By Ddarya Fall, World BEYOND War, August 14, 2024
A work of fiction.
As a child, I loved dystopias. I was fascinated by the way things suddenly changed in unexpected ways. I loved observing the heroism of the characters. The resilience that remained intact in the face of destruction, destructuring and disarticulation. Above all, I liked to be inspired by their hope. A hope that, despite the waves of destruction, resists, asserts itself and doesn’t give up.
Dystopias were proof that no matter what hell or hardship was around us, within us there was the strength to rise again.
I wanted to drink in the strength of the heroes, their courage and stubbornness. The darkness they bathed in didn’t prevent them from hoping for the light. I drew inspiration from them, convincing myself that no matter what happened on the outside, there would be greater strength within me to resist.
My life had become a dystopia and I had neither hope nor resilience. I wasn’t strong and I felt I was dying. Every day that passed was a test. Every day was a challenge to death. Every day that passed, we were getting closer to it.
It’s hard for me to understand how it came to this. My Sudan, my Nubia, one of the most prosperous and civilized kingdoms of the past, has become chaos and destruction. Everything seems unreal. Our former life, which seems so far away and yet so present at the same time, and our present life, which is just a dark facade of our worst nightmares.
©Muhammad Mustafa Abu Al-Hassan. A 23-year-old artist living in Sudan.
I miss my Nubia, my pyramids so beautiful and steeped in history. I miss the warmth and joy of my people. I miss the tea served at all hours of the day. I miss the laughter of the children, the strength of our mothers, the warmth of our welcome that makes us such a hospitable people.
I miss my Nubia. Sudan, my Sudan, how pleasant it is to whisper it in your heart.
“Thawra!“
I remember that word being shouted at the top of our lungs in the streets. I was outside, shouting it at the top of my voice with my peers. Thawra, Revolution in Arabic, was more than a word. It was an anthem. A force. An anthem containing our hopes for revolution. We women had led this Revolution. We were ready to die. We wanted a new life, a new Sudan that the Revolution would help us build. Ready to sacrifice our lives for, our thirst for revolution was unquenchable.
Thawra was a breath of fresh air. A war declared on the oppressors. A reconquest of our country. A new Sudan built by bold, patriotic young people.
Our mobilization bore fruit. A new regime was installed, albeit a transitional one, but who would have thought that the horror would come from them? Who would have thought that darker notes would follow.
©Muhammad Mustafa Abu Al-Hassan. A 23-year-old artist living in Sudan.
April 15, 2023. This date seems to be written in hot ink on my skin. The day everything turned upside down. The day it all fell apart.
I never thought things could change so quickly. I remember the guns. The screams outside. The despair in the air. I remember double-locking the door to my house. I remember my erratic movements, searching for knives, gathering any weapon of protection.
I felt as if my world had been turned upside down. The planets no longer aligned in the same direction. Derealization. The word came to mind. It matched my malaise. It was unreal. This reality was not mine. My Sudan could not have sunk so low. My life could not change this much.
The sound of the television reporting on the ongoing war became unbearable. We often think that certain misfortunes only happen to others. I had long followed war reports. My own country has survived wars. But our revolution! Thawra, we shouted at the top of our voices. A new Sudan was within our grasp! But not this current mess!
Time didn’t help matters. They went from bad to worse. Media coverage gradually diminished. Solidarity followed suit. We were now just numbers. Horror was on the rise. State actors were multiplying, and we civilians who’d asked for nothing were watching our lives gradually being taken away. It was unreal.
©Muhammad Mustafa Abu Al-Hassan. A 23-year-old artist living in Sudan.
Hope was just a word, but how tenacious it is even in total darkness. I tried to fight with what I had. I opened a page sharing my daily life as a young woman living in a country where a war was underway. A war we didn’t ask for. A war that limits our hopes.
When we show images of war, we only show images of destruction. The suffering of those who lived through it is ignored. Those who lose everything. Those who end up losing themselves. Those who no longer allowed themselves to dream, who lived in anticipation of death.
It was dystopian.
The stench of death hung in the air. At first, it was people we didn’t even know existed. More and more, people in our circle are succumbing. Friends.Colleagues. Loved ones. War is an assault on life in general.
Our situation was getting worse.Rapes were reported. Hospitals destroyed. The number of refugees was growing. International reports say we have the highest number of displaced people. I wish people knew what that meant. Thousands of people are abandoning their homes, their hearths, in the hope of a security they are not sure of obtaining.Bodies devoid of life lined up. Daily massacres.
We didn’t deserve this. It wasn’t right.
©Muhammad Mustafa Abu Al-Hassan. A 23-year-old artist living in Sudan.
I wasn’t as strong as a heroine in a dystopian movie. I felt weak, vulnerable. I was constantly afraid of being raped, killed, destroyed. My beautiful country, where songs of joy resounded, had become a pool of blood. The misunderstanding between two generals was leading us into hell.
Thawra was but a faint echo.
Famine was growing. By September, they said, 2.3 million people would starve to death. Numbers, numbers, numbers! Behind them, people with a right to life who were being deprived of it.
My Nubia, how did it come to this?
My Nubia, my love, if I hang on it’s for you.
So I wrote. I wrote robotically. I shared our despair, our terror. Writing is a powerful weapon against tyrants. Through my words, I finished them off with invisible bullets.
©Muhammad Mustafa Abu Al-Hassan. A 23-year-old artist living in Sudan.
With other journalist colleagues, we carry out documentation and denunciation work. There’s a war going on in Sudan, and even if the world seems to want to turn a blind eye, we stand firm. We had to hold on, through writing, to rebuild ourselves.
It was both an act of therapy and an act of denunciation. The hardest part was the silence. The silencing of our suffering. The indifference. The lack of reaction. As if our lives were worthless. I wanted to scream to the world that we exist and are suffering hell. I wanted to scream and shake the world.
Thousands of people are dying in Sudan and nobody seems to care. Nobody seemed to care.
I wanted to shout to the world that we are human. That we love life as much as they do. I’d like them to know how resilient we are, to stand up for us. I’d like the world to know that we matter.
I’d like them to be enraged by what we go through.
At night, I allow myself to dream. Despite the darkness of the night, the stars are there to remind us of hope.
I hope.
I reconnect with my Nubia.
I make promises to her.
One day, all this will end.
One day, we’ll return to our old lives.
Peace will return.
One day, Sudan will be reborn, rebuilt.
