Trigger Warning and Disclaimer: the content that you are about to read contains graphic and sensitive experiences of the Sudan war. Reader discretion is advised. Read our full editorial notice here.
Al-Nafaj is a small passage connecting one house to another used by neighbors to visit each other without necessarily using the main door. In 2018, we thought we had reached the peak of suffering since almost every event and situation was screaming for an uprising.
Shocking news reverberated of children who drowned on their way to school because of a worn-out boat that was the only means to transport them. Lines extended for days and nights at the gasoline pump. There was no cash and suffering doubled in banks, in addition to a scarcity of bread until it became a luxury.
As an eighteen years old girl, I carried the guilt of all of this as if I was the one who caused it. I took responsibility for my silence and I blamed everyone around me because we had accepted the humiliation.
It was not until the sun of the 17th of December 2018 rose in Ad-Damazin and someone broke his silence, that we started feeling a sense of liberation, and united we chanted loudly “the people want to overthrow the regime.” December restored a life that we thought had been stolen forever and brought hope that we had never experienced before.
The Bashir regime had fallen, and no one believed that this had happened in just 4 months of the uprising. We had been preparing ourselves for years of oppression and darkness and now we could see some light.
We were overcome with joy and preoccupied with the euphoria of victory, so we did not prepare ourselves for what was coming. We ascended to the sky to be thrown to the earth again very hard with the bloody dispersal of the sit-in. Sudan had witnessed such destruction before, but no one dared to bring it to the center of the capital in plain sight as if sending a message, “I don’t care.”
It is worth mentioning that we did not lose our breath, we got up again and prepared for a more difficult battle, after which we shook the streets with the June 30 demonstrations in response to the tyrants and proving that bullets would not kill us. We thought the tyrants had learned a lesson and that the Sudanese had ended the authoritarian regime and the rule of the gun with their voices.
We witnessed a period of political fluctuation that finally led to political stability and a civilian government headed by Dr. Abdullah Hamdok, and here I was, just above 20 years old and witnessing a president other than Omar Al-Bashir for the first time in my life. Then the military betrayed us again with a military coup and arresting the established government.
Less than two years of resistance to bring about civil rule and political stability, boom, the war broke out. We the victims of totalitarian regimes since independence again paid the price without a warning. Our lives have been destroyed as if they never existed. We will continue to demand more and our determination will not cease. We will strive for a homeland that resembles our perseverance. We will not stop calling for peace.
A newspaper titled ‘We will protect you by sacrificing everything, my beloved country’. Source: Israa Alrayah
Hell breaks loose on April 15th
It was a confusing morning as if the sun was afraid to shine. Around 8 am, a soldier fired the first bullet, bringing doom to my nation. Armed clashes took place between the Sudanese army and the Rapid Support Forces in the center of the capital, Khartoum.
We had been accustomed to such mornings. It was preceded by the violent dispersal of the sit in and by the aftermath of the military coup. In those difficult periods, during which the internet was shut down, citizens faced turmoil and disruption to their livelihoods.
We thought we would certainly get used to all of this after a while and life would return to normal, but it didn't. A red rectangle on TV news channels read “armed clashes in various areas of the capital and reports of deaths from stray bullets.” The sky was no longer the sky, on the morning of the 15th, it was engulfed in blackness, the sound of shells and explosions ringing in every corner of the capital.
Plumes of smoke cover the sky of Khartoum. Source: Israa Alrayah
Exactly at two o'clock in the afternoon, Khartoum time, I spoke to my father by phone because he was far away from us. I comforted him that the matter was not as serious as the news channels claimed and reaffirmed we were fine. Ironically, without a warning, the aerial bombardment suddenly began as we were talking. So I prepared myself that I would die and only then I realized, it was war.
I don't remember what happened after that. It is worth mentioning that I did not die. Psychologists say that a psychological shock can make you forget the event, but the pain remains.
We will never forget the first night as long as we live. There was no safe place anymore, no one slept and the aerial bombardment became our worst nightmare. We were all preparing ourselves, not to escape, but for death. My mother was pulling herself together for my siblings and me as we tried to digest what was happening, only to end up having nervous breakdowns, one after the other. I could hear my breathing and the other sounds around me were unclear.
