On a humid Tuesday morning in South Sudan’s capital, Juba, a group of men and women filed into a conference hall carrying folders, phones and the weight of a question that has haunted their country for years: how do you stop a war before it starts? The occasion was a three-day national workshop, convened by the Intergovernmental Authority on Development (IGAD) in collaboration with the African Union Commission and United Nations agencies, to build a multi-agency platform against hate speech and disinformation. For many in the room, this was not an abstract policy issue. They had lived through the consequences of words turned into weapons. They had seen how a lie whispered on a radio station, scrawled in a social media post, or shared in a crowded market could set neighbour against neighbour, turn old friendships into suspicion, and send families fleeing from their homes. Some had lost relatives to violence fuelled by rumour; others had spent years trying to rebuild trust between communities that no longer trusted one another. The workshop brought together government institutions, civil society organisations, media organisations and other stakeholders to coordinate responses to harmful narratives. The goal was not to police ordinary conversation or punish disagreement, but to build a shared early warning system—one capable of detecting dangerous speech before it ignites violence. There was no triumphant mood in the room, but there was a quiet sense of purpose. Everyone understood that the platform being discussed could mean the difference between a peaceful election and another slide into chaos. In a country still healing from years of conflict, where the language of division has left deep scars, this meeting felt less like a routine diplomatic exercise and more like an attempt to build a firewall around the truth itself. It was also a reminder that peace is not something achieved only at the negotiating table; it is built every day in the stories people tell about each other, and in the care they take not to turn difference into enmity.
At the heart of the initiative is a simple but profound recognition: no single institution can protect a society from disinformation alone. That is why the platform is called multi-agency. It is designed to bring together different arms of the state, independent media, civil society and community leaders so that they can share information, warn each other about emerging threats, and respond in a coordinated way. The term also reflects the reality that harmful narratives cross borders, both physical and digital, and no single ministry can own the problem. Speaking at the opening, Victoria Anib, IGAD’s Head of Mission in South Sudan, framed the effort in terms of cooperation and shared responsibility. The platform, she said, would strengthen cooperation, information-sharing, and coordinated responses to emerging threats. Her words were measured, but the message was clear: the forces that spread hate are often organised and fast; the response must be at least as organised and faster. She also spoke of the organisation’s commitment to peacebuilding and conflict prevention—a commitment that goes beyond high-level negotiations and into the daily work of protecting communities from manipulation. For the participants, this meant acknowledging that hate speech and disinformation are not side effects of conflict but can be causes of it. In a country where many people still rely on word of mouth, where radio is the most trusted medium, and where social media is growing rapidly, harmful narratives can travel like fire in dry grass. A multi-agency platform offers a way to spot those sparks early. It creates channels through which a warning from a remote community can reach the right authorities, and through which accurate information can be pushed out to counter false claims. It also builds relationships of trust between institutions that have not always worked well together. That trust, perhaps more than any formal structure, is what will make the platform effective. Without it, the best-designed early warning systems will sit idle, because no one will believe the warnings or act on them.
The initiative comes at a delicate moment in South Sudan’s long and painful journey toward stability. The country is advancing its peace process, preparing for national elections, drafting a new constitution, and trying to heal the wounds of a civil war that tore communities apart. Each of these tasks is difficult on its own; together, they create a minefield of rumours, misinformation and deliberate provocation. Political rivals, armed groups and opportunists all have an interest in shaping the narrative. A false accusation can inflame ethnic tensions. A doctored image can make a peace agreement look like a betrayal. A fabricated statement from a leader can undermine public confidence in the entire political process. South Sudanese people know this from experience. During past cycles of violence, hate speech and disinformation played a central role in mobilising fighters and dehumanising opponents. Memories of those horrors are still fresh. The upcoming elections are meant to be a milestone, a chance for citizens to choose their leaders through peaceful means. But elections are also moments of high risk. They are competitions for power, and not everyone is willing to play by the rules. The workshop was organised in recognition of that danger. By building a platform before the election season reaches its peak, organisers hope to put safeguards in place that can protect the integrity of the electoral process and, more importantly, the lives of ordinary people. The constitutional drafting process, too, requires a space where ideas can be debated honestly without being twisted into weapons. If citizens cannot share their views without fear of being labelled enemies, the constitution will lose its legitimacy. And if peacebuilding efforts are drowned out by a flood of lies, the hard-won gains of the peace agreement will be placed at risk. The stakes are not abstract: they include human lives, children’s futures and the dignity of a nation. This is why the workshop was not just about media monitoring or public relations. It was about the very foundations of South Sudan’s future as a nation—and about whether the country can find a way to argue, disagree and compete for power without resorting to the language of annihilation.
