Sudan, I love you.. but you're taking a toll on me [4]

As a kid, summer in Sudan was always fun. I was always busy doing something; playing hijla with my sisters, baking mud cookies with my cousins and actually drying them under the sun, or getting yelled at by a random grownup for playing skip rope outside the house. We were little girls; stepping out of the house was naturally a no-no… so we always used to make excuses to go to the dukaan to buy halawa harba, Jersey chocolates and Chiclets chewing gum. I never questioned grownups’ authority even though I knew many of their rules were silly. Amusingly, those rules used to disappear the minute my family and I would set foot on a plane back home from Khartoum.

I recall now some mindless practices that used to take place in either of my grandmothers’ houses in Sudan. I could safely say that all of these practices are still being done. Because I grew up with these habits, I never thought about them that much. But now, I am remembering them one by one, dissecting and analysing them, questioning them, laughing about some and feeling angry about the rest.

Like how my grandmother had/still has this rule about entry into her house. She mandates that both the house’s entrances must not be locked; mainly because guests should feel welcome to enter the house at any time. Bless my grandmother; she has got to be the most hospitable woman I know. However, this inexplicable hospitality comes at a price she might not be aware of. Besides the sporadic appearance of stray dogs and goats in the house’s expanse and the permanent relocation of about half a dozen cats inside the house, where they often mated and occupied the kitchen and some random unused room that my grandmother turned into a storage unit, other weird things kept happening.

Some male relatives would storm into the house (given that the door is always open) at the oddest times of the day; and as they made their way past the men’s veranda and into the women’s section of the house they would clap their hands to acknowledge their presence. This clapping, I later on found out, is to let the ladies of the house know that a foreign man has arrived and that they must hurriedly cover any exposed hair or skin because he will enter the living room where my grandmother is often located, whether they like it or not. Since it was always a full house, I remember the women of the house panicking amid waves of disarray and "sajami da mino al jayeena da"; for each had merely seconds to GPS her nearest toab in order to look presentable and socially acceptable to the glorified male guest.

Guests are in a way worshipped in Sudan. Receiving guests is a very strenuous task. Until this day, and I am almost 25, my mother would still call out for me whenever guests come over. She would ask me, in front of them, whether or not I recognize them."Sallamti 3ala khaltik Filana?" she would ask me, in front of Filana. I usually don’t know them but they, on the other hand, according to my mom, raised me at some point when I was a child. Yet I fail to remember a single thing about them. I would then force a smile and endure a series of interrogative questions that range from how much my salary is to why the hell I’m not married yet while my sister reluctantly pours them tea and waits for her turn to be summoned.

Being a guest is just as hectic as receiving guests, especially in Eid when the mandatory family-visiting ritual is in effect. Then you have to sit through rounds of hyperglycemic orange tang juice, tea, and trays and trays of candy, cookies and peanuts. Mind you if you do not finish your glass of juice, you will forever be blamed for the spinsterhood of your host’s daughters and you just might get punished by being served even more juice, or, in a milder, more unbecoming scenario, by being asked to marry one of the daughters (it starts as a joke but it usually never is).

If I were a guy, I would go for the latter; this sugary tang juice is good enough to take you on a diabetic coma.

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A spark in Khartoum

From the 2012 Dream Deferred Essay Contest. Read the article here.

January 30, 2011 – a day seared in my memory forever. For days I had been following a Facebook event titled “January 30th protest” scheduled to take place in Khartoum. At the time, the Tunisian and Egyptian revolutions had sparked a wave of inspiration among Sudanese youth. Enthused by rousing quotes that went viral on Facebook; such as “January 30th: the Sudanese people have a say,” my veins throbbed with excitement for days on end. Almost 10,000 people confirmed their attendance. I could hardly wait.

I pictured it in my mind time and time again: al-Qasr Avenue in downtown Khartoum as the Sudanese version of Tahrir Square – filled with thousands of Sudanese citizens concerned for the future of their country which had recently split into two, longing for a democracy, joining forces and uniting against 22 years of tyranny. I pictured a peaceful protest bringing together the people of Sudan, whom I visualized chanting in unison and calling for the overthrow of President Omar al-Bashir and his ruling National Congress Party. This was it, I kept telling myself; Sudan was finally going to be liberated from the grip of its notorious dictator.

On the morning of the protest, a group of us met at a friend’s house; a walking distance from the gathering point. We were given security instructions. As someone handed me a bottle of coke to use in case of teargas, I felt a rush of adrenaline coarse through my body. Moments later, we divided into small clusters and walked towards the event’s focal point.

At al-Qasr Avenue, small groups of people coalesced and more people began joining. In just a few minutes, I saw a stirring turnout and felt a momentous flutter of hope. Our peaceful protest, the very first protest I had ever taken part in, was going to be an unrivalled triumph!

It was a Sunday morning, another working day in one of Khartoum’s busiest expanses. There were banks, business offices, shops and stores, kiosks, restaurants and delis... people walked by amid heavy traffic, some going about their daily businesses, others taking shelter underneath shadows of bulky trees, sipping flavored tea and coffee. No wonder this particular place was chosen for the launch of the protest. The crowds of pedestrians, vendors, and workers were supposed to join in the people’s march against oppression.

As we stood there waiting for directions, a young man, probably a student, took the reins and led the protest. He held up a megaphone and kicked off by chanting against the recent hike in prices. “No to the high prices of commodities!”, “Give bread to the poor!”, he bellowed and we repeated. Soon enough, he began to chant phrases against the regime. “The people… want… to overthrow the regime!” he passionately yelled, as people echoed behind him.

It was a majestic experience for me. I had finally found an outlet to voice my frustration against the government and a momentary chance to exercise my freedom of speech. I was there because I was fed up… I knew I had a say and I wanted to express it.

I knew that our people overthrew two dictatorships over the course of Sudan’s history – and that we were capable of doing it a third time. I wanted an end to the National Congress Party’s reign of terror, corruption, oppression, racism, war and displacement. I wanted my people to claim their constitutional rights. I wanted a better healthcare system, better education, fair distribution of jobs, freedom of the press and an end to the incessant wars and constant human rights violations. I wanted an end to the institutionalized racial profiling. I wanted an end to the government’s trade with and exploitation of religion under false pretences. I wanted the suspension of the Public Order Law and the recognition of women’s rights. I wanted an end to the clampdown on basic rights of Sudanese citizens. I wanted the people of my country to finally learn and practice this thing called ‘democracy’.

For about twenty minutes – that’s how long the protest lasted uninterrupted – I was elated. The spirit of solidarity between the people of my country, who came from various tribes and all walks of life, was empowering. Even though Tahrir had set the bar so high, I was pleased with the attendance, particularly since the protest was generating traffic and gaining momentum. Towards the end of it, there must have been over 1,000 protesters.

What struck me as odd was that, as we marched and chanted phrases against the regime, many passers-by seemed reluctant to join – though their eyes revealed that fear was the only element standing in their way. Some rejected the idea of overthrowing the current regime, programmed to the point of no return. They kept trying to disrupt the peaceful march, giving examples of the NCP’s ‘accomplishments’ over the past 22 years. Others called on us to go home, arguing that this government was powerful, going nowhere no matter how hard we might try. Their feeble attempts to demoralize could not shake us.

Twenty minutes into the protest, a surge of armed men in uniform were spotted hailing towards us. I was amazed. In a matter of seconds the protest dispersed, the zone emptied, and the protesters bolted. All that was left behind were the posters and signs that covered the street of al-Qasr Avenue. The fact that my one and only revolutionary experience was a short-lived one was overshadowed by the jaw-dropping incidents that ensued.

