From Neglect to Gangs: The Unspoken Truth of Melbourne’s South Sudanese Crisis
By Agok Wel, Juba, South Sudan
In my last article, I argued that fathers must be fully present in their children’s lives if we want to end the funerals. That is a fact. But presence alone is not the cure. We must face the choices that made our children hungry, invisible, and lost. These choices built the gangs that are now burying our sons.
We arrived in Australia fleeing war. We settled in Melbourne, but our hearts and our money stayed in Africa.
For too many mothers, the priority was not the child under her roof. It was the family left behind. Parents, siblings, and cousins; they saw us as saviors. The phone calls were relentless. Unpaid school fees. Hospital bills. Daily struggles. To those in Africa a mother’s (their daughter) honor was measured by how much she sent back.
So the money went. Welfare payments and low-wage pay were diverted to Africa. Houses were built in Juba. Nephews’ tuition in Uganda or Cairo was paid. Relatives got the best. Our children in Melbourne got what was left. Often, that was nothing.
This created war in our homes. Husbands and wives fought over welfare money. Each tried to be the hero to their family back home. Marriages broke. Men were thrown out. That is how the flood of single mothers was created. The welfare money was left entirely in the mother’s hands, and the neglect deepened.
Our children felt the betrayal. They saw the money come in but never saw the benefits. The fridge was empty. Clothes were torn. There was no money for sports, for school trips, for birthdays. Their mother was emotionally absent, consumed by problems thousands of miles away. They were ghosts in their own homes, less important than cousins they had never met.
Then came sanduk. As if sending money to Africa was not enough, majority of these mothers got the idea of sanduk, group saving circles. Twenty or so women would each contribute $500 or $1000 every two weeks. with the lump sum rotating among members. In theory, it was financial solidarity. In practice, it was devastating. Most of these women survived on welfare or low wages, yet sanduk payments took priority over household needs.
The first victims were the children:
- Children went to school without lunches.
- Sport shoes tore or got too small, but replacements never came.
- Books and supplies ran out. Nobody bought more.
- Parent-teacher meetings? Missed. No time, no energy.
- Birthdays? Forgotten. Not even a “happy birthday.”
At school, they saw classmates with new shoes and birthday parties. They saw parents who showed up. Humiliated, our children fell silent. They stopped trying. They dropped out. They found comfort with other neglected kids. The streets became their family.
On the streets, they were finally seen. Opportunistic criminals gave them $200 for new sneakers. They felt respected. The next day, they were handed drugs to sell. Soon they were smoking, dealing, and robbing. By 15, they were full gang members. From there, the only choices are loyalty or death.
Where did the sanduk money go? To Africa. Or to luxury furniture. Big TVs and fancy couches stood in living rooms where the fridges were empty. Our children ate noodles.
Then COVID-19 unleashed the pokies. Gambling became a faster, deadlier drain. At least sending money to Africa had the illusion of building something. Gambling offered only shame and an empty bank account.
Our children watched it all. They ate noodles while money flew to Africa. They wore torn shoes while their mothers bought couches. When you are a ghost at home, the streets will promise to make you a king.
Denial made it worse. In those early days, If someone warned a parent about their child, the parent lashed out. “Why are you spoiling my name?” We defended our reputation more than we protected our children. Silence fertilized the gangs.
The funerals will not stop until we act. Not talk. Painful action.
Stop sending money to Africa if your own children are neglected. No cousin matters more than your son.
Stop sanduk if you are on welfare. These schemes are starving your kids. Your child needs: food, clothes, shoes, and school activities come first.
Stop gambling. The pokies are engineered to destroy you and your children.
Stop buying houses you cannot afford. A mortgage is not a trophy if it starves your family.
Stop showing off. A fancy couch means nothing if your fridge is empty.
Make your home the priority. Fill it with food and support. Be present. Celebrate their birthdays. Buy them shoes. Show up. Make your children feel seen.
If you do not, the streets will. And the streets are merciless.
Melbourne is bleeding because our homes failed first. The gangs were born in neglect and fed by money that went everywhere except to our children.
The solution is not complicated. It is brutal in its simplicity: put your children first, or bury them later.
Parenting or Funeral Planning – The Choice is Yours
South Sudanese communities in Melbourne are bleeding. Children are dying. They’re killing themselves, they’re killing each other, and gangs are swallowing them alive. Ten-year-old boys are being buried. Every week, another life gone. Every funeral is another reminder that parents are the only solution.
I once lived next door to a respected elder in Wyndham Vale, Melbourne. He had six boys. None of them got lost to gangs. None of them ended up dead. Why? Because their father was present. He drove them to sports six days a week. He sat at basketball games, waited until they finished, and brought them home. He didn’t give them “freedom” to roam with friends outside. He didn’t play that game. His boys were always on a leash. Today, they are alive, grown, working. Safe.
This man was not educated in classrooms. He worked for the council, mowing parks and playgrounds. But he had a PhD in parenting. He didn’t mess around when it came to his children. That’s the model. That’s what we need.
Parents, let’s stop lying to ourselves. Community meetings won’t save your kids. The government won’t save your kids. The police won’t save your kids. You will. Ninety-nine percent of this fight is in your hands. If you fail, prepare to bury your child. It’s that brutal.
Our problem is our parenting style. Too many fathers think their job ends with paying rent and school fees. That’s the easy part. That’s not parenting. Parenting is showing up. Parenting is sacrifice. Parenting is making your child your full-time job.
You must know exactly when your child leaves school and when they get home. If they miss the first bus, you need to ask why—immediately. Don’t let it slide. No excuses. You must know their friends, their movements, their stories. No sleepovers. No disappearing after school. Keep your child close until adulthood.
Be present. If you live far, your phone must be on. Internet must be on. If your child calls, you answer. No meeting, no job, no excuse is bigger than that. If you ignore those calls, you are signing their death certificate.
Understand the reality: every Black kid who goes to basketball games alone in Melbourne is a target. Gangs recruit there. If your son refuses, they’ll threaten him. If he still refuses, they’ll kill him. That’s how our children die. Your presence at those games is the only shield.
Yes, it’s hard to be there every day. But it’s doable. White parents (Kwajat) do it. They live in their kids’ lives 24/7. They sacrifice. That’s why their kids survive. There is no magic wand. There is no shortcut. Only presence.
To the parents who already lost their children, my heart is with you. No pain compares to burying your child. To the rest of us, if we don’t change today, we will join you tomorrow.
It’s that simple. Either you raise your child, or the streets will.
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