Power-sharing had simply rewarded the same corrupt elites who caused the wars
As a new American administration prepared to take office in early 2021, two nations in the Horn of Africa — Sudan, newly freed from dictatorship but dangerously unstable, and South Sudan, consumed by a civil war of its own making — posed a quiet but urgent question: would the United States honor its stated commitment to democracy, or would it once again treat African crises as peripheral to its interests? The argument being made was not merely strategic but moral, rooted in the recognition that America had helped birth South Sudan and had long claimed democracy as its guiding value. What was at stake was not only the fate of millions displaced and killed, but the credibility of a nation deciding whether its principles travel beyond its borders.
- Nearly 400,000 people have died and over 4 million have been displaced in South Sudan since 2013, while Sudan's fragile democratic transition teeters under military pressure and economic collapse.
- Regional peace efforts by the African Union and IGAD have repeatedly failed, rewarding the very corrupt elites who caused these crises while pushing pro-democracy activists and civil society leaders to the margins.
- The incoming Biden administration faced a direct test of its democratic commitments, having inherited a region where the previous administration's disengagement had allowed instability to deepen.
- Proposed remedies include targeted sanctions, an arms embargo, support for the promised but undelivered Hybrid Court in South Sudan, and diplomatic backing for alternative peace processes led by groups like the Sant'Egidio community.
- The underlying warning is stark: without sustained American engagement, state fragmentation in the Horn of Africa could produce humanitarian catastrophes far exceeding what is already unfolding.
When Joe Biden prepared to take office in January 2021, he inherited two countries in the Horn of Africa pulling apart at their seams. Sudan had toppled a long-ruling dictator through popular uprising in 2019, but its fragile transitional government was caught between military officers resistant to reform and an economy in freefall. South Sudan, a nation the United States had helped bring into existence a decade earlier, was locked in a civil war that had killed nearly 400,000 people and uprooted more than 4 million since 2013. The question was whether the new administration would treat these crises as distant and peripheral, or as central to both American values and regional stability.
Sudan's transitional government, led by Prime Minister Abdalla Hamdok, embodied the hopes of the young people — many of them women — who had organized the nonviolent movement that ended Omar al-Bashir's rule. But Hamdok governed under constant pressure from military officers with no appetite for genuine reform, while armed groups in Darfur and the Nuba Mountains remained excluded from political arrangements. South Sudan's picture was darker still: a government fractured between rival leaders Salva Kiir and Riek Machar, two failed peace agreements, endemic gender-based violence, and a population traumatized by decades of war and misrule.
Regional organizations had attempted to resolve both crises through power-sharing deals. The results had been largely catastrophic. In South Sudan, these arrangements rewarded the corrupt elites who had caused the war while sidelining the civil society voices who sought genuine change. In Sudan, a brokered deal between civilians and the military shielded officers accused of war crimes in Darfur, marginalizing the very pro-democracy forces that had risked everything to demand a new order.
The case for deeper American engagement rested on both interest and conscience. Sudan and South Sudan hold vast arable land, gold, and oil — wealth squandered by political elites. The United States bore a particular moral responsibility toward South Sudan, having championed its independence. And across both countries, young activists who had organized for democratic change deserved support from a nation that claimed democracy as its defining commitment.
The prescription was concrete: in Sudan, strengthen Hamdok's coalition, rebuild state institutions, and press for accountability for Darfur war crimes. In South Sudan, maintain the UN arms embargo, preserve Treasury sanctions, and push for the long-promised Hybrid Court. Diplomatically, the U.S. should build multilateral coalitions and support alternative peace processes — including one pursued by the Sant'Egidio community in Rome — aimed at elevating a new generation of leaders untouched by the civil war's corruption.
The broader argument was that the strategy of leaving Africa to solve its own problems had run its course. What was needed was not military intervention, but sustained diplomatic engagement, strategic support for democratic forces, and a willingness to use the tools of accountability. Without it, the fragmentation of these states threatened to destabilize the entire Horn of Africa — and to confirm that American commitments to democracy end precisely where they become difficult to keep.
When Joe Biden took office in January 2021, he inherited two countries in the Horn of Africa that were coming apart at the seams. Sudan had just toppled a dictator through popular uprising in 2019, but the fragile new government was struggling to hold together against military pressure and economic collapse. South Sudan, which the United States had helped bring into existence a decade earlier, was locked in a grinding civil war that had killed nearly 400,000 people and displaced more than 4 million others since 2013. The question facing the new administration was whether it would treat these crises as peripheral to American interests, or whether it would recognize them as central to regional stability and American values alike.
The Trump administration had largely stepped back from Africa, preferring transactional deals and geopolitical maneuvering to the harder work of supporting democratic movements. Biden had promised something different. In a Foreign Affairs essay before taking office, he had written that America needed to lead again by renewing its commitment to democracy and re-engaging with the world. Sudan and South Sudan offered a test of whether that promise would translate into action.