As police ran towards us, equipped with batons and weapons, my friend and I froze. They were too close, too fast. If we ran, they were going to catch up with us. There was no time for words, but somehow we communicated to each other that the best thing to do was stand still. We were going to get beaten, possibly arrested… we were both fully aware of that. There was no point in running.

Most of the policeman just ran past us, in pursuit of the other protesters who fled in front of us. Terrorized, my friend and I were holding hands and waiting for it all to be over. If the last of the policemen also finds us invisible, we would be in the clear.

Seconds later, a policeman noticed us. We stood as the odds one out; two girls in the middle of the street, only a few feet away from where most of the other protesters had branched out in their seepage. We looked petrified. The beating was coming. We knew it and prepared ourselves for it.

As the policeman raised his baton at us, he suddenly had a change of heart. His eyes met mine for a split second, and I saw a hint of compassion. He put his baton down and decided to pursue protesters who ran away. Disbelief overwhelmed relief.

Yet before we were even able to exhale, my friend and I witnessed one of the most traumatizing encounters of our lives. The boy who had held the megaphone and chanted during the protest was in the clutches of armed security officers. We watched as four policemen beat him senseless. Their performance attracted a large audience of pedestrians. Blood was pouring from every pore in the boy’s frail body. We stood there, helpless, and finally watched as they dragged him into a pickup truck.

I went home that day feeling that something of great consequence was taken away from me. I felt violated, betrayed by my own compatriots. My once unconditional optimism diminished into mere hope. Perhaps the timing was not right, I convinced myself… not just yet. I would soon learn that January 30th was a spur – and would be followed by many protests before the outbreak of the Sudanese revolution, the first spark guiding the Sudanese people toward their freedom.

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#SudanRevolts: We’re sorry; the revolution you requested is currently under construction

It’s been hard for me to let go of #SudanRevolts; a real tough pill to swallow. When the protests first sparked in mid-June, I had no doubt in my mind that they would come to fruition. For two months I gave up almost everything that mattered to me and dedicated to #SudanRevolts – a movement that gave the most meaning to my life at the time – my utmost and undivided attention. Sceptics, NCP-apologetics and some random Facebook friends christened me a “romanticizer of the so-called Sudanese revolution”. When I look back now, I feel that for the entire duration of the protests I heard, read and received nothing but criticism surrounding the revolts from Sudanese people. Some called it an “online revolution” and I even read one article that was titled “What Revolts?” that made me both disappointed and angry at the same time. One Sudanese commentator, whom I am convinced is confused about his political orientation, referred to the youth movement Girifna as antagonistic merely because it uses popular colloquial language to call on people to join the street protests. It was shocking to see how well some international media outlets received #SudanRevolts as opposed to self-proclaimed Sudanese patriots who took it with a pinch of salt.

What baffles me the most is the disapproval directed at #SudanRevolts by self-appointed critics/commentators/analysts or whatever they choose to call themselves. At the risk of sounding condescending, they write, opine and talk about the protests when their knowledge about the underlying triggers and subsequent events is close to non-existent. I’ve seen it happen during the Arab Spring and was actually warned about this phenomenon by a friend of mine who is an Egyptian activist. He told me, “just you wait, the more frequent the protests become, the more these elitists will surface”. He was right. What he failed to mention though was that, they will continue to harass #SudanRevolts and its supporters even if/when after the protests come to a halt. This did happen and still is happening.

Why am I surprised at this reaction? I often ask myself this question. Non-constructive criticism and in-depth analyses that lack vision and offer zero solutions seem to be the specialty of my people. I think my surprise stems from my conviction that #SudanRevolts, though short-lived, elicited a cultural revolution among the Sudanese public both in Sudan and in the Diaspora. It prompted many people who never would’ve thought a post-NCP era possible to take to the streets. I remain at my conviction; however, this cultural revolution I am referring to has not extended to as wide an audience as I had hoped.

Activists in Sudan have enough struggles on their plates. Notwithstanding, they still have to suffer from the infectious negativity of those whom I like to refer to as the tanzeerivists of the Sudanese community. This population of tanzeerivists is huge, mind you, so the activists are often overwhelmed. “We are sustaining crackdowns from the NCP, and from them as well,” some activists jokingly complained at times.

The fact of the matter is, #SudanRevolts happened. The factors that catalyzed it still remain in place. The main reason behind the protests, namely the country’s deteriorating economic condition and the consequent struggle of average citizens to eke out a living is still continuous. The country lacks a proper healthcare infrastructure. Our children are being sent out to schools to receive skimpy education. In Blue Nile and South Kordofan, people are still being displaced. The Darfur struggle has not been forgotten. The south is gone. The NCP trades with Islam to manipulate minds. In a nutshell, we are being treated as slaves in our own land.

On another note, what I hope one day the #SudanRevolts tanzeerivists will understand is that exuding unconstructiveness and disapproval is another form of administering oppression. Like the NCP, they are reigning dictatorship on Sudan’s freedom fighters. What needs to get through to their heads is that we need Sudan’s revolutionaries. They have spent months in detention fighting for our rights, only to encounter a #SudanRevolts discrediting campaign upon their release. Nevertheless they remain persistent and adamant on bringing change. They are regrouping now and are telling the world that the revolution is currently under construction. #SudanRevolts lives on, even if the tanzeerivists finish all the ink in the world in an attempt to slur it.

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BlogHer 2012: Thank you note

In May I received an email from BlogHer notifying me that I was chosen as one of the four recipients of the 2012 International BlogHer Activist Scholarship. This was before any of the major protests sparked and way before my detention. I couldn't contain my excitement; particularly since visiting New York has always been a dream of mine. I spent the next few weeks planning my trip to attend the BlogHer 2012 conference which was scheduled in August. I then became consumed with the June protests and the sudden outbreak of #SudanRevolts.

June was a very emotional month for most of us who witnessed the #SudanRevolts in Khartoum. I watched as the NISS deported a good friend of mine and arrested, detained and tortured many more of my friends and fellows from the activist community. In late June I was detained briefly and subjected to a series of detentions. The BlogHer award was the last thing on my mind. Consequently, I missed my visa appointment. These are usually scheduled a month ahead of time. I emailed the BlogHer organizers and informed them that I wasn't going to make it this year. They were kind enough to write about my ordeal on their website and offer me the scholarship the following year.

July was a very hectic month for me. My detention had cost me my BlogHer scholarship, which I had come to terms with, but it had also cost me my job. I was lost and confused and had no alternative plans. Just as I started to lose faith, I received an email from the US Embassy's Consular Section informing me of a new interview date. This was in mid-July and the conference was due in a couple of weeks. I contacted the BlogHer staff who were very supportive and asked me to keep them posted. I was granted the visa and things flowed smoothly afterwards. 

At BlogHer 2012, I met so many incredible people. I was at the pre-BlogHer party when I met the women who made my dream a reality. Everyone was so pleased to see me and seemed very relieved that I made it to the US. I was overwhelmed with the amount of support that I received. I got to meet the other three international activists... three amazing women who are working really hard to make a difference: Fungai Machirori from Zimbabwe, Ana P. Santos from Philippines and Tara Livesay from Haiti. 

Thank you Shannon, Polly, Elisa, Cheryl and all the incredible BlogHer staff. This has been the most exciting experience of my life.

Thank you A., who personally wrote to the US Consular about my situation and helped me get a second chance at an interview. I am forever indebted.



