judgements privilege the interests of husbands and
families over those of women and girls; they can trap women in abusive
marriages and administer harsh adultery or “elopement” punishments to unmarried
couples.
A chief’s
court in session under a tree. © Rachel Ibreck, Author provided

Judgements
that violate human rights and treat women as a commodity have persisted even in
PoC sites controlled by the UN, such as the one in Juba where the new chief
takes up her post. But the chief’s authority is to some extent constrained by
the setting, as UNMISS has established its own bodies for camp management,
involving UN police, humanitarian organisations and local community structures,
and they do not recognise the judicial authority of the chiefs’ courts.

However,
internationals have no mandate to administer justice within the sites, and
violent disputes, criminality and interfamilial conflicts have proliferated.
Women have turned to the chiefs and appear in the court as complainants and
defendants on myriad cases, ranging from arguments with neighbours to sexual
violence and domestic abuse, as colleagues and I show in a recent research project
that documented over 300 court cases in the PoC. Among these cases, we find
many examples of discrimination and violations of women’s rights. But we also
find a few cases suggesting innovation and adaptation. This begs a question of
whether and how good precedents might be sustained.
Pros and
cons
The
notion that chiefs might be trained to secure human rights has cropped up in
optimistic proposals of international agencies in South Sudan for years.
But there are many obstacles.
The
chiefs are themselves a product of a system of repressive government. Customs
have been forged in interaction with the predatory state since the colonial
era, and customary laws serve the interests of what political scientist Mahmood
Mamdani called the “decentralised despotism” of administrative tribalism, which
includes the ethnic and gender segregations and hierarchies that enable
repression and violent mobilisation. There are powerful interests in preserving
this status quo.
But
custom is also resilient for material and social reasons. It provides
predictability and order in a radically unstable political environment. And it
upholds the dignity of people as members of a community, even while it violates
some individual rights.
Even
under UN governance, customary law has flourished as a bulwark against
insecurity. The painful irony that custom is also often at the root of
conflicts makes reform necessary; but does not make it any easier to achieve
where immediate responses are needed.
Refugees
from South Sudan at a camp in DRC, October 2017. Nelly
Maonde/Trócaire
, CC BY
Hope
Yet the
new chief, Nyandier has unique opportunities to take a lead on women’s rights
under UN governance, whatever her previous experience or allegiances. Not least
because she has allies in an informal network of young men trained as
paralegals who are determined that their sisters and daughters should not be
“treated as resources”.
The
paralegals have learnt the basics of human rights law, are familiar with
inherited custom, and have themselves experienced multiple injustices. They
have engaged in the creative practical responses to disputes and they
understand the opaque social, economic and cultural considerations that drive
them. In contrast to the technical, idealised approaches to law reform often
adopted by international “rule of law” programmes, these legal activists act at
the margins in ways that resonate with problem-solving customary approaches.
They are able to respond to a reality that everyday practices and social
networks govern in South Sudan, more so than ideas and institutions.
This is
why relationships between the new chief and young paralegal activists matter.
And the stakes are higher than they may seem. My wider
research
suggests that political elites rely upon pernicious
combinations of statutory and customary law to sustain their violent
kleptocracy in South Sudan. And legal activism at the margins might just help
to transform it.