Psalms of Emergency Rooms and Voluntary Work in Sudan
By Khalid Massa
(*) The Burden of Government Suspicion
For the past three and a half decades, it has been evident to any keen observer that the official and governmental mindset in Sudan has remained captive to a security-based mode of thinking—one that interprets any movement in society, especially those beyond its direct control, through a lens of suspicion. Even civil institutions with direct ties to citizens have adopted this mindset, using it as the easiest and most direct way to implement their policies and assert their presence—without facing the finger of accountability regarding their duties and responsibilities to the public. Employees of such institutions often act as though only a military uniform and a weapon are missing to complete the picture.
Take, for instance, the statement issued by the Khartoum State Government on May 12, 2025, in which it threatened to take firm action against any voluntary or humanitarian initiative that had not registered with the Voluntary and Humanitarian Work Commission—the official body responsible for such registrations. This commission was originally created as a means of controlling and restricting voluntary and humanitarian activity. The wording of the government’s statement betrays its underlying intentions, as it accuses any unregistered initiative of profiting in the name of citizens—unless it has sworn allegiance to the state apparatus.
This inherent suspicion has always colored the government’s rhetoric toward volunteers and grassroots initiatives. Their achievements often expose the governments shortcomings, particularly during national disasters—disasters in which Sudanese volunteers, working through traditional forms like tekayas, nafir campaigns, and modern emergency rooms, have consistently filled the gaps left by the states failure to act, addressing the wounds of Sudanese society by knocking on every available door of good.
(*) Tekayas and Emergency Rooms: Heavy Lies the Crown
The government’s statement follows a familiar and outdated pattern, failing to learn from global best practices that emphasize how state rhetoric should support, not suppress, volunteerism. If one were to read the statement of UN Secretary-General António Guterres, they would see a stark contrast. He specifically praised the role of volunteers and humanitarian workers in Sudan as heroic, stating:
"There are over 700 emergency rooms in Sudan, which serve as an inspiring model of grassroots humanitarian work. The dedication of these men and women reflects the best of humanity in Sudan, even amid the crises the country faces."
At a time when Sudan’s headlines are dominated by death, atrocities, and horrific allegations that shock global conscience, Sudan’s emergency rooms have crowned the nation with honor. This was recently symbolized when they received the prestigious Richard C. Holbrooke Award, presented annually by Refugees International to individuals and local organizations that provide exceptional services to displaced persons, refugees, and war victims.
Authoritarian tactics of slander and suspicion—along with the state’s policy of “burying the spade”—will not feed the hungry, quench the thirsty, or treat the wounded. They cannot erase the fact that the same government allowed food aid to rot in warehouses or leak into black markets, even as aid continued to pour in from generous nations that understand the nobility of voluntary humanitarian work. These nations value the sacrifices made by humanitarian workers—some of whom have given their lives to heal a people abandoned by their own government when it came to food, water, and medicine.
(*) "She Blamed Me for Her Own Ills and Walked Away"
The phrase “profiting in the name of the citizen,” used in the official statement, was not a linguistic slip or a sign of insensitivity toward humanitarian work. Rather, it was the core of the statement—everything else was peripheral. It reflects the kind of baseless accusation often used to deflect public questions—like how humanitarian aid ends up for sale in markets—while the Humanitarian Aid Commission disclaims responsibility by blaming individuals instead of acknowledging its failed policies and oversight.
As usual, the government statement attempts to drag voluntary and humanitarian organizations into political waters, which are fundamentally misaligned with the principles, ethics, and requirements of voluntary humanitarian work.
Politics has no qualms about weaponizing humanitarian crises as political bargaining chips. It assumes others do the same. That’s why the government’s reaction to international famine indicators and reports about Sudan’s dire conditions—created by war—was to spin them into political narratives. Meanwhile, millions of displaced Sudanese or those trapped in conflict zones can barely survive, depending almost entirely on the efforts of grassroots emergency rooms and traditional tekayas whose work is driven by community values and the glaring absence of state services.
(*) Signing the Absence Log
The engagement of Sudanese people in exile and diaspora, along with the appreciation expressed by international humanitarian organizations for the work done by tekayas and emergency rooms, stands as a mark of trust—something the official institutions sorely lack. It is also a certificate of achievement for volunteers and humanitarian workers, whose deaths, arrests, and harassment the government failed to condemn in its statement. These workers were accused of collaborating with the Sudanese Armed Forces simply for providing life-saving aid in war-torn areas, often at the cost of their lives.
(*) Questions Not Meant to Be Answered
Does the timing and tone of this statement suggest that it will improve Sudan’s already dire humanitarian crisis? Are there any official metrics known to the statement’s author proving that shutting down tekayas and emergency rooms would not harm the people who rely on them?
Can a phrase like “profiting in the name of the citizen” ever inspire or motivate the young men and women who have been helping the Sudanese people from the first day of the war? Or will it become just another front in a long list of battles they already face—familial loss, arrest, senseless violence, and the severe lack of resources?
Can the "decisive action mechanism" mentioned in the government’s statement actually fill the void that would be left if these tekayas and emergency workers were forced to stop? Does the government truly possess the experience and capacity to replace them?
As much as we’ve suffered from the darkness of war and endless political strife—which has left our people impoverished, hungry, sick, displaced, and exiled, and portrayed us to the world as a nation perennially in need of aid—we must protect the few flickers of light we have left. These tekayas and emergency initiatives are national treasures, and we should be proud to possess such a wealth of spirit—always there to mend our broken hearts and our broken homeland.