Listen to the podcast of the panel here.

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In remembrance of Dr. John Garang

I vividly remember the day Dr. John Garang died seven years ago. I was at the university attending a lecture. Upon receiving an urgent phone call, my professor suddenly announced that the lecture was over and that campus was being evacuated. The leader of South Sudan, Dr. John Garang had died after the Ugandan presidential Mi-172 helicopter he was flying in crashed mysteriously. We were advised to go home; chaos had erupted in the streets of Khartoum. 

I was a student in my second year of university. Though I was young and oblivious towards most of what was going on in my country, I held great admiration for this man. I was confused about the war but pleased about the peace agreement he had sought after. 

In a matter of minutes, waves of disarray sparked across campus. As I walked out of the lecture room, I could see smoke from a few kilometres away. I heard gun shots and the sound of glass being shattered. Panic spread amidst the students and moments later, only a few of us remained inside the university. Most of the students drove their cars back home, and there was no one from the administrative staff to make sure we were safe. Ironic; given that I studied at a private university owned by a man who ran it like a tight ship. 

 I tried calling my sisters to make sure they were okay, but the network was down and I couldn’t get through. I tried for hours; the signal never came back until later that night. I knew my parents were probably trying to call me from overseas. They were worried sick; news channels were rife with footage of riots taking place all over the streets of Khartoum. 

There was no way for me to get home. I had no car and there was not one taxi, rickshaw or public transportation bus in sight. All bridges were blocked by angry southerners. The police was absent. Hell had broken loose. 

Those who were left of us had decided to stay together citing that there’s power in numbers. One of the senior students who stayed behind offered to drive us to a friend’s house, located a few minutes from campus. The ride wasn’t easy, we were intercepted a couple of times. On our way there, I saw cars in flames, shattered glass on the floor and a lot of public property destroyed. 

When we finally arrived at the friend’s house, we quickly turned on the news. It was even crazier in other areas. I prayed that my family was fine. Hours later, I was able to get in touch with my sisters. They were all home and safe. My parents were able to reach me and I told them that I was okay. I was told to stay put; returning to my house was not an option as all bridges were blocked until the following morning.

I was puzzled with everything that was happening around me. I wasn’t happy with the street riots, thuggery and looting but I had an understanding of why this was happening. Though Sudan and South Sudan were one country, it certainly didn’t feel like it. It wasn’t easy for my southern compatriots to accept the death of a man like Garang. It was as though their one hope for achieving freedom had been stripped from them. For me and many others like me, accepting his death was a challenge as well. I just wished that on a day like this more people would have known this. 

Dr. John Garang was, and still is known as a great revolutionary. His vision for a “New Sudan” overcame tribal and religious differences and brought the people together in unison. 

In his infinite wisdom, it is this same God that made the Arabs, that made the Nuba, that made the Fur, that made the Dinka, that made the Nubians, that made the Beja, that made the Shuluk, that made the all 500 different ethnic groups in the Sudan. And who is to amend God’s creation? This person; I’d say he is against God! I will WIN this case! ~ Dr. John Garang (1945 – 2005)

I never stop wondering how different things would've been had he still been alive. Would the south still have seceded? Would he had been able to control the damage done by the NCP over the past seven years? Would he had been able to stop the war in Blue Nile and South Kordofan? Would have there been an oil conflict in Heglig?

I know that his legacy lives on; and that we from both Sudans have a responsibility to see it through.

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How half a culture gets lost

Disclaimer: This article was originally published on The Niles.

Who would have thought that the day would come when a country that once prided itself on being Africa’s largest nation, and one of its most diverse regions, would split in half?

Many in the north remain concerned about the fact that Sudan lost 75 percent of its resources when it lost South Sudan. But the loss is about more than this. For countless others, the emotional repercussions of losing half of their culture also remain. It causes an overwhelming melancholy.

On April 9, 2012, a day that some consider a dark one in Sudanese history, the Sudanese government declared the half million South Sudanese citizens residing in Khartoum illegal residents, ordering them to either leave the country or apply for permits to stay.

And over the past year, there’s been a gradual decline in the number of South Sudanese citizens on the streets in Khartoum.

Take the public show on Ghaba Street in Khartoum that usually attracts tourists as well as locals of all ethnic backgrounds. The vendors there, mainly from South Sudan, used to use the wide street to showcase and sell handmade products, playing on their roots and handicrafts, to eke out a living. 

Artisans made products from local materials, such as bamboo and ebony; a lot of the goods on sale at this street were much cheaper than those sold in downtown Khartoum. 

But today, things are very different. Ghaba Street is just an empty expanse. There are no vendors, no artisans, no handicrafts, no shopping tourists, no photographers and no African culture. 

The Southerners have been gone for over a year now and Sudan and many of its people still mourn the departure of a kaleidoscope of religions, dialects, ethnic groups, foods and traditions. They have had to bid farewell to a rich cultural legacy and a colourful, diverse and beautiful era. 

They grieve the loss of the vibrant South Sudanese music industry. This includes the lively Zouk Beton music, which was often a highlight of regional festivals of music and dance. 

The past few years have been an emotional roller coaster for the two Sudans. But the good citizens of both countries are hoping that this second, post-secession year will bring an end to their ugly and bitter divorce. They hope it will bring a new era, where somehow the cultures, economies, politics and societies of the two nations can co-exist.

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A month has passed since Usamah was arrested

As I write this, I am fighting back tears as it’s been exactly one month since Usamah Mohamed Ali’s arrest. Usamah, or @simsimt on Twitter is a friend of mine. The last time I saw him, he was featured in a video comment which he recorded for AJStream stating why he plans to take part in the June 30th protests. The last person to see him was his brother, who watched as NISS took him away on June 22, 2012 from the scene of a protest in Burri, Khartoum. 

The last time I spoke to him was on June 21, 2012. It was the same day of my first detention. He called to check up on me. I answered his call even though I was driving back home from the NISS building where I was held for interrogation for five hours. He was so relieved that I’d been released. “I was so worried about you,” he said to me. “I’m glad you’re safe. I’ll let you go now, your family must be really eager to see you.” Before I hung up, I promised to call him later. I never did; I got caught up with endless family matters. We had plans to meet the following day. We never did; he was kidnapped.

Usamah and I met at a tweet-up exactly one year ago. I was very intrigued by the Twitter personality and was anxious to meet Usamah in real life. When I finally met him in the flesh, I was even more intrigued. He is one of the most intellectual people I know. He is soft spoken, kind hearted, generous, charming and always at the heart of the conversation. 

 

On the day of his arrest, he was live tweeting from a protest in Burri. I keep going back to his Twitter timeline; the last words he tweeted were: “You can use my tweets without even mentioning me. Free content advocate here!” His last tweet reflects just the kind of person he is. 

This was at 5.30 PM. When he stopped tweeting, we all started to panic. His phone was on until later that night, but he never answered my calls or messages. His arrest was confirmed by his brother, who was also arrested but released seven hours later. 

I couldn’t believe the news of Usamah’s arrest. When it finally sunk in, I was certain he was going to be released in a matter of hours. But hours became days, days became weeks and now the weeks have turned into a month and he is still detained. 

Usamah is spending his Ramadan days in Kober, a maximum security political prison in Khartoum. His family has yet to see him, though they have requested visitation and are waiting for it to be accepted. 

Why is Usamah still detained? I just want for him to be released. One month in prison is barely a justified punishment for attending a peaceful protest that didn’t even last an hour. 

