Imagine waking up in a country that is finally beginning to feel the first quiet stirrings of democratic renewal. South Sudan is preparing for elections on December 22, and for many citizens this is a moment of profound meaning—a chance to shape the future after years of pain, displacement, and uncertainty. Recently, the first batch of voter registration materials was formally handed over to the Central Equatoria State High Elections Committee, a procedural step that signals progress. But civil society activist Edmund Yakani sees something else moving alongside the official paperwork: a dangerous fog of incomplete information, unverified claims, and unreliable communication channels. He warns that this fog could do more than confuse people—it could put the credibility of the entire election at risk. For the average person in South Sudan, voter registration is not a mundane bureaucratic task. It is an act of hope. It is a survivor saying, “I belong here, and my voice should count.” Yet that hope is fragile. If a mother hears that she must travel to a different town to register, or that her village has been skipped, she might give up. If a young man sees a social media post claiming that registration is a trick to collect names for harassment, he may stay home. In a nation where trust in institutions has been tested many times, misinformation is not a small nuisance—it is a weapon that can quietly destroy the foundation of a legitimate vote. Yakani is not asking for anything complicated. He is asking election officials to recognize that communication is as important as ballots, and that without clear, honest, and continuous information, the hope of December could wither before it ever reaches the polling station.
Edmund Yakani is the Executive Director of the Community Empowerment for Progress Organization, better known as CEPO, and he has spent years watching how power, information, and people interact in fragile democracies. He understands that in a place like South Sudan, where radio broadcasts may be the only source of news for remote communities and where social media can spread falsehoods faster than any official announcement, the gap between fact and rumor is where the real danger lies. That is why he is not merely offering gentle advice. He is issuing a call to action to the National Elections Commission and to state-level leaders: establish dedicated media centers, staffed with people whose only job is to verify, clarify, and respond. These centers would not be public relations offices. They would be lifelines. They would give voters somewhere to turn when they hear something that seems wrong or frightening. They would allow election officials to say with confidence, “This is true, and this is false,” before confusion hardens into suspicion. Yakani’s message is deeply human because it recognizes that ordinary people are doing their best to participate in a process that may still feel abstract or intimidating. When a grandmother in a rural community asks her neighbor whether it is safe to register, she needs an answer she can trust. When a displaced person wonders whether his name is on the list, he needs to know that the system sees him. A media center cannot solve every problem, but it can be a warm, reliable presence in a world that often feels unpredictable. Yakani’s insistence on this point is not about bureaucracy. It is about making sure that no one is left out of democracy simply because they could not find the truth in time.
The consequences of misinformation during voter registration are not hypothetical. They are immediate and serious. If false reports circulate that registration centers in certain areas are closed, people may not show up. If rumors spread that registering will expose people to danger, entire communities could withdraw from the process. If unclear communication leads voters to believe their names have been erased or their documents are invalid, they may lose faith in the entire election. Yakani put it plainly in his interview with Eye Radio on Tuesday: “Any misinformation associated with voter registration will have huge implications on the election’s credibility.” That single sentence captures the stakes. An election that is technically well-run can still fail in the eyes of the people if they do not trust what they have heard about it. And in South Sudan, where the memory of broken promises and manipulated processes is still fresh, credibility is not automatic. It must be built, protected, and defended every single day. Voters need to feel that the information they receive is not just accurate in general, but accurate for them—for their community, their village, their circumstances. They need to know that the person making an announcement has their best interests at heart. When official messages are slow, vague, or confusing, people fill the silence with their own interpretations, often influenced by fear or past experience. That is how a small administrative misunderstanding becomes a reason for a whole community to withdraw from the democratic process. Yakani’s warning is a reminder that election authorities cannot assume that people will simply trust them. They have to earn that trust, one reliable message at a time, through channels that actually reach the people who need them most.
This is why Yakani is appealing not only to the National Elections Commission but to every South Sudanese who has a role in communicating voter registration information. He wants leaders, community figures, religious leaders, radio hosts, and ordinary citizens to understand that they are all part of the information ecosystem. When one person shares a registration detail, they are not just passing along data—they are helping to build a collective sense of safety and clarity. But that responsibility is heavy. A careless retweet, a misunderstood word, or a well-intentioned but incorrect announcement can cause real harm. That is why Yakani urges the National Elections Commission and the state and administrative area high-level committees to create very clear media platforms where the public can verify what they have heard. He has called for what he describes as “a very clear media centre for verification of information, fast-tracking and dealing with information that is either misinformation, false information or misleading information.” The repetition of words like “clear” and “verification” is important. It shows that he is not asking for vague promises. He wants systems. He wants dedicated teams that can answer questions, correct falsehoods, and give the public reliable updates in real time. This is not a radical demand. In many countries, election officials treat communication as a professional discipline, with trained staff, response protocols, and public outreach. In South Sudan, such infrastructure may need to be built quickly, but that does not make it any less necessary. It is a practical investment in the legitimacy of the entire electoral process. And it is a way of honoring the dignity of voters, who are not asking for miracles—only for the truth they can depend on.
Beyond creating media centers, Yakani insists that election authorities must strengthen their ability to respond to false reports before they spiral out of control. In a fast-moving information environment, a rumor can cross an entire country in a matter of hours. By the time an official statement is released, the damage may already be done. The only way to counter this is to be fast, proactive, and visible. That means election officials cannot wait until a false story appears and then respond four days later. They need teams that monitor what is being said, identify emerging falsehoods, and provide accurate information immediately. It also means they need to be willing to correct mistakes quickly and openly. If an official announcement contains an error, admitting that error and fixing it is not a sign of weakness; it is a demonstration of integrity. Voters will not trust a process that hides its own missteps. They will trust a process that seems honest, transparent, and willing to learn. Yakani’s call for stronger response mechanisms is really a call for humility. It is an admission that no election process is perfect, but that the gap between imperfection and failure is bridged by honesty. When election officials take responsibility for the information environment, they send a powerful message: we know that your trust is precious, and we will protect it. This is especially important in a country like South Sudan, where many people have been let down by institutions before. A rapid response mechanism is not just a technical tool. It is a promise that the voices of ordinary people will be heard, that their concerns will be taken seriously, and that they will never be left alone with a confusing rumor and no one to answer them.
The handover of the first batch of voter registration materials to the Central Equatoria State High Elections Committee on Monday was a moment of quiet significance. It meant that the machinery of the December 22 elections is moving forward, that plans are becoming real, and that the long road to the ballot box has now been marked on the ground. But Yakani’s warning reminds us that the road is not complete. It is not enough for materials to arrive; they must be understood. It is not enough for names to be collected; people must believe that their names matter. It is not enough for the election to happen; it must be seen as credible by the people it is meant to serve. That credibility rests on a thousand small moments of communication—a radio announcement, a community meeting, a conversation between neighbors, an official response to a false rumor. In all of these moments, South Sudanese citizens are making judgments about whether the system is for them or against them. Edmund Yakani’s voice is one of caution, but it is also one of hope. He is not saying the election will fail. He is saying it can succeed if everyone does their part to protect the truth. The National Elections Commission, state committees, civil society organizations, community leaders, and ordinary citizens all have a role to play. By building clear media centers, committing to fast and honest responses, and treating accurate information as a sacred duty, South Sudan can move closer to an election that is not only free and fair, but also believed. And in the end, that belief is what democracy is truly built on. When a voter walks away from a registration center feeling confident, when a family discusses the election without fear, when a community feels that its voice is real, the process has already won its most important victory. The rest is just counting ballots.