We stayed maybe so we could prove the existence of Sudan, so no war can turn it extinct. Maybe because our roots are deeply entangled here and uprooting them will be the death of us or because this is all a nightmare. A long unawaken nightmare.
Is it because we believe in hope, or do we believe in tomorrow? Maybe because we cannot abandon her. Leave her alone in her misery. Perhaps because we wanted to mourn her, wail our voices to the world. Bleed our way to liberty and dream for democracy?
Maybe to greet them with the heart-warming rhyming musical salam. Allah yaselemkom Allah Ya'afeekom. Maybe so they can tell us about their adventures and how oblivious we are of our own culture. Of how we are foreigners.
Possibly so they can tell us about the royal pyramids of Meroe where the great Kingdom of Kush was once. That an ancestry of royalty runs in our blood but we denied that lineage, denied and abandoned that identity, invalidated the African identity. Maybe so they could tell us about the temples of Naqa and the Roman Kiosk, a pillar of civilization standing with glory refusing to be dusted and buried into oblivion?
Taka Mountains rising behind Kassala. Source: Hisham Karouri
Perhaps so they could tell us about the sinewy Taka mountains of Kassala or the palm trees and dunes of Alshamaliya. The wide gongoleez tree trunks and the mighty regal Jabal Mara crowning the land of Darfur? Or so they could tell us about the wilderness of Arkaweet and the salty breeze and calm blue waters of Port Sudan. Maybe so we could hear about the myths and legends of the abandoned island of Suakin. Nomads who were once from the countryside are now in the capital city and migration has reversed from the capital to the countryside.
The Tales of Tomorrow
The night sky was darker and more mysterious than ever. What secrets are those stars hiding from us? What agony and sorrow lie in our ill fated stars?
Tomorrow the war will end. Tomorrow they'll sign a peace treaty. All our hope is tied tightly with strength and faith in tomorrow. Tomorrow we will gather tameen and lameen. Tomorrow we will be awoken by the trill of the ululations not the whirring of the guns nor the blasts.
Tomorrow we will have shai alsabah devoured with our shapeless bulbous liqaimat dusted with powdered sugar. Tomorrow henna will be steeped in a muddy green paste to stain the khaltos' honey, cinnamon, and cream colored skin a karkade red, another henna coat and it is Sudan's night and heaven on their soles.
Sudanese bride adorned with traditional Henna. Photo by Yassir Hamdi, source: http://500wordsmag.com
Tomorrow their bodies will be enveloped in sunshine and floral garden tobes. Ammo's with immas crowning their heads. Tomorrow sandalwood would perfume the air dispersing the suffocating thick black cloud of smoke. Tomorrow we would roll our wide green straw rugs on the streets and have lunch.
The white hollow porcelain plates would have the reddish meaty stew and the aseeda towering the mullah. Thin sheer kisra sheets folded to be torn and dipped into hearty stews. Helo mor and karkade to quench our thirst. Jalabiyas rolled so no food stains the wide sleeves. Tomorrow we would drink our jabana outside.
Having Jabana by the Nile, a common leisure activity for families and people of all walks of life. Source: https://acertainblindness.com.au/
Tomorrow we'll have muganan tea, nutty caramel aroma rising from the velvety smooth milk. Royale biscuits and menain dipped into the jumada, the fat of the muganan milk. Tomorrow the hajjos in their linen aragi will sit cross legged under the neem's shade watching the passers go by.
Shapeless Leqaimat alongside moganan milk tea. Source: YouTube
Tomorrow comes and awakens us with fear and terror. Tomorrow comes and our loved ones are worried sick, communication has been lost. Tomorrow comes and our loved ones are starved. Tomorrow comes and pharmacies have run out of insulin. Tomorrow comes and we are shadowed by pitch darkness paralyzed in fear whispering shihada under our breaths.
Tomorrow comes and we are surprised we have made it for the long awaited tomorrow has become today. Tomorrow comes and we say the war will end and they'll sign a peace treaty. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and our sickening wait for a tomorrow.
Spinning Around a Glimpse of Hope
I lie in bed, eyes fixated on the ceiling, on the whirring of the fan. It spins and spins and it seems our lives are spinning around a glimpse of hope. My mind drifts back to the revolution. The enthusiasm, the energy, the hope of a country.
It was a dream. A beautiful sweet dream, and now it's blasted and bleeding. Now it's dead. We, the generation that decided to stay to liberate her, fighting a battle armed with words. Words against weapons. Words against weapons. Our crimes were our dreams. Our dreams suffocated under thick black smoke. Blasted it came shattering. Our dreams are buried alive.
Phone ringing and with it the heartbeats accelerated. A flood of negative thoughts drowning us in fear. Breaths held. Questions repressed waiting to be answered.
Inshallah, Inshallah…. I can hear my mama repeating. Eyes dilated, hands trembling. Back and forth, the stressful walk. A tragedy lies ahead. Were our neighbors asleep? Were they awake? Were they talking or where they laughing?
A photo showing the destruction of Sudan following days of conflict. Source: AFP
Ramming of doors, rattling of their guns. The peace and solitude of night disturbed us to awaken our fear. Terrorized, hands on our hearts to embrace and brace it. Duas, our prayers our shield.
Eyes closed and mind drifted to fearful thoughts. A scene of suspense and horror. Hearts arrhythmically beat a rhythm of fear and terror. Shihada and verses from the Quran read. Clammy cold hands. The encounter. The interrogation. Interrogation ended. Gone. Will they return? Save the worries for later. Sighs of relief. Prayers of gratitude.
We cannot stay here anymore. We have to leave. We cannot be living in fear. They will come again. As we were leaving, a betrayal stabbed deep in my heart and left me with a throbbing pain as I glanced at the ugliness of the deserted streets. But I could hear her hustle and bustle once lively, now silenced by weapons, now in solitude silencing her soul-haunting wails.
The Kisra lady used to sit here. Her back hunched over a tiny rectangular table selling salted watermelon seeds and peanuts deshelled. The neem trees guarding and crowning Sudan's streets. The little boys holding their bistella for muganan milk. The sit-shai roasting coffee beans, the aroma seductive and addictive.
Men sipping their minty tea relaxed and calm sitting crossed legged. A man rolling his dardaga arrayed with salted roasted peanuts and watermelon seeds and all the mawled candies, the fooliya the adasiya and simsimia. The popsicle lady sitting at the corner with her water cooler. Karkade, helo mor and gongoleez popsicles cool and refreshing, a delightful treat in the hellish summer heat.
Traditional homemade popsicles Source: Twitter/ Sudanese culture
The public transport conductors yelling at the top of their throats Arabi, Bahri. Soon it's full of men standing at the door steps, tilted off it goes with a trail of thick black smoke behind it. Children strolling idly in their school uniforms licking their popsicles, snacking on the roasted peanuts, and plucking lemons.
Now gone. All gone. No kisra lady nor sit shai. No dardaga man nor children. No old hajjos. No carros and the yelling of the mawrada samak or ajoor nor tamatem. No children with their bistellas. Khartoum, our beloved Khartoum has become a ghost-town.
We're returning. We're returning.
Wait for us, my love. Wait for us, ya mama.
Greet us with your sandalwood perfumed tobe.
Greet us with your lyrical salam.
Embrace us with your henna stained hands.
We'll all return...tomorrow tameen and lameen ya mama.