I am sick to my stomach. I want my friend back. I am disgusted with AJStream. The most they have done was issue a statement about his arrest long after I dedicated numerous tweets to harass them about Usamah’s case. I, along with many others, am holding AJStream accountable for the extension of Usamah’s imprisonment. We have since boycotted AJStream. As an activist, I have urged my fellow Sudanese not to risk their safety for the sake of a network that will stand idly by after contributing to their arrest. I will never forget how they referred to Usamah’s kidnapping as “alleged, pending confirmation from the Sudanese government”; despite his brother’s testimony. 

Sudanese. Loves Sudan and living it. Interested in its politics and history. The rest is icing on the cake.

Freedom to Usamah and the remaining 1,000+ who have sacrificed their freedoms for the sake of a free Sudan.

Usamah risked his own safety and went looking for me in al-Gama’a Street shortly after my disappearance and subsequent arrest on June 21, 2012. He is a hero. I dedicated a post on Global Voices for him and another one is currently in the works. I will stop at nothing and will continue to make noise to highlight his unjust arrest. #FreeUsamah

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When Nightmare Turns Into Reality

In my dream, I was inside a tunnel. The tunnel was jammed with cars, and I was in one of them. I was alone in the taxi, and the driver was frustrated with the heavy traffic. The tunnel seemed endless, and I asked the driver to roll down the windows because I could slowly feel myself running out of breath. My claustrophobia started to kick in, and the long queue of cars both ahead and behind me gave me a strong sense of uneasiness. The windows were now open, but I couldn't feel any air gushing in. I poked my head out of the window in an attempt to find where the tunnel ended… to figure out if freedom was near. The tunnel was a long, endless spiral. I was trapped and there was no way out. Stepping out of the car was not an option; there was no sidewalk inside the tunnel. Death was near; I began preparing myself for it. 

Much like what I went through with my multiple detentions a week or so ago, the trauma I suffered during this dream felt real. While I was waiting for death, my mind took a stroll down memory lane and imagery of friends and loved ones began popping in my head. Soon enough I woke up… and I thanked god for the gift of freedom which I have been blessed with to an extent. Sudan isn't free yet, but at least I am sleeping in my own bed, I thought to myself. I felt tears streaming down my cheeks at the thought of friends and loved ones being held in detention for days now, some even weeks. 

During the distressing times that I faced over the past few weeks, I developed my own method of dealing with things. As cheesy as it sounds, I got to know myself better. In fact, for the longest time I thought I was the nervous, panicky type. This was proven last year when my sister was pregnant. My niece decided to arrive in this world two weeks ahead of schedule, so we rushed to the nearest hospital. My sister gave birth while she was in a wheelchair… the baby refused to wait. I saw it happen and I completely flipped. I was pacing around in circles, yelling at the staff, asking them to do something. I cried and I screamed and my own sister had to calm me down. I was only okay after I held my niece in my arms. I knew since that day that I was unfit to deal with stress… until I was proven otherwise. 

Salma Elwardany, an Egyptian journalist for Bloomberg, is not only a friend. She is also family. Whenever she's sick, she calls me and I take her to the hospital. Whenever I'm stressed, I call her and we meet over tea. She offers me valuable advice. We talk about boys, makeup and politics. One day, we went to a protest together at the University of Khartoum. Security officers in civilian clothes intercepted my car while we were in it. They confiscated our phones and her laptop, but I managed a final tweet giving a heads up that we've been stopped. We were kidnapped and taken to NISS offices in Khartoum North. They separated us upon arrival. They held me for 4 hours, and Salma for 5 hours. When they told me I was free to go, I was ordered to cut all ties with Salma. They wouldn’t even let me wait for her. A few days later she was deported. At the airport, they wouldn't let me say goodbye. 

During my first detention, I faced 4 hours of emotional abuse. One interrogator said to me: "Take a good look at the window, this will be the last time you ever see the sun." Another told me that I was going to be transferred to women's prison without anyone as much as looking at my file. That's how dangerous they deemed me to be. 

When Salma got deported, I was having one of the worst days of my life. It was a very hot day and I was tense and frazzled. I slept unusually early that night, until my dad woke me up at midnight. He said to me, very calmly: "NISS is here to search the house." I woke up and got dressed quickly. I had anticipated something of this sort; Girifna members are always targeted. There were about 15 men in my living room; at least 2 of them were armed. They jumped the wall to my house after knocking heavily for a few minutes and waking up the neighbors. They searched my room and turned it upside down. They confiscated my phone, my sister's phone, my laptop and my sister's laptop, among other irrelevant items such as CDs, an electronic diary and a video tape. "Get ready," one guy told me, "you're coming with us." My dad was very cool and collected. In my mom's eyes, I could see worry and heartache. My sisters were terrorized; the youngest had tears in her eyes. My aunt was there as well, she was strong. I was instructed to pack a change of clothes because I was going to spend the night in prison. My sisters helped me find my toothbrush and my things. I told my family not to worry, that I was going to be fine. My dad insisted on coming along, he told them I have no brothers. They let him. I hugged my mom, my aunt and my sisters. I told them that I am strong, and they should be too. We made it to the NISS building in Khartoum North. For three hours they interrogated me. My dad looked tired. They told me that they spared me for the night and summoned me again the next morning. I got home and my family breathed a temporary sigh of relief. 

The next morning my dad and I headed to the NISS offices again. We spent 11 hours there. I boycotted their food and water after one officer referred to me as a "communist who does not deserve to be served any food or water". I asked them to bring my dad some food because he is diabetic. They offered him some yoghurt. By the time I got home I had low blood pressure. Still, I couldn't eat because they had summoned me again the next day after 11 hours of ruthless investigation; where I was threatened, blackmailed, insulted, emotionally abused and psychologically tortured. They had my laptop and they told me they had access to all my photos; and that they would use them if they sensed I'm causing any trouble. I was also told that they could easily make me lose my job. "You have nice pictures on your phone", one guy said to me. "You have a lot of fans," he added. The same guy was browsing through the photos on my laptop. He saw a picture of me and my best friend hugging. He then asked me if I was a lesbian.

The third day was the last of it. I was interrogated again for two hours this time. They made me sign a statement pledging that I will not take part in any Girifna activities, citing that if I do, I will be subjected to trial under the security law. They made my dad sign the same statement. They gave me back my phone and other items, but said that they will keep the two laptops for "further investigation". I claimed them back a short while ago.

Ever since the spark of the Sudanese revolution three weeks ago, the NISS has gone on a wild campaign illegally arresting and kidnapping protesters, activists, journalists, lawyers and even law-abiding citizens. To date, thousands have been reported detained by the NISS while only a few, like myself, have been released. Their families have not heard from them and they are being denied access to lawyers. No one knows what they are going through. In this article by Yousif Elmahdi, the disturbing circumstances of NISS detention are described in frustrating detail. 

Among those still detained for weeks are Boshi, who was also arrested earlier this year, Usamah Ali, a prominent citizen journalist and a Twitter microcelebrity, Girifna members Mohamed Izzelden and Rashida Shamseldin and many, many others. They are all at risk of torture. They have sacrificed their freedoms for the sake of a free Sudan. 

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Pampering at a psychological cost

As I walked into the beauty salon, I was greeted by a wave of odd smells. A blended scent of henna, hair dye, scrubs, creams and shampoo, sibgha, traditional wax or halawa and a powerful gush of dukhaan among other piquant, inexplicable odours.

