By Joseph M. Nyieth
Chairman, National Parties Alliance (NPA)
Currently pursuing a Doctorate in Business Administration

You know, I can’t help but remember those days back in 1999—our secondary school years in Kakuma—when every time a debate was coming up, we’d scramble for the dictionary first. It seemed like we’d stuff our minds with as much grammatical jargon as we could, just so we could toss those terms into the debate, hoping to sound sharp and defend our positions with a bit of pride.

That little memory—maybe ordinary to some—captures so much about resilience, ambition, and just the stubbornness of the human spirit. Kakuma Refugee Camp, set out in that harsh, dry corner of northwestern Kenya, was where thousands fleeing brutal wars sought shelter. In a place like that, education became something way more than a privilege. It was a kind of lifeline, a beacon, and honestly, a weapon for carving out your own space in the world.

For a lot of us young refugees—myself included—those school debates weren’t just some academic routine. They were battlegrounds where your brain, your words, and your pride all had to show up and prove you mattered, even when everything around you said otherwise.

Kakuma’s Reality: A Shelter and a Struggle

Kakuma Refugee Camp has been a home of sorts since 1992, a patch of hope for people running from violence in places like Sudan (now South Sudan), Somalia, Ethiopia, and the DRC. By the late ’90s, the camp had swelled with tens of thousands, many of them kids and teens shaken loose by the Second Sudanese Civil War (1983–2005).

Education there was built on partnerships—UNHCR working alongside a handful of NGOs, stitching together a system that offered primary and, to a much lesser extent, secondary schooling. Secondary school was rare—almost a prize. There weren’t enough schools; places were fought over, and the resources? Well, they were stretched thin. Classrooms would be jammed with students, books were few, and whatever facilities we had were pretty basic. Yet, in all of this, extracurriculars like debates somehow flourished. They gave us a place to sharpen our thinking, polish our speaking, and build up the kind of arguments you’d need later in life—far more than just for passing exams.

In 1999, long before anyone in South Sudan could dream seriously about independence and while war still ripped through the region, young folks like us in Kakuma grabbed onto dictionaries and grammar as tools for fighting back. Loading up on words like “syntax,” “rhetoric,” or “fallacy”—it wasn’t about showing off. It was about sounding confident, feeling smart, and maybe even defiant. When basic needs go unmet, having the right words becomes its own kind of resistance—a way of standing tall, of reclaiming a bit of dignity.

My Path: From the Debate Floor to National Politics

I’ll be honest, this memory’s personal. It’s rooted deep in my own days as a refugee—a kid just trying to find his footing. Kakuma wasn’t just a camp for me; it was a forge. It took all that hardship and somehow sparked thinkers, leaders, and advocates out of it all.

For me and my classmates, debates were like miniature versions of the bigger fights we’d have to face: making your case, pushing back against those who disagreed, and not backing down when it counted. Fast forward to today, and I’m now chairman of the National Parties Alliance (NPA) in South Sudan—a coalition built to push for peace, unity, and more open, inclusive leadership. The NPA has gone to lengths to call for real dialogue, especially among opposition groups who still haven’t come to the table, focusing on the need to stick to the Revitalized Agreement on the Resolution of the Conflict in the Republic of South Sudan (R-ARCSS).

Even now, in a country still working through the wounds of war and the struggles of building a state from scratch, the NPA plays a crucial role in advocating for peace and coexistence. My own climb—from those frantic dictionary sessions in Kakuma to a seat at the national leadership table—kind of says a lot about what education can do. All that time spent cramming unfamiliar words? It gave me a lifelong respect for clear communication and tough argumentation—skills I use daily in politics. Defending your stance “with pride” in school? That turns out to be priceless training for coalition-building, negotiating, and pushing for what you believe in, even when things get messy.

Right now, as I work toward a doctorate in Business Administration, I see how academic rigor can blend with the practical demands of leadership. My journey’s a reminder that education doesn’t just fill your head with knowledge—it hands you the confidence you need to step up and lead.

What We Learn: Education as the Backbone of Endurance

The whole business of debates in Kakuma highlights something bigger. Around the world, refugee camps don’t just teach kids to read and write. They build skills for life—thinking critically, empathizing, toughing it out. Groups like UNHCR and Jesuit Refugee Service have done a ton to widen access, rolling out programs that move faster or are tailored to help girls get in and stay in school.

Still, there’s no denying the challenges: way too many students per teacher, not enough spots in secondary school, financial barriers that trip up too many bright young minds. But success stories keep coming. Quite a few Kakuma alumni have made their way to university, careers, and positions where they can make real impact—giving back to their communities and even beyond.

When I think back to us kids stuffing our heads with grammar just so we’d sound impressive, I realize now we were setting the stage for a much bigger impact. The pride we took in defending our ideas? It plants the same seeds needed for rebuilding a country.

What Lies Ahead: Building on Pride, Carrying On

South Sudan’s road to peace is far from smooth, but folks like myself—and so many others—show just how much education matters when the world turns upside down. The NPA’s push for unity and peace really isn’t so different from those school debates: a bunch of voices, sometimes at odds, sometimes in sync, all trying to find a way forward together.

Honestly, in a world still so full of displacement, stories like these are reminders. Even when the odds are stacked against you, chasing knowledge and learning how to use your voice can lead to real, lasting change.

From grabbing the dictionary back in 1999 to leading a national political coalition today, my story is proof that defending your points—with stubborn pride—matters, not just in debate, but in every part of life.

In the end, what I’ve lived through shows just how transformative education is for refugees—and for building up tomorrow’s leaders. As I keep working on my doctorate and keep pushing for a more peaceful, united South Sudan, I hope my journey encourages others to see education for what it really is: the foundation for both peace and progress.

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