Sudan's situation was precarious but not hopeless. Prime Minister Abdalla Hamdok, who led the transitional government, represented the hopes of the young people—many of them women—who had organized the nonviolent uprising that toppled Omar al-Bashir. But Hamdok faced relentless pressure from military officers who had no interest in genuine democratic reform, from economic conditions that were deteriorating by the month, and from armed groups in peripheral regions like Darfur and the Nuba Mountains who had been excluded from power-sharing arrangements. The new government was trying to rebuild state institutions from scratch, but it was doing so with one hand tied behind its back.
South Sudan presented a darker picture. The civil war that erupted in 2013, just two years after independence, had become a catastrophe of displacement, starvation, and systematic violence. Gender-based violence was endemic. The government, led by Salva Kiir, was riven by factional conflict with rival leader Riek Machar. Two peace agreements, brokered by regional organizations in 2015 and 2018, had failed to stick. The underlying problem was not merely a clash between two leaders, but a fundamental failure of governance in a country fractured along ethnic lines and traumatized by decades of war. The transitional government had proven incompetent at managing the economy, combating corruption, or providing basic security.
Regional organizations—the Intergovernmental Authority on Development in the case of South Sudan, and the African Union in Sudan—had tried to solve these crises through power-sharing arrangements. The theory was sound: get the major factions to agree to share power, and you create space for democratic transition. The practice had been catastrophic. In South Sudan, power-sharing had simply rewarded the same corrupt elites who had caused the war in the first place, while sidelining the young activists and civil society leaders who actually wanted fundamental change. In Sudan, the AU's brokered deal between civilians and the military had protected military officers accused of war crimes in Darfur, while marginalizing the pro-democracy forces that had risked their lives to topple al-Bashir.
The argument for deeper American engagement rested on both principle and interest. Sudan and South Sudan possessed vast arable land and mineral wealth—gold and oil—but that wealth had been squandered by political elites more interested in power than development. More fundamentally, the United States had a strategic stake in preventing state collapse in the Horn of Africa, a region of critical geopolitical importance. But there was also a moral dimension. The United States had played a central role in South Sudan's independence in 2011; it bore some responsibility for what had followed. And in Sudan, the young people who had organized the uprising against al-Bashir deserved support from a country that claimed to champion democracy.
The prescription was specific. In Sudan, the U.S. should strengthen Hamdok and his pro-democracy coalition, help rebuild state capacity, and pressure the transitional government to hold accountable those responsible for war crimes in Darfur—ending the culture of impunity that had poisoned Sudanese politics for decades. In South Sudan, the U.S. should maintain the UN arms embargo, preserve existing Treasury sanctions against individuals and companies, and push the African Union to establish the Hybrid Court that the 2015 peace agreement had promised but never delivered. Diplomatically, the U.S. should build a multilateral coalition to support alternative peace processes, including one being pursued by the Sant'Egidio community in Rome, with the goal of bringing forward a new generation of leaders untainted by the civil war.
The deeper argument was that the old strategy of letting Africa solve African problems had failed. Regional mediation had produced only stalemate and the entrenchment of corrupt elites. What was needed was sustained American engagement—not military intervention, but diplomatic pressure, strategic support for pro-democracy forces, and a willingness to use sanctions and other tools to enforce accountability. The alternative was state fragmentation that could destabilize the entire region and create humanitarian catastrophes that would dwarf what was already unfolding.
Citações Notáveis
A strategy to address the root causes of the crisis, promote democracy and good governance, and uphold the rule of law and accountability is needed.— Amir Idris, professor at Fordham University
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does the United States care what happens in Sudan and South Sudan? These are poor countries on the other side of the world.
Because state collapse in the Horn of Africa creates refugee crises, terrorism, and regional instability that eventually reach American shores. But also because the U.S. helped create South Sudan—we supported its independence in 2011. We have some responsibility for what followed.
The regional organizations—IGAD, the African Union—they've been trying to broker peace for years. Why hasn't that worked?
Because they've treated these conflicts as elite power struggles rather than systemic failures of governance. They've brokered power-sharing deals that reward the same corrupt leaders who caused the wars, while freezing out the young activists and civil society leaders who actually want change.
So you're saying the peace agreements themselves are part of the problem?
Exactly. They create the appearance of progress while protecting war criminals and sidelining reformers. In Sudan, the military officers accused of genocide in Darfur got protected. In South Sudan, the factional leaders got rewarded.
What would deeper American engagement actually look like? More military aid?
No—the opposite. Sanctions, diplomatic pressure, support for pro-democracy forces, and insistence on accountability for war crimes. The U.S. has leverage through aid and international standing. The question is whether it will use that leverage to support genuine democratic change or accept the regional consensus around power-sharing.
And if the U.S. doesn't engage more deeply?
Then you get state fragmentation, humanitarian catastrophe, and eventually a region so destabilized that it becomes a security problem for everyone, including America.