The second morning was not the same as we used to know. The sun disappeared behind the smoke and the birds were quiet, mourning for what had happened. My father waited for good news, a quick reconciliation to calm his heart. He was in a place far from this mess and safe, but still filled with emotions not sure of how we were doing.
The day passed with anticipation. When would the decisive moment be? Will it be our end or the nightmare’s end? We thought that the day was the most difficult time to go through. Then the night comes, when all the day’s calamities overtake us and fear surrounds us until it almost devours our souls. We remained entranced in our scattered thoughts; there was no escape.
Fleeing under bombardment
A phone call from my grandmother to check on our condition sealed our fate. Less than a kilometer away lays the largest camp of the RSF, and the aerial bombardment will not have mercy on anyone.
The final decision was made in minutes and implemented two hours later. We had to quickly leave the area without any luggage and under the sounds of live bullets two blocks away and with anti-aircraft missiles above our heads in response to the attack. We carried only what was necessary and left everything behind, without saying goodbye, in panic and expecting only death, leaving an entire life behind.
Our destination was to the suburbs of the capital, where my great-grandfather’s house was. My family together with some neighbors took off in three separate cars. It was a risky escape in which we expected nothing but death but it was worth trying. It turned out that there was a glimmer of hope for survival. It was an utter shock when we reached the suburbs as life seemed normal, just kilometers away from destruction. Everyone was preparing for Eid, the markets were open, the shops were crowded and the vegetable sellers operating normally. Everyone was walking around as if nothing had happened. Even then, we did not believe that there was still life anywhere else. The war must be the end, right? Rather, it was the beginning of a new phase, because suffering is not limited to exposure to bullets and missiles only, war is more than that.
A warm embrace from our grandmother let out our heartbreak, forced suppressed moans and disappointment in life. A long cry, by both men and women, cried over what happened while they rejoiced over our safe arrival.
My loving grandmother welcoming us after the horror of what we saw. Source: Israa Alrayah
Then my relatives started to come over. Everyone wants to check on “Monem's daughters.” This is the normal behavior in the countryside, everyone is kind and feels responsible towards one another. We were still stunned and nothing made sense in the past three days. We had not eaten and the last dinner was the meal that we had at our house, on top of having not slept since the first day of the war. It is worth mentioning that all of this was less bitter due to the love of my family and the generosity of the village people.
Do news platforms broadcast and print how we were forced to start a new life from scratch after everything we owned was destroyed without a warning? That we woke up one day to find our entire world had fallen apart?
My grandmother's nice neighbors checking on us. Source: Israa Alrayah
We mourned our loved ones like my uncle who was a victim of a direct bullet to his head. We were left grieving helplessly as we tried to comprehend all that was taking place. How can we lose everything at once and life is still going on here?
It was the seventh day, and the situation was safe and comfortable for a while as we were surrounded by love and generosity. We thought that with time the effect of the shock would wear off, but it was instead replaced with tough questions.
What will we do now? After these huge losses, where will we live? How will we live when all of us lost our source of income? Will we meet again with my aunts, uncles, and cousins? Perhaps there may be hope, far or near, just like the proverb “the nail will never come out of the flesh.” However, will we meet our friends and neighbors again? Will we see Al-Zubair the shop owner again? He was always friendly only to us as he emphasized that my father is a blessed man and blessings accompany him.
Will we meet Maria? She had been with us for two years after she was displaced by the war in South Sudan. She had become a part of us. How will she live? Will the straw house protect her from aerial bombardment when our brick house almost collapsed on our heads due to the intense shaking?
On the first day of the war, we were surprised by her calmness, as she was about to complete cleaning the house, but we asked her to rush to her children, as the situation was turbulent. She called us hours later, saying “hide under beds, take cover from the bullets.” How could she remember us while she was out in the open, facing death?
Caught between a rock and a hard place
After 50 days of the war, the armed clashes spread fast until they reached my grandfather’s neighborhood. We had become accustomed to the sound of aerial bombardment, and the reconnaissance plane that buzzed 24 hours a day. A day could not pass without us hearing the sound of live bullets, and it has become a thrill to arrest an infiltrating RSF vehicle. People had not only become accustomed to the news of death, rather, they began to enjoy it when it was associated with the combatants.
Another decision was made. We are besieged again and there is no place left to go, as destruction has reached even my hometown in North Kordofan. We were going to leave Sudan for Egypt, there seemed to be no other choice.