One of the most important voices at the workshop belonged to Beleteze Foretia, representing the UN Office of the Special Envoy for the Horn of Africa. He did not soften his warning. Hate speech, rumours and misinformation, he said, could undermine trust among communities and fuel political instability. He was not speaking in the abstract. In fragile societies, a single piece of misinformation can trigger a wave of panic, displacement or violence. A rumour that an attack is being planned can lead people to strike first. A false story about corruption can destroy the reputation of an honest official. A manipulated video can make a whole community feel threatened and turn to self-defence that quickly becomes offensive. Foretia also stressed something that might seem counterintuitive in a workshop on disinformation: the fight against harmful narratives must not compromise fundamental rights. He emphasised the need to protect freedom of expression, independent journalism and legitimate political participation. This is a delicate balance. Governments under pressure often reach for censorship and repression, silencing critics in the name of fighting lies. But that approach can backfire, breeding resentment and giving true disinformation even more power. The answer, Foretia suggested, is not to muzzle people but to strengthen the truth. Independent journalism needs protection so that reporters can verify facts and challenge rumours. Civil society needs space to educate the public. Political participation needs to be open so that people can resolve disagreements through debate rather than violence. The platform, if designed well, would not become a tool of surveillance or intimidation. It would serve as a kind of public health system for information—monitoring, diagnosing and responding to outbreaks of toxic speech while allowing the ecosystem to remain free. For the participants, this was a reminder that the goal is not a society where no one says anything harmful, but a society where harmful words cannot destroy the bonds that hold people together. That distinction matters, because a free society must be willing to tolerate uncomfortable speech. The challenge is to prevent such speech from turning into violence, and to do so without losing the very freedoms that make a democracy worth defending.
The work of the three-day workshop was as practical as it was ambitious. Participants were expected to define institutional responsibilities—to say clearly who does what when a dangerous narrative begins to spread. This may sound bureaucratic, but in a crisis, ambiguity can be deadly. If a rumour of an imminent attack circulates in a border town, someone needs to know whether the police, the army, the local authorities or the peacekeeping mission should respond, and how they should coordinate. If a viral post threatens to trigger ethnic violence, there must be a clear chain of communication from community monitors to decision-makers. The workshop also sought to strengthen links between early warning mechanisms and preventive action. Early warning has long been a buzzword in conflict prevention, but all too often warnings are issued and then ignored. The new platform aims to close that gap by ensuring that information flows directly into action. Participants were also tasked with developing a shared understanding of the threats posed by harmful narratives. Different groups see different dangers: government officials worry about instability; journalists worry about censorship; communities worry about incitement. Finding common ground is essential if they are to work together. Finally, the organisers stressed the importance of national ownership. The platform must belong to South Sudanese institutions and citizens, not to international partners who may one day leave. This means investing in local capacity, respecting local knowledge, and ensuring that the responses reflect South Sudan’s own culture and realities. The workshop was not meant to produce a perfect blueprint in three days. It was meant to begin a process, to build relationships and to generate momentum. In the hallways, participants were already exchanging phone numbers, planning follow-up meetings and debating how to involve traditional leaders, women’s groups and young people. Those informal conversations, as much as the formal sessions, were part of the human work of peacebuilding. The platform will only succeed if the people who run it trust one another. That trust cannot be created by a document; it has to be built face to face, over time, through difficult conversations. The success of the platform will depend less on the elegance of its design than on the willingness of institutions to share power and information. And the conversations that began in Juba will need to continue long after the workshop has ended.
By the time the workshop ended, no one believed that a single platform would solve South Sudan’s problems. The country has faced decades of conflict, displacement and political turmoil, and the road ahead remains steep. But there was also a feeling that something important had been set in motion. The people in that room—government officials, civil society activists, journalists, community elders, UN staff—had taken a step toward acknowledging that the words they use and the stories they tell have power. They had agreed, at least in principle, that silence in the face of hate speech is not neutral, and that allowing disinformation to spread unchecked is not an act of neutrality but a choice to let the worst impulses prevail. The platform they are building is not a magic cure. It will face challenges: political interference, lack of resources, mistrust, and the sheer speed of digital communication. But it is a start. It is a way of saying that South Sudan can be different, that its people are not doomed to repeat the past, and that the future can be built on truth rather than fear. For ordinary South Sudanese, the impact will be measured in small but significant ways: a village that receives accurate information instead of rumours; a family that does not have to flee because a false warning spread too fast; an election in which votes are counted in a climate of calm rather than chaos. The workshop in Juba was not a solution in itself, but it was a promise—a promise to listen, to coordinate, and to defend the space where honest conversation is possible. As the participants returned to their offices and communities, they carried with them a question that will not go away: what kind of country do we want to build? And in answering it, they will need to choose their words carefully. Because in South Sudan, as in all fragile places, words can kill—but they can also heal. The platform being created is an effort to make sure that, this time, the healing words are the ones that are heard. It will require patience, courage and the willingness of everyone, from leaders in Juba to elders in remote villages, to take responsibility for the stories they spread. In the end, the most important change may be in how South Sudanese see themselves—not as passive victims of division, but as active guardians of a common future. That is a task no single workshop can complete, but it is a task that must begin somewhere. It began here, in a room full of people who refused to believe that conflict is inevitable.