I struggled to ignore the smell, and made my way to the counter where a very loud woman was manning the cashier. It took her a few moments to realize that a customer was waiting. Eventually, she did notice me, but failed to restrain herself from yelling at the cleaning lady in my presence. After she was done, she collected my money, gave me a receipt and asked me to wait inside. Something about her made me feel uneasy; perhaps the tone of her voice, or the look of disgust she casually carried around, or the way she was luridly chewing a piece of gum. Either way, I was glad to walk away from her.

The inside of the salon boasted dozens of Sudanese women from all walks of life. Often intrigued by the littlest of things, I couldn’t help but wander off in a daze. Each one of these women had a story; a reason for being here. Three women caught my attention.

The first one was a bride. She couldn’t have been over twenty years of age. Our eyes met for a brief second, and there my mind went again, meandering and contemplating about the circumstances that brought her here. Was she marrying the man of her dreams? Or was this an arranged marriage and she was being forced to marry someone twice her age? Most importantly, was she happy? The blank look her eyes conveyed left me no reassurances. I watched as three women gave her instructions. She obeyed without hesitance.

The second was a girl in her mid-twenties. Her face was shades lighter than her hands, but that wasn’t the only odd thing about her. She peeled some black substance off her eyebrows, after which she washed her face thoroughly using soap. It took me a few minutes to realize that she had her eyebrows tattooed using sibgha, black dye meant for hair and henna. She must have been be oblivious to the fact that it’s a lethal ingredient, I thought to myself, otherwise she wouldn’t have applied it so close to her eyes.

The third was a married woman in her thirties. The henna on her hands and feet was so intricate that it must have taken the henna artist hours to pencil. She was comfortably seated in a angaraib (traditional bed) facing a noisy fan. She seemed to be in a hurry for the henna to dry off, which struck me as odd because she must have been in the salon for hours. Minutes later, my curiosity was remedied. A young woman, possibly her relative, approached her asking how much longer she was going to take, and that they were going to be late for the bika (funeral).

“Ya zaboona,” some lady shouted, addressing me. I snapped back to reality. It was my turn to get my hair done.

Disclaimer: This article was originally posted in the newly-launched website 500 Words Magazine under my column 'Made in Sudan'. If you have a passion for Sudan and for writing, don't hesitate to send your submissions here.

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The pursuit of answers

Lately I’ve been feeling lost. Where is my life headed? What do I want to do with my life? What does the future have in store for me? I have been relentlessly searching for answers. I think the main reason I still can’t find the answers to these questions is that much of my futuristic plans have been dependent on one thing: witnessing tangible change in my country. The alternative scenario has always been inexcusable and hence, I couldn’t and still can’t picture a future that lacks the change that I yearn for with every ounce of my being.

The question remains; when does one accept the indubitable reality? When is it time to acknowledge that hope is nothing but a sheer mirage?

This country; the regime’s countless human rights violations and atrocities, the state’s economic meltdown, the deterioration of the public sector and, most importantly, the people’s ostensible content with the status quo… until when?

Until when am I supposed to remain optimistic? How many more protests do I have to go to wearing a smile on my face, assuring everyone whose gaze falls on mine that what Safia Ishaq said was true; that things will get better? Most notably, what is a meek, sporadic activist like me expected to do when the real activists of Sudan, the famous and inspirational ones, have given up and raised the white flag?

What was the cause again? I can’t seem to remember what we are fighting for anymore. I have to constantly remind myself.

When I see influential people in the activist community have surrendered, not because the NCP is all strong and mighty, but because the people they are fighting the cause for ­­aren’t moving a muscle, I can’t help but feel frustrated. I then ponder, what is a silly girl like me doing trying to spark change when those who can tangibly make it happen have abandoned all hope?

Honestly, I am tired and worn out. I don’t know how much sanguinity is left in me, but I know my optimism is running thin. I have not given up yet, and I doubt that I will anytime soon, but I need to find some answers in order to maintain my sanity.

I have been so consumed with Sudan and its endless problems that I have lost sight of my own problems, my own life. But how do I shake off this conviction that, if I pursue my own dreams and live my own life outside the walls of “the cause”, I would be abandoning it and giving up on my country?

But is being unhappy really worth it? And how much can I contribute to the cause if I am feeling unmotivated? When is it time to put “the cause” on hold and go on a soul searching journey to find my calling?

Where is my life headed? What do I want to do with my life? What does the future have in store for me?

…where do I find the answers?

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Sudan: A healthcare system in shambles

Disclaimer: This article was originally posted in the newly-launched website 500 Words Magazine under my column 'Made in Sudan'. If you have a passion for Sudan and for writing, don't hesitate to send your submissions here.

If you were born in Sudan then you most probably have a scar on your left arm. It is the result of a vaccine against tuberculosis that you received as an infant. Initially, I didn’t know why a scar should be left after a vaccination; particularly such a conspicuous one. Naturally, I rushed to blame the incompetent doctors of Sudan and the country’s deteriorating healthcare system. However, I later on discovered that the scar is a perfectly normal reaction to this vaccine. This made me realize that my brain has an automated response when it comes to anything related to the healthcare industry in Sudan.

I came to learn at a very early age that in Sudan, medical errors are common and they can hinder the course of someone’s life to the extent of physical disability. As a kid, I was relentless to find out why my aunt walked with a limp. Of course now I realize how insensitive my childhood inquisitiveness was, but at the time I made it my mission to find out what the problem was. Deluded as I was, my juvenile naivety had me convinced that if I knew what was wrong I could subsequently fix it, somehow. When my snooping became too bothersome, my mom finally sat me down to explain my aunt’s condition. She told me that the limp was the consequence of a vaccine gone wrong, and that it cannot be repaired or reversed. She added that it will probably cost my aunt the normalcy of her life. I was baffled. Ultimately, I came to the realization that I can’t fix her. Ironically, here I am eighteen years later, still trying to fix the pieces of my broken country.

When I came to Sudan to do my undergraduate studies, I was optimistic that things within the healthcare realm had changed. Unfortunately, reality struck even before my graduation. I would constantly hear of relatives dying because of overdoses in anaesthesia, the surgeon leaving behind a piece of gauze during the operation, or the nurse forgetting to administer a certain post-operation pill. After graduation, the grass was not at all greener. It was as though I had been seeing the world in blurry mode and I was suddenly handed a pair of sharp-vision glasses.

The healthcare system in Sudan is not only riddled with incompetence, but corruption as well. However, I wish these were its only two problems. Patients die every day because they can’t afford medication or treatment.

Today, health is a commodity that doctors, healthcare professionals, salesmen and businessmen use for trade. I call myself a biomedical engineer, but at the end of the day I am just one of them.

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South Sudanese in Sudan: A Forced Parting of the Ways

They have lived, studied and worked together for decades, but now, ten months into South Sudan’s independence, Sudanese from both sides of what was once Africa’s largest nation have found themselves at a forced parting of the ways.

On April 8, Sudan’s government revoked southerners’ citizenships, officially announcing them as foreigners and declaring them security threats. With negotiations between the two countries stagnant following clashes over the oil-rich area of Heglig, many southerners are now faced with the threat of statelessness.

The government initially announced May 5 as the deadline for South Sudanese to leave the country. This was not a straightforward possibility for many, however, and earlier this month thousands found themselves stranded in the city of Kosti in White Nile state facing dire living conditions. On May 14 then, the governments of Sudan and South Sudan, in collaboration with International Organisation for Migration, organised a humanitarian airlift which brought hundreds of South Sudanese to Juba via Khartoum.  

