“Sudan doesn’t want us,” my best friend said to me with
tears streaming down her cheeks. “It has taken so much away from us, yet we
somehow always come back to it.” On that Friday morning, it had only been two
days since the June 3rd massacre that took place across Sudan,
taking the lives of hundreds of innocent civilians. My Twitter and Facebook
timelines poured imagery of peaceful Sudanese protesters killed, their bodies
dropped in the Nile or lying flat on the streets; others injured and denied
medical treatment; hospitals teargassed; women raped; protest sites burned and
vandalized; armed militia wreaking havoc and spreading terror across the
streets of Sudan, waving their machine guns around and beating up men and
women, young and old. My friend and I embraced, and broke down hysterically on
the sofa in my living room, feeling wave after the other of helplessness,
guilt, worry and insurmountable pain. The closest word I can describe it with
is grief. We were grieving for our country; for our people who took to the
streets to demand justice and a better life for the rest of us. We are still
grieving.
Moments later, I retired to my bedroom. I took several deep
breaths. “It’s time to stop feeling sorry for yourself and time to start
writing.” These were my thoughts just seconds before I turned on my laptop and
started typing these words. The next thought was, “okay, so where do I start?” I
started writing my feelings down like I used to when I was an active blogger,
living in Sudan, being part of the daily struggle. But it wasn’t easy to just
“write” this time around. It took me 24 days to write this blog post – I had to
finish it before June 30th.
Seven years ago, I left Sudan, where I had been living for
nine years, leaving behind my family and friends and venturing on a new
journey. It was hard making it on my own for the first time at age 23, as I was
used to being surrounded by loved ones. Nonetheless, eventually things worked
out – I was able to get a good job, buy a car, travel often, send money home,
and generally live a decent life. However, I did not realize at the time that I
was suffering from PTSD due to the ordeals I faced during my last two months
living in Sudan. The only thing I allowed myself to think whenever my mind
wandered to revisit these “incidents” was that I was now safe.
Throughout these seven years I often flew home to see my
family. My parents were both retired and living in Sudan, along with my sisters
and their children. My grandmother passed away, and then my aunt. I went to
their funerals. Two of my sisters and two of my best friends got married. I
attended their weddings. More family members kept dying and others got married.
It was taking a toll on me so I stopped going to Sudan as frequently. It was
getting more difficult to just hop on a plane every time something happened. I
learned to adapt and to balance my trips. I flew my mom and sisters out to see
me whenever I could.
With every visit to Sudan I observed the deterioration of
the economic situation. Prices kept increasing exponentially – I no longer knew
how much things cost or kept track. Still, people were surviving, still getting
by, still staying silent against the decline of quality of life. I wondered
what their secret was, where they were getting this patience from. What it
would take to get them to take to the streets and march for justice. If they
even had a breaking point. At this point, I am no longer an activist. I am no
longer a writer. I am no longer a believer of an inevitable freedom and change
and the spark of a successful peaceful revolution in Sudan. I am no longer following
nor interested in Sudanese politics. All I cared about was the safety and well-being
of my family. I was defeated. I kept telling myself that my part was done and I
had served my time – attended multiple protests, got teargassed and chased
after by armed security officers, saw through the arrest, kidnapping and
deportation of my friends, heard and documented enough torture and rape
stories, got detained and interrogated for days by NISS, got my family
traumatized, terrorized and afraid for my safety. I was done because the people
didn’t care enough about what we were trying to do; at least that’s what I
thought back then.
Living away from Sudan, something was always missing. The
transition was tough, especially that first year. I missed my old routine,
where I would get off work at 4 PM, go home and get some rest, then go out and
do things that mattered. Whether it was attending a Mafroosh book fair, taking
part in a sit-in, raising funds for To Sudan with Love, or even going to Nile
street to sip tea with my friends. I missed being part of a community of people
who shared my passions, views and beliefs. I went from that to leading a
mundane life where I would wake up, go to work and get home by dark. I tried
not to dwell on it, on the other hand, since I did what I needed to do for the
sake of supporting my family.
I came to learn that my writers’ block was not because I was
uninspired, but it was an after-effect of my PTSD. I tried to self-recover; I
tried to gain back my passion for writing, my interest in politics, my strong
conviction in an inevitably free Sudan. It was all gone. Until December of last
year when the mass protests broke out.
