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