The effect on the Sudanese people

Many South Sudanese in Sudan are enraged at their sudden loss of citizenship. Sokhon B, like many, has spent his entire life in Khartoum. It is where he was born, educated, worked and has established strong friendships. “I can’t imagine giving up my life here” he said. “My dad passed away and my mum left for Juba in 2005. I decided to stay. I have only been to Juba once in my life, and it is very different to Khartoum…I went to Juba for work, but everything was so unfamiliar to me. I stayed there for a few weeks, but I missed my friends and my life in Khartoum.”

Aguil L, a South Sudanese activist, similarly explained: “We are all Sudanese. Both sides shouldn’t be forcing citizens to leave. The people have suffered enough and both countries need each other and their citizens working together for a prosperous future. For border areas it would be great – though a dream – to have free movement like they do between Tanzania and Kenya for the Massai. For other areas it should be EU style; citizens should be able to live and work in both countries.”

Some, however, seemed to have taken the news of their deportation with a degree of optimism. William J said: “It will be the onset of a new life for me…All I do here is work, eat and sleep. Even when I try to have some harmless fun by drinking a little I end up spending the night in jail. I don’t want this life anymore”. He continued: “Going to Juba will allow me to enjoy myself and perhaps finally find the woman of my dreams”.  

Growing tension

Over the past two decades, much of Sudan’s media has been promoting tribalism. With the wide distribution of notoriously racist newspapers such as Al-Intibaha, intolerance has grown in the country, driving a wedge between the peoples of the two nations. Such newspapers have been campaigning regularly for the deportation of southerners and reinforcing the Sudanese government’s claims that the presence of southerners in the country poses a security threat.

There has also been violence between different groups in Sudan. On April 21, for example, Mohamed Abdelkarim, a well-known Islamic preacher in Khartoum, called on his followers to destroy a church complex the day after South Sudan pulled out of Heglig. The following day, a mob marched into a church complex, tore down walls, burned bibles, ransacked buildings and looted possessions.

Many Sudanese citizens, however, are highly frustrated at their government’s decision to deport southern Sudanese and see it as an illegitimate move. “It is technically illegal, because citizenship in any country has nothing to do, or should have nothing to do with ethnicity,” remarked political commentator Moez A.

“The fact of the matter is that both countries don’t want to take responsibility for these people because the south does not want more people to take care of, and the north is doing it in an attempt to get back at the southerners for voting for secession,” he said, adding, “the worst part is that the casualties have nothing to do with either government, just poor people trying to survive. They should be given a choice of returning, not forced to return.”

This article was first published here

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NCP's Article 146: Stoning women to death since 1991

A couple of days ago I read that a 15-year-old girl has been sentenced to “death by stoning” for allegedly committing adultery and consequently admitting her guilt. The report, forwarded to me from a credible source, cited that a Sudanese judge found the female minor, Intisar, guilty of committing adultery and sentenced her to death by stoning – a sentence which apparently comes in accordance with Article 146 of the Sudanese criminal law. 

The report stated: 

Intisar Sharif Abdalla was accused of having a relationship and becoming pregnant by a man that wasn’t her husband. Initially she and the man with whom she was accused both denied this. Her lawyer, only able to access her after the judgement was made, understands that following her initial denial she was beaten up and tortured repeatedly by her brother. She then changed her statement and confessed to adultery. Based on this evidence she was taken to court and the Judge, Sami Ibrahim Shabo of Ombada General Criminal Court, Khartoum state, sentenced her to stoning after one court session and in the absence of legal representation in court. 

The woman in question is understood to be a minor, between 15 and 17 years old. She is understood to be deeply traumatized and is without access to suitable psycho-social support. Her new-born child is also with her in prison. Her co-accused maintained his statement in denying adultery and has subsequently not been convicted. 

I was trying my best to absorb this shocking piece of news, and to come to terms with the fact that the atrocities of the NCP against women have recently been vigorously extending into Khartoum, the capital, meaning that things are now probably a million times worse in Darfur, the Nuba Mountains and the numerous regions of NCP-inflicted conflict where documentations of human rights violations are nil to rare. 

As I tried to wrap my brain around this nightmare of a situation, expecting to feel rage, sadness and disgust, all my initial thoughts and feelings were severely interrupted after witnessing the reactions of people within my community. Not only did they not condemn it, they supported the stoning sentence. I felt as though the NCP has taken us on a journey back to medieval times. 

In Iran, a woman is half-buried before she is stoned to death

Having lived and worked in Sudan for quite some time now, and with my involvement in many political activities, I had convinced myself in the past that the people’s overwhelming silence against the NCP’s oppression is not necessarily due to their support of the NCP, nor is it due to their acceptance of the countless human rights violations taking place in their own land… rather it is the fruit of their fear; fear of the NCP, fear of instability, fear of inconvenience. Some don’t want their lives to be disrupted, others are afraid to advocate for their fellow brethren… in all cases I made peace with that and relentlessly defended them whenever the argument “the Sudanese people are apathetic and no revolution will come to Sudan” came up, citing that 23 years of brainwashing is not easily reversed. 

However, with Intisar’s stoning sentence, and the opinion of mainstreamers (as someone on Twitter pointed out to me) leaning towards backing Article 146, namely because the young girl allegedly confessed or because she deserves the sentence since she brought it onto herself, I came to another conviction – that sometimes, in certain cases, it’s better to be apathetic towards your own people’s struggles. 

I was, and still am, unable to fathom how people who refer to themselves as Muslims can condone such an act of brutality. I pictured it many, many times in my head… a woman, 15-year-old girl to be exact, standing in the middle of an expanse, the cries of her baby ringing in her ears, standing helplessly as stones are being thrown at her, disfiguring her face and body, ultimately leading to her death. Not only does this act not relate to Islam in any way, shape or form, but the mere thought of it is gag inducing. 

I choose to believe one thing – that Islam is a religion of love, mercy and compassion. The Prophet himself, PBUH, called on the gentle treatment of women… how could he have simultaneously promoted such a callous law? I don’t wish to delve into the validity of such a ruling in Islamic teachings, I simply find it ludicrous and will not waste my time searching for proof of its existence or lack thereof. The only proof I need lies within my own spirituality. 

When I think about this poor girl possibly being stoned to death, my blood boils with rage, and I can’t help but think… what about the prevalent rape and torture cases across the Sudanese states? The illegal political detentions? The instutionalized racism and tribalism? The displacement of civilians? The victims of war? They all go unpunished, just like that? And no one condemns them, even? Okay, what about her partner in crime? Is he off the hook because his brother didn't beat a confession out of him? Does this mean that as long as you don't confess it, it doesn't count and you can't die for it? If she is going to die for committing adultery, shouldn't the scenario be her stoning alongside her co-accused, or no stoning at all? Or is stoning only convenient and acceptable when the recipient is a female?

It seems convenient to many people in my community to only condemn acts of scandalous magnitudes; such as consensual sex (or adultery if you will), and to only target the female counterpart – as though she gave birth to a baby by having sex with herself.. If that’s not the case, then shouldn’t at least half of Khartoum be lashed, stoned, beaten or arrested for violating one form of moral law or the other? If we are all playing god here, why doesn’t everyone fess up to their crimes, or scandalous deeds, and await their very own lashing and stoning sentences? Isn’t this the point, to “become pure and relieve sins”? Or do the sins of only certain people count? Perhaps no one else has had consensual sex in Sudan, and everyone is pious and sinless?

I guess dictatorship yields dictatorship. The NCP’s efforts to turn the people of Sudan into heartless dictators under the umbrella of religion, just like their ruling party, seem to have come to fruition. If a mute conscience is a silent devil, then let us all go back to the time when mainstreamers were silent devils… they certainly are considered the lesser of two evils. 