When we were on the verge of leaving or fleeing, as the news channels reported, I was surprised by my feelings after all those years of resistance. Even the hopes that the war would stop and we would return to our homes were vanishing. I did not know that it was despair and the realization that nothing would ever be the same again, or the effect of psychological trauma.
Our destination was towards the north, from there to the border to flee with our lives in search of a new beginning. The day of our final departure was the first time we saw Khartoum again since the third day of the war. My sister and I sat in the front seat, taking advantage to give a final farewell to our hometown. But it was no longer home, chaos reigned supreme. There were no civilians but only explosions and destruction in various buildings burned cars in the middle of the road, and destroyed armored and military vehicles on both sides. The euphoria of victory in the eyes of the soldiers as we submissively kept our heads down to preserve a life that might be taken away only if we raised it a little. The streets were empty of life and people.
This isn't home anymore
On the bus, an eleven year old girl sat next to me. Through my conversations with her, I realized that she had never left her residential area before. I wondered if that was a good thing, as she had not become attached to Khartoum as we did, or a bad thing, since the only home she had ever known was taken away from her.
My older sister was looking at the road and it was the first time I saw her cry after 50 days of war. This time, everything was behind us with no hope of return. Nothing will ever be the same again.
My elder sister carries the worries of the world on her shoulders. Source: Israa Alrayah
The pain of moving further away from home
We stayed in one of the northern cities for hours when we arrived in the afternoon, before continuing our new journey to the border the next morning. We spent the night between tension, heartbreak, and fear of the unknown. The situation became worse due to “Kobsa,” a severe dust storm.
The morning came, and we spent it with the Khider family and their sweet mother. They are distant relatives who hosted us in their house, and this was the first time I had met them. They were friendly and generous and their farewell broke my heart. How could someone with whom you spend just a few hours with shed such tears? I remembered all the farewells I never had.
The journey began and the North Road was one of the most beautiful travel routes I have ever used. It is similar to the road to the west, but each has its unique features. I was truly happy for the first time in nearly two months, I almost forgot that feeling. This did not stem from the trip alone. I saw my younger sister regain the sparkle in her eyes, which used to reflect defeat as she was only seventeen years old. Finally, she seemed excited about something.
On the other hand, the further we moved away from home it was as if my older sister’s heart was being torn into pieces. Her face grew paler and was overwhelmed with sadness. The longer I looked at her, the more I feared something bad would happen to her. I was just hugging her from time to time trying to comfort her.
The bus conductor eased our tension a bit by being friendly and smiling often. He would come rushing as soon as I looked at him as if he realized the suffering we faced and was trying to reduce its bitterness with unprecedented kindness. So, whenever my heart clenched, I looked at him and he smiled, sometimes offering me water. I thanked him and tried to breathe so that the encounter would not turn into a panic attack. I tried to think about my little joys away from this doom.
We arrived in Halfa, which is half an hour from the border. We stayed there for the night and met old friends who were going to accompany us on the trip. We found only one room empty due to the city being overcrowded with many travelers fleeing the war. We put our luggage in it and we used the rest of the time to explore until our departure time in the morning.
We sat on the ground in front of the hotel after midnight, exhausted and contemplating our situation. We pondered on what the war had led to; here we were almost at the border and spending the entire night in the streets of a city that we visited for the first time in our lives. We ate potato chips and laughed mockingly at the pain.
At 2:00 am, young men passed by us. They apologized to us for the bad situation and how could we spend the night in the street. They helped us with their room as they spent the night out so we could sleep in their beds. Another kindness reduced the bitterness of the tragedy, a tragedy that none of us deserved.
A slap in the face in an attempt to cross the Halfa border
It was 5:00 am, Halfa time, we were ready to move to where the small van was parked. Our friend’s father brought a small motorcycle known as a tuk-tuk to take us to the van as it was the only means of transportation there. Off we went.
A proverb translated as ‘We walk on fate’s palm not knowing what is destined for us’ printed at the back of a vehicle, describes our situation perfectly. Source: Israa Alrayah
The tension was stifling as we heard the news from the Egyptian authorities that a visa is now required for all travelers; including women, children, and the elderly. We had just one day to escape this requirement.
We were supposed to start our journey but one of the families accompanying us was late, so we set off at eight. With just a quarter of an hour on the road, the vehicle broke down and we lost a lot of time filled with anxiety over the unknown. Will we arrive in time?
