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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