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South Sudanese in Khartoum in fear after attack on church

Muslim Sudanese standing in solidarity with Christian South Sudanese

South Sudanese Christians in Khartoum are living in fear in the wake of a recent church attack by a mob of Muslim extremists. On Saturday April 21, hundreds of angry Sudanese Muslim extremists raided the Gireif West Evangelic Church in Khartoum and vandalized it, looted its possessions, burned its bibles and its outside crop field and knocked down its walls.

 The church complex, where South Sudanese Christians and others from various nationalities attend prayers every weekend, comprises of a church, a clinic, a school and a home for the elderly.

The attack on the church took place one day after South Sudan’s army pulled out of oil-rich Heglig. Sheikh Mohamed Abdelkarim, a well-known imam and preacher in Sudan, is thought to have instigated the church attack given his reputation as an extremist. Neighbourhood residents reported that during the weekly Friday sermon, Abdelkarim, who led the prayer, called on the people to march to the church the following day and demand it be closed down.

Yahia M., the church’s guard, recalled the incident saying “there were hundreds of them chanting ‘no more churches after today’, ransacking the buildings, tearing the walls apart and burning bibles.” His wife expressed her shock at the vast number of women who took part in the vandalism.

Pastor John had a look of sadness in his eyes as he recounted the story. “They told us the land belongs to the people of Gireif West and that we were no longer residents of this country and the land does not belong to us. They went on and on about their rights – and as difficult as it was, we tried to negotiate with them but to no avail. In the end we stood back and watched them destroy the church complex. The police was watching too, and only took action after it was all over.”

On April 9, 2012, a dark day in Sudanese history, all South Sudanese citizens residing in Sudan were officially announced stateless and considered illegal residents by the Sudanese government. Since the declaration of South Sudan’s Independence in July last year, the minority of South Sudanese living in Khartoum have been suffering from harassment and made to feel unwelcome by both the Sudanese locals and the Sudanese government.

The Sudanese authorities have yet to arrest the people responsible for the attack on the church complex. On Sunday April 22, 2012 a group of activists, journalists and regular citizens arrived at the church at noon in response to a Facebook initiative titled “Let’s Clean Up the Gireif West Church”. However, the police denied them entrance to the church despite their constant attempts and pleas to express their solidarity with their fellow South Sudanese brothers and sisters. They were kicked out of the church and in response, they rallied up in the street and held up posters calling against religious strife and extremism and calling for “One Sudan for All” and their constitutionalized freedom of religion.


This article was first published here

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The Violation of Women's Rights in Sudan: In the Name of the Law?

For decades, the women of Sudan have been suffering under article 152 of the penal code, an inhumane, vicious and notorious law first implemented in 1991.

Article 152 of Sudan’s criminal code stipulates that any conduct or clothing in violation of public decency be punished with 40 lashes. The law, which mainly targets women, is vague as to what constitutes indecent clothing, leaving room for the disreputable and abusive Public Order Police to arrest whoever they deem to be dressed inappropriately or committing an act of indecency.

Many women have been arrested under this article. They have been taken from streets, public places, cars or even their homes in some rare cases; they have been ‘caught’ in the same place as partners or friends of the opposite sex without being able to show proof of a recognised, first degree relationship.

The Public Order Police forces are known for patrolling the streets of Khartoum and arresting anyone they deem immoral or in opposition to Islamic values. Sudanese women from various backgrounds, ethnicities, ages and social statuses continue to be harassed by the abusers and executors of Article 152.

Public lashing of women

Incidents invoked by Article 152 often allow for policemen’s ugly side to surface. In this graphic video, an unarmed 16-year old girl is seen being lashed by unmasked policemen for an undisclosed crime. As she howls, the policemen at the Khartoum Police Station are seen laughing and taking a perverse enjoyment in her suffering. The video went viral on YouTube on December 12, 2010 and caused outrage both locally and internationally.

On July 3, 2009, thirteen women were arrested in Khartoum under article 152 of the criminal code for wearing trousers. They were sentenced to ten lashes and bail was set at $100. However, three of the women, including a well-known journalist named Lubna Hussein, refused the punishment and asked for a lawyer and court hearing.

At the hearing, Hussein and the other three women were granted a presidential pardon, but the women refused it. Instead, they challenged the judge to eliminate article 152 of the criminal code.

Hussein spoke to international human rights organisations about the cruelty of the law. She appeared on television shows and interviews wearing the same pair of trousers that got her arrested, asking the viewers to determine themselves where the indecency of her attire lied.

The rape of Safia

On February 13, 2012, Safia Ishaq, a young female artist was gang-raped by three members from the Sudanese National Intelligence and Security Service (NISS) for participating in a mass protest on January 30, 2011.

Two NISS officers arrested Safia as she was on her way to buy art supplies in Khartoum. The men forced her into a van and beat her on the way to the NISS premises where she was detained. During her detention, Safia was beaten, questioned about her activities and subjected to verbal abuse. When one of the officers tried removing her skirt and she tried to stop him, she was beaten unconscious. Her hands were tied with her scarf while three men violated her.

Upon her release, Safia refused to stay silent. She uploaded a video on YouTube where she recalled her experience, subsequently becoming the first Sudanese woman to publicly come out and speak about sexual assault by the security organisation. However, speaking out came at a price and Safia and, to avoid the social stigma, she eventually left for Europe.

Two journalists, Amal Habbani and Saad Eldin Ibrahim, who wrote about Safia’s rape also paid a high price for speaking out and were arrested and imprisoned.

Crackdown on female activists

Female activists over the past months and years have been subjected to intimidation by the NISS and had their homes raided and personal belongings confiscated numerous times.

In late February, NISS officers raided the house of a human rights activist, Nazik Kabalo, and confiscated the hard drive of her computer, her documents and her mobile phone. She was called for questioning and subjected to an interrogation that lasted over eight hours. Kabalo was asked to return the following day for further interrogation, but instead, fearing for her safety, fled Sudan. “They said that if I didn’t cooperate, they will kill me and throw my body away,” she told a non-violent youth opposition movement Girifna (‘We Are Fed Up’).

In March, the Public Order Police shot dead a female activist from the Nuba Mountains who was trying to defend her brother who was being beaten by officers who claimed that he was consuming alcohol. Her death inspired a wave of protests in her neighbourhood.

A couple of weeks later, Jalila Khamis Koko, another female activist from the Nuba Mountains, was arrested from her home in Al Shajara, Khartoum. NISS police forces raided her house and arrested Jalila still in her nightclothes. Her son’s pleas to allow her to cover herself up went ignored. Jalila remains in detention.

Campaigns against violation

There are several campaigns calling on the protection of women’s rights in Sudan, including The National and International Campaign to Eliminate Article 152 of Sudan's Criminal Code. These are bolstered by youth movements such as Girifna which are calling for an end to state-sponsored systematic violence and rape across the country.

This article was first published here

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Sudanese youth revolutionize through art

Khartoon! by Khalid Albaih

Youth in Sudan are looking to art to transform their political frustration into action. They have refused to succumb to hopelessness and apathy and chosen to voice hope and positivity through their artistic messages.

For some, the artistic attempts have landed them international recognition, and even awards. Khalid Albaih, a world-renowned and award-winning Sudanese cartoonist based in Qatar recalled how he became an artist.

