The Road to Medani

Amar Abdullah Al-Tom
The war broke out suddenly and everything changed... everything. Life no longer resembled what it used to be, and we were no longer the same.

Ramadan came and quickly passed towards its end. We hardly felt it, as if fate was rushing us towards our inevitable destiny, darkened by despair.

Ramadan events rushed by, and we were caught up in the same speed. The news of my cousin Mohammeds death weighed heavily upon us, painful and harsh, just a week before the outbreak of the confrontation. As is customary for Sudanese people, their conversations - after the initial shock - turn into fiery debates about politics and the current state of the country, which is on the verge of chaos.

We exchanged condolences in the mourning tent, mourning and overcoming grief, but we were defeated by politics. Sudanese people do not agree on anything except when it comes to politics and its complexities. Throughout that long day, there was no topic we did not discuss, but most of us were pessimistic, not expecting that within a few days the situation would change completely, taking a different turn.

A gloomy and mysterious specter seeped into our lives, enveloping us like the night envelopes the horizons with its darkness after sunset.

Then we woke up on Saturday morning, and the monster (Fatna Al-Samaha) had wreaked havoc, spilling her blood into the Nile and scattering her hair in the sky as smoke and fire. The sound of her screams turned into thunder and gunshots.

The world was in an uproar, and we were the breaking news. Is this Khartoum burning? Or is it a nightmare that has invaded our dreams and wakefulness, refusing to let us wake up from it? Is it true that we hear the sound of gunfire and bombs? Or are these children from the neighborhood, as usual, playing with Eid games and fireworks, with only a few days left until Eid arrives at our doorstep?

The television was broadcasting the scenes to us while we were in astonishment and mourning. We hear the sound of planes buzzing and the deafening noise echoing in our ears, and we witness the same news on Al-Jazeera, Al-Hadath, and others (Aerial bombardment targets Rapid Support Forces positions in Bahri), in the worst portrayal of reality TV!!

Time passes, and the time for iftar arrives, while that darkness and that cloud that we have known since the dispersal of the sit-in creep into our hearts and souls... telling us that we are not okay! We are never okay!!

The next day, the water supply is cut off, and the daily quest for usable water and the search for bread and other necessities of life drains the remaining strength we have. We realize that the noose is tightening around our necks; its only a matter of time!

On television, the focus is on scenes in the midst of Khartoum, with thick smoke engulfing the sky, the sound of gunfire and constant shelling, accompanied by the ramblings of analysts and the compassion of the sympathetic.

A Sudanese kills another Sudanese with bullets, a price we all pay and continue to pay. This escalating smoke emanates from our airport, military headquarters, and the roads we used to travel on, roads that were once filled with our resources, present, and the future of our children. This ammunition that was recklessly discharged should have been the price for medicine in a hospital, a morsel in the mouth of the hungry, and a chair in a classroom.

On the fifth day, the intensity of the confrontations increases in most parts of the capital. The sound of cannons and gunfire grows closer and closer to peoples roads and homes. The number of casualties increases, and services are interrupted. The community becomes active in an attempt to heal its wounds and make use of various communication channels to convey the needs, appeals, and urgent pleas of the people, hoping for a generous response and the mercy of a respondent, after the complete absence of the state and the loss of hope except in God.

From Jabal Awliya, Arkweit, and Wathrib, where my brothers reside, let us have a conference call in the middle of the night. This matter has reached a level that threatens lives and other consequences that we have never experienced before. What the imagination portrays in its worst assumptions, we pray to God that it remains imprisoned in the realm of imagination. What should we do, and is there a safe haven? Is there a way to escape when death sends its messengers everywhere, with imminent danger?

We made up our minds to travel in the morning, but where shall we go? That was the question, and the answer was anywhere but this hell.

Well, lets go to Shendi, as it is close by and there is accommodation available. But how can residents of Khartoum cross all these military convoys without exposing themselves to danger? Shendi, therefore, is fraught with horrors along its path!

We quickly decided to travel to Medani, as we heard that the eastern road is safe.

In the morning, I searched for fuel but couldnt find any, not even at black market prices. Fuel stations were closed, and there was no guide to direct you. This fuel I have wont take me far, I said to my brother.

Amir, the important thing is for us to get out of the confrontations, and the rest is up to God, my brother replied.

At home, fear, anxiety, and sadness overwhelm me, but