Reflections of a Sudanese Refugee in Chad on the Second Anniversary of the War in Sudan
This is where the story began...
Every story has a beginning, and the fifteenth of April marks the start of a long tale—one that has dragged on and must one day end.
That morning, the sun rose bright and beautiful, doves spread their wings and soared high, and the birds sang as if it were the night of destiny. We all stepped out, as usual, seeking our daily bread—living life as we knew it. Then suddenly, the air was pierced by the sound of three gunshots… followed by five more… and then, the thunder of artillery.
From that day forward, mornings in my country were never the same.
The laughter faded, the noise of the city silenced, and the familiar faces that once brought joy to the dawn disappeared.
Gunfire became as familiar as birdsong—except now, the chirping mixed with rooster calls feels more like mourning for a grieving nation.
Over 720 days have passed, and our eyes have known nothing but dark clouds covering our skies…
The stench of blood, scattered bodies, and cries for help fill the air.
To the one who hears this cry:
Where is the color white?
Where are the doves, fleeing their mothers, showering us with love or at least waving the banner of peace?
Our hearts are weary… We are no longer who we were.
Our dreams are lost—scattered between a painful past and a suffocating present.
And how can we envision a future that remains so uncertain?
We miss the noise, the chaos, the magic of the evenings, the clear skies…
We miss the homes that once sheltered us, and neighbors who never left our side.
But alas, war imposes itself through the power of arms, invading villages and camps, forcing us to adapt against our will, as we mutter in resignation, “Bal bas” (it is what it is).
The past still holds our stories, and the future opens its pages to remind us that this is the second anniversary of this senseless war...
But must we accumulate more bitter memories of this absurdity?
My dear pen...
I never wanted you to write about war—I wanted you to write only of peace.
Yet war lingers. Still, we have not lost hope.
We have drawn our vision of peace with our own hands, and we wait for its arrival, God willing.
Oh war…
Every beginning has an end.
Humble yourself before the souls wasted for nothing,
Before the cries of mothers, and the screams of children in Zamzam camp,
Before every mother who lost a son, every woman who lost a husband, and every child who lost their family.
Humble yourself—perhaps if even one letter of you falls, love will sprout in the ground you once crushed.