“Due to my father’s diplomatic status followed by exile, we lived in the Diaspora most of our lives, surrounded by my father’s politics and ‘conspiracy theories’. My father’s ‘art-less’ lifestyle prompted me to complete my BS in Interior Design with degrees in Islamic Art History and Graphic Design” he said, “Growing up, political cartoons featured on daily newspapers always intrigued me due to their simplistic nature and the risks taken to get a point across…My visual style further explains what is at the very base of the issues we face today. Simple.”

Khartoon! by Khalid Albaih

Albaih tried to publish his work in several local newspapers in Doha and in Sudan in vain. He then turned to the one place all social rejects find solace in – the internet, where he founded his project “Khartoon!”.

Khartoon! by Khalid Albaih

“Art and artists in Sudan are dying due to society’s lack of interest in the arts. The internet is where all the silenced youths turn to, and now with the internet accessible in every Sudanese household, our youth are inspired to showcase their talents online with a ‘we can do it’ attitude,” he opined.

Away from the spotlight, K. Eltinaé writes in a medium that survives more in Arabic today than it does in English. Mixing confessional poetry with a revolutionary beat, his verses address the betrayal, suffocation and rejection of the diaspora of many third culture Sudanese youths who have returned to a country that will never fully embrace them. In 2009, as a teacher at the University of Khartoum, he took the initiative to stage and direct scenes from his debut anthology “Chagrin” into a mime theatrical representation of the poems accompanied by both recorded musical selections and a live chorus line depicting the wiles of relationship-drama.

By K.Eltinae

“The future of performance art in Khartoum is extremely encouraging in many diverse mediums which have never been focused upon before in Sudan. I am of the opinion, however, that talent should not solely be showcased and catered to Open Mic performances, or any other medium which unconsciously seeks to define art exclusively as something concrete, this kind of pressure on youths to imitate what is commercially ‘popular’ rather than what is sincerely felt or experienced results in a salad of repetition and stunted creative growth, which can be avoided if young artists think outside the box,” he says.

Eltinaé’s sophomore anthology “Vertigo” is scheduled to be published later this year as a series of 21 short films which interweave with the themes of the poems in the Anthology. K.Eltinaé is also currently writing his debut novel, centered in the ideology of ‘groupthink’.

Tartar, a YouTube-based animation studio, was founded by a young talented artist, Amin Bahari, with a mission to promote Sudan, its people, its traditions and culture. Everything Tartar produces is published and shared online, scoring almost 200,000 hits to date.

“Since our first production, you could see how the online Sudanese community positively reacted to such an initiative. The feedback was highly encouraging. People extensively shared the videos on social media websites, downloaded them on their computers and phones and volunteered to help,” Bahari explained, “The internet, unlike TV, offers more interaction with your audience and brings you instant feedback that helps you improve your work and keeps you focused.”

Bahari grew up drawing comic stories and he says media plays a major role in shaping the way people think and act. “I feel sad how such a powerful tool has been poorly utilized in my community, a community that is rich in culture, people and has so much to tell the world… however, all you see when you google Sudan are pictures of wars, famine and hunger,” Bahari said.

Bahari, who is also a medical doctor hopes that as Tartar grows bigger and more people join, share and promote it, it will become less of an animation studio and more of a social movement.

For Mohamed Altoum, a young budding photographer, the camera lens is his means for capturing the beauty of a country that is rich with culture, rituals and traditions. “A picture is worth a thousand words, and a camera can document incredible moments that otherwise go unremembered. Photography is my passion, and I make sure I make use of this passion in social events and activities,” he says.

By Mohamed Altoum

By Mohamed Altoum

Another photographer, Qusai Akoud, was recently awarded the ‘Best Sudanese Photographer’ title. He was inspired to become an artist after the death of his father in late 2007. “I think people like my photos because I tend to capture natural human gestures and normal moments that pass normally without notice but when you see that moment in a photo you get a warm, deep, sweet feeling,” he says. His prediction for the future of art in Sudan is that many talented youths will emerge and showcase their exceptional visions to the world.

As Sudan continues to experience hard political and economical times, with its recent secession from the south, its youth are joining forces; determined to represent it as a beacon of art, talent and inspiration.

This article was first published here

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International Women’s Day in Sudan: Rape, Torture, Detention and Murder

How can a country celebrate International Women’s Day when every year it marks the oppression, harassment and crackdown on the freedom and rights of its women?

From the case of Lubna Hussein who stood for trial for wearing a pair of trousers, to the video of a woman being lashed in public while police officers laughed as she wailed, to the gang-rape of a young activist named Safia Ishaq by security policemen last year, to the trial of journalist Amal Habbani who wrote about Safia’s case... the women of Sudan are suffering, and I believe we're only seeing the tip of the iceberg.

This year, not only are we spending the month of IWD commemorating the anniversary of Safia’s rape, but we are also spending it mourning the death of a woman named Awadiya Ajabna who hails from the Nuba Mountains. Awadiya, who was unarmed, was shot dead in front of her house on March 7, 2012 by the Public Order Police.

A few days before that, NISS had cracked down on a human rights activist named Nazik Kabalo. NISS officers raided her house and confiscated her equipment. They called her in for an 8-hour long interrogation. They used all sorts of intimidation tactics on her and threatened to detain her until the anti-espionage bill is in effect, where she may then be subjected to the death penalty for her communications with the international community. Nazik fled the country. Her activism was directed towards IDPs from the Nuba Mountains.

Just before the Sudanese people were able to grasp the horrors of these unfortunate and subsequent incidents, another activist from the Nuba Mountains was kidnapped from her home on March 14, 2012. Jalila Khamis Koko is a teacher and an active member of SPLM-N. NISS officers raided her house at 1 am and kidnapped her in front of her son. She was wearing her night clothes and they rejected her 17-year-old son’s pleas to allow her to change or slip into a ‘toab’ to cover herself. Instead, they threatened to shoot him. Jalila was essentially arrested for her ties with Nazik Kabalo, where the two activists were working together to collect funds for IDPs from the Nuba Mountains residing in Khartoum.

Every day in Sudan women’s rights are being violated. The Public Order Law, which was formed as some kind of ‘moral’ law and has its own court, has many loopholes, particularly article 152 which mainly focuses on so-called indecent acts.

Article 152 of the Public Order Law: Obscene and Indecent Acts:

(1) Whoever does in a public place an indecent act or an act contrary to public morals or wears an obscene outfit or contrary to public morals or causing an annoyance to public feelings shall be punished with flogging which may not exceed forty lashes or with fine or with both.

(2) The act shall be contrary to public morals if it is regarded as such according to the standard of the person's religion or the custom of the country where the act takes place.

What it boils down to is that the Public Order Police reserves the right to arrest whomever they consider is committing an indecent act or is wearing indecent clothing. The law as you can see is absolutely vague and has no standards. This leaves plenty of room for police barbarism, as the officers are allowed to act as they please and use their desired methods of punishment on whomever they deem has committed an ‘indecent act’.

What an oxymoron it is that the Public Order Police (who murdered Awadiya Ajabna 10 days ago) claims to be against acts of indecency; given that Jalila Khamis was removed from her own home while dressed in something she would probably be arrested for if she had worn it in public.

The double standards of this current regime is repellent… how much longer are the NISS and Public Order Police going to target women and violate human rights? How much longer will the NCP trade with religion and commit horrible crimes in the name of Islam? Most importantly, how much longer are we going to let them?

Take action.. shed light on these atrocities. Write, blog, tweet, Facebook. Advocate for women in Sudan and raise awareness on the issues they are facing. The times of standing idly by as we watch the NCP ruin our lives are long gone. Be part of the change process.

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