I went back and re-read an article I wrote in 2012 about how
the
Sudanese revolution is not dead; it’s on hibernation. I reverted to my old addiction,
obsessively checking news about Sudan, skimming through every tweet, reading
every article, sharing every Facebook post. I was inspired again, hopeful
again, dumbfounded that it was actually happening this time. They did it. My
people, whom I dared to call apathetic, whom I accused of weakness, whom I
blamed for my displacement from my family, whom I harshly judged for years –
they finally did it. I was wrong, and I was ashamed of my long-term resentment.
Most importantly, I was elated, and I was proud of them.
The sight of tens of thousands of civilians protesting
against injustice across multiple states was hard to fathom at first – for
someone who’s never seen a protest gather more than 100 people, that saw
observers refusing to join, sipping their tea and comfortably staying put while
we marched and chanted on their behalf, some leading security officers to our
hiding spots, others laughing us out of our protests, asking us to go home –
someone who’s never been to a protest that was safe, or marked no arrests nor
beatings, or was not violently dispersed nor teargassed. How was this even
possible? How did they manage to pull off this mass protest, yet stay safe and
free to chant against the government?
The footage from the ground was breathtaking. The spirit
that was created at the sit-in site was nothing short of magnificent. The
chanting, the marching, the dancing, the solidarity, the love, the brotherhood.
I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
I followed the news closely, daily, hourly even – until
Bashir’s removal from power was announced. I had so many mixed feelings that
day. Look at what these amazing people did – who would’ve thought Bashir’s rule
had an expiration date? Who would’ve thought we could overthrow a dancing war
criminal who reigned with terror for 30 years?
Disbelief.
More pride.
Hope.
It was not over, however. The Transitional Military Council
was refusing to hand over power to a civilian government. It was not time for
the protesters on the ground to go home yet. I would continue to follow the
news out of Sudan for the weeks to come. My people’s spirit remained unbroken. Ramadan
came – I watched as they shared meals, continued to camp at the sit-in site,
protected one another, slept on the hard-concrete floors, built blockades,
raised flags and anti-military signs, took shifts looking after the camps, and
resiliently returned every day to resume the same activities. This was now
home.
It was a short-lived victory. The massacre came on the 3rd
of June. It was unbearable. The internet has (since) been cut off. We were in
the dark – it wasn’t easy to reach family members back home. Every time it took
my sister more than 3 seconds to answer my call I would assume Janjaweed
soldiers raided our home and killed my entire family. I was losing my mind.
The following week, a civil disobedience movement was
announced. Streets, offices, shops were deserted for three days. Hope was being
restored – and we took our time to lick our wounds. However, so much more kept
happening over the next few weeks. The Transitional Military Council announced
this, the Rapid Support Forces denied that. The Sudanese Professionals
Association declared this, the opposition parties stated that. It was an
endless cycle of drama that nobody had the appetite for.
In recent weeks Sudan got some interest from western media.
People started to hear us; and they actually listened. #BlueForSudan launched
in commemoration of the martyrs we lost for the revolution. “Ask Me About
Sudan” is a campaign that aimed at raising awareness about what’s happening in Sudan. A way to shine light on Sudan amid the internet blackout.
I will never give up on the Sudanese revolution, because my
people are relentless. They are strong, resilient and unapologetic. They know
what they want, and they will keep fighting until their demands are met.
I will never give up on the Sudanese revolution, because I
know deep down in my heart that the blood our martyrs shed will not go in vain.
I will never give up on the Sudanese revolution, because
Sudan is my country. Because I want to go home. Because no matter where I go,
it is the only place I will ever belong.
Sudan is still uprising.
On June 30th, 2019, to
mark the 30th anniversary of the coup that brought Bashir to power, protesters
will gather in Khartoum once again for the largest protest since the sit-in was
dispersed. It is a million-man march.
The Sudanese people are undeterred.
You can help, too. Read about the Sudanese revolution.
Follow the news, spread the word. Tweet, write, attend a sit-in, hold up a
sign, take a photo, wear blue. Let the world know.
Most importantly – raise awareness about the Sudanese
million-man march on June 30th. Watch Sudan on June 30th.
Tell your friends to watch Sudan on June 30th.