We had to have completed our procedures before three o'clock in the afternoon but we had entered into an unfair context with time. We arrived at the Sudanese crossing to find that thousands were stranded there after the new decision. Everyone was in a state of panic and anxiety, in light of the complete absence of the Sudanese authorities.
Everybody was worried because this was the only route at the time to escape the war, but it may be shut in our faces at any time. After great suffering, we were able to complete the procedures, but our luggage was lost in the crowd. It was as if my country was clinging to us and preventing us from leaving, whispering to us not to abandon it to doom.
The moment we arrived at the neutral border, the Egyptian authorities closed their side of the crossing early as thousands arrived hoping to cross. There was nothing we could do but wait, relying on false hope. We spent three nights in the desert, sleeping on the ground in cartons, living on water and sugar because there were no full meals there.
We bet everything to get here, leaving behind my dear mother. We abandoned her because one of us had to save our little girl from the horror of war. There is nowhere left to go, and here is the deciding point. We would either escape or get stuck in the horror of war. We were stunned by the experience. how did we end up here? Years ago, I saw on one of the news channels that Syrians were stranded on the borders of Europe. How did I end up on the same news?
My older sister was holding on for us until the tears in her eyes froze. My heart broke every time I looked at our little one. We had always striven to provide the best conditions for her, here we were stranded while my mother who was miles away was heartbroken by our situation. Whenever she called us, we wiped away the tears, swallowed the bitterness, and told her how we were fine. We all knew we were distressed.
The devastating situation at the Halfa crossing
My mother was staying in one of the villages in the north when she allowed us to go to the border, and she would worry if we were a little late getting home. The Egyptian borders were shut in our faces, and there was nothing left to do.
We had to carry our luggage and travel another 800 kilometers back to Atbara. Whenever my mother called us, we expressed to her our gratitude for the experience, and how lucky we were because we did not go without her. God's will was for us not to be separated.
During the three days at the border, the suffering brought us together with the members of the vehicle that transported us. There were three families and one individual. There is Afnan, the doctor, with a confident smile on her face. She decided to save her elderly father, leaving behind her sick mother. We called her the courageous, as she was only twenty years old.
There is Aunt Fathia and her three daughters. She sold everything she owned and bet on this attempt but lost everything. She often sobbed due to the condition we were individually facing. Her heart was big and tender, but the war took everything from her. As for us, we spent the previous days between intermittent breakdowns and a lot of laughter at our situation. We stared with eyes full of oppression and pain, but then the sound of our laughter rose loudly. The return journey was very exhausting perhaps because of our disappointment.
On the return trip as we carried sorrows of disappointment. Source: Israa Alrayah
My younger sister was burdened with a future she was longing for. On the way, we saw a mirage, she said laughing, “look at our ambitions,” and my heart broke again. Why does a 17-year-old bear the magnitude of such despair? And why are our hands tied like this, despite our perpetual attempts to protect her and cushion her life? This is the reason for our constant quarrel, as she hates that I see her as a child. She is but she has grown old since the age of fifteen because she witnessed the killing of her friends, knew injustice and treachery, and carried a hatred that her young heart could not handle. She witnessed the brutal dispersal of the sit-in, and now she is witnessing the war. She lost her life before it began, and her best friend, on the other hand, lost her father, and she is his only child.
Disappointed but not defeated
We reached a village that was 40 minutes drive away from the city and experienced life in the countryside for the first time in our lives. My mother was worried that we would not adapt to that environment, a life that was not only new but completely different. We didn’t know where we would stay, as the flood destroyed my great-grandfather's house there, which was already abandoned for years. We felt desperate and that all doors were closing in our faces.
On our return trip, we spent 24 hours on the road and arrived early in the morning. We found that the entire village stayed up all night waiting for us. Loving hands embraced us and we were welcomed with joy after all the travel fatigue.
Women I had never seen before rushed to welcome us and embraced me in their arms as an expatriate who had returned home. They also brought us breakfast and tea. Within an hour the men had arranged a place for us to stay and all we had to do was pick up our luggage and go. The kindness removed the resentment of the new experience and everything that had passed.
The moment we arrived at the new house, friendly and beloved girls at our age came to us and stayed with us until night time. One of them explained to me the daily routine of their life like where I should fill the Ebreeq that is used for Wudu, and how to hang up and take down "Mishkit" the prayer mat.
We welcomed every morning with cooperation, by taking our bedding inside and arranging the house yard. We washed the dishes in a plastic basin. We cleaned the yard and the rooms and sprayed them with water to create humidification and cool down the atmosphere. As early as five in the morning, fresh milk from the livestock was brought by Al-Mukhtar, the son of my relative who happens to be the owner of the house, while Muhammad, her other son, rushed to bring the breakfast supplies.
Used dishes piled in a plastic basin. Source: Israa Alrayah
The afternoon comes and we go to the preaching circle, where Sheikha Al-Sara teaches us. After sunset, girls from the neighborhood gather at our house, chatting, laughing, and playing until 10:00 pm. The entire village checks on us from time to time. They are kind and each bears responsibility for the other. We were grateful for the trip itself, as it enabled us to see a side of the country that we had never known. It rekindled the meaning of being home again, a feeling that had started disappearing.
A revived sense of belonging far away from home
The “coffee gathering” rituals were my favorite time. Coffee was prepared with nuts and all the neighborhood girls gathered in one of the houses. At first, I thought they were all from the same area, only to learn that they had been torn from their home and fled here from war and its horrors.
Coffee gathering of the neighborhood girls. Source: Israa Alrayah
Despite the challenges, each of them wore a friendly smile. There is Raheeq, I rarely meet special people like her, and Al-Ahd, who resembles her unique name. She is loyal, affectionate, fun and her way of thinking is similar to mine. She memorized the Qur’an, and is also passionate about art and loves science. She is passionate about learning and has a dream defined in broad outlines and a passion shaken by war.
She now resides in one of the villages in the north, carrying out her household duties efficiently, as she is the eldest of her sisters. She takes care of everyone, even her parents, and bears the responsibility for everyone to be well.
She uses her free time to lament her misery, and regrets that her dreams have been shattered before her eyes. She feels despair inside, and whenever someone comes, she puts on a wide smile on her face to practice her extreme friendliness, love, and kindness without paying attention to her least right, to be sad.
There is also Doaa, with kind eyes and a cheerful countenance. She was studying engineering at one of Khartoum’s ancient universities. She loved her field before the war shattered everything.
I cannot forget Manasik. She is a kind-hearted person with the most beautiful smile, a tender heart, and loves helping others. She devoted herself to us since we came, creating a cheerful atmosphere with her humor. She cried bitterly whenever one of us cried. We considered her as a sister, just like Raheeq and Ahd.
These rituals, in their simplicity, brought back a sense of belonging that I had lost, and joy that I never thought I would experience again. These girls revived in me what I thought was decayed. Our lives are less bitter today only thanks to them!
Conclusion
I am truly grateful for all of these experiences, especially my back and forth trip to the border that changed my outlook on life entirely. It didn't make me feel despair as much as a belief was created out of nothing that we would find another life to live. All this is thanks to the love of those around us, in addition to the temporary stability after months of physical and psychological instability, that there is already life left somewhere, so we will keep up.
The war is not over, but we have already found other ways to deal with it. We met good people and survived because of love, in addition to visiting places that we had never dreamed of visiting before. We will not surrender to destruction. We dispelled the darkness that has engulfed us by accepting what happened and we will move forward to save what remains. Acknowledging such a fact was painful, but that's life, it doesn't stop to sadness, and goes faster than we think.
Living through this is not as easy as telling it, but we have already lived through years of struggle. It is only that we have now changed our course and we will fight for our lives this time, not our country. We are in the spring of our lives and everything we witnessed was truly heartbreaking. We have a whole life ahead of us and it is not too late to start again anywhere.
Everything will be well with time, only if we do not give up and accept the loss of everything. We have not lost everything as long as we are alive, we can create life from nothing just to coexist.
As for my country, I am certain that it will be fine, because of its good people. War will not be able to take this away from them. We will continue to refuse this senseless war and call for a peace that resembles Sudan’s people. My country will remain in the beginning and the end. We will carry it with us wherever we go. It will remain beautiful in our hearts and minds, and no destruction will be able to change that.
I used to say that this is my country and it would never do me harm. However, I learnt the hard way. One day, we will find a Naffaj of light, and realize that the huge losses were not the end.
Life will gift us a Naffaj of light someday. Source: Israa Alrayah
