In the heart of Mundri, a small town in South Sudan’s Western Equatoria state, Joy Falatiya sits outside a modest mud-walled room, her baby cradled in her arms. Only a few months ago, in March 2024, Falatiya’s world unraveled when her husband forced her and their five children out of their home. Homeless and penniless, she found herself teetering on the edge of despair. "I wanted to take my children and jump in the river," she confided to The Associated Press, her voice steady but haunted by the memory. Yet, against the odds, Falatiya’s story took a turn for the better—thanks to a rare mental health clinic nearby that offered her counseling and hope.
Since April, Falatiya has received regular psycho-social therapy at the Mundri clinic. The support, she says, has helped her banish the darkest of thoughts, even as she continues to struggle to feed her children and keep them in school. Her recovery is a testament to the transformative power of mental health care—but such care is a rarity in South Sudan, where clinics like the one in Mundri are not only scarce but now face an uncertain future.
The Mundri clinic is one of just eight specialized centers that opened their doors in late 2022, part of a pioneering project aimed at bringing mental health services to over 20,000 people across the country for the first time. According to France 24, these clinics were established with funding from Italy and Greece, but that support is set to expire in November 2025. Without new donors, the lifeline they provide may soon be cut off, leaving thousands vulnerable once again.
The urgency of the situation is underscored by grim statistics. South Sudan has the fourth-highest suicide rate in Africa and ranks thirteenth globally, according to the World Health Organization. In July 2025 alone, authorities in Juba, the nation’s capital, reported 12 suicides in a single week—a number that sent shockwaves through the community and prompted renewed calls for action. As France 24 reported, clinics offering mental health support are not only few and far between but also teetering on the brink of closure.
The roots of South Sudan’s mental health crisis run deep. The country’s civil war, which erupted in 2013 when government forces loyal to President Salva Kiir clashed with troops backing Vice President Riek Machar, set off a wave of violence and displacement that persists to this day. Although a peace deal was signed in 2018, fighting resumed in January 2025, and the United Nations has warned of a possible “relapse into large scale conflict.” The scars of war are everywhere—physically, emotionally, and psychologically.
Poverty compounds the trauma. Over 90% of South Sudan’s population lives on less than $2.15 per day, according to the World Bank. For many, the daily struggle to survive leaves little room for addressing mental health needs. As Jacopo Rovarini, an official with Amref Health Africa—the lead charity implementing the mental health project—explained to the Associated Press, "Mental health issues are a huge obstacle to the development of South Sudan." He added, "More than a third of those screened by the Amref project show signs of either psychological distress or mental health disorders. So the burden for the individuals, their families and their communities is huge in this country, and it has gone quite unaddressed so far."
The clinics, run by a coalition of charities including Amref Health Africa and Caritas, partner with government health centers, Catholic parishes, and local radio stations to reach those in need. One innovative offering is Self Help Plus, a group-based stress management course launched by WHO in 2021. These sessions, often attended by women, teach simple exercises that can be practiced at home to help manage stress—a small but vital tool in a country where professional care is scarce.
But as the clock ticks down on international funding, the future of these services hangs in the balance. Dr. Atong Ayuel Longar, one of South Sudan’s few psychiatrists and the leader of the health ministry’s mental health department, is deeply concerned. She told the Associated Press, "A pervasive sense of uncertainty is what affects the population the most" amid the constant threat of war. "Because you can’t plan for tomorrow. Do we need to evacuate? People will be like, ‘No, no, no, there’s no war.’ Yet you don’t feel that sense of peace around you. Things are getting tough."
In Mundri, the impact of conflict is still keenly felt. The area was ravaged by fighting in 2015, leading to widespread displacement, looting, and sexual violence. Many residents have yet to recover, and fear that violence could flare up again at any moment. Paul Monday, a local youth leader, summed up the community’s predicament: "There are many mad people in the villages. It’s so common because we lost a lot of things during the war. We had to flee and our properties were looted. In our community here, when you’re mad, you’re abandoned." His words reflect not only the prevalence of mental health struggles but also the stigma that surrounds them.
International organizations have tried to bridge the gap, but their efforts are often hampered by limited resources and the sheer scale of the need. Caritas, a Catholic NGO, organizes Self Help Plus sessions to equip communities with tools for healing. Dr. Longar believes these initiatives are crucial, saying the community must be empowered “to heal and to help themselves by themselves, and break the cycle of trauma.” Yet, she worries about sustainability. The retreat of major donors, including a scaling back of U.S. foreign aid, has left many projects on shaky ground.
For patients like Joy Falatiya, the stakes couldn’t be higher. "What happened to me in the past was very dangerous, but the thought of bad things can be removed," she said, standing in a small garden she now cultivates outside her temporary home—offered by a local man who took pity on her plight. Falatiya’s hope is simple: that the clinic will still be there if and when her "bad thoughts" return.
The story of mental health care in South Sudan is one of resilience in the face of adversity, but also of fragility. As the nation grapples with ongoing conflict, crushing poverty, and the looming threat of clinic closures, the fate of thousands hangs in the balance. The coming months will reveal whether the world steps up to ensure these rare lifelines remain open—or whether South Sudan’s most vulnerable are left to navigate their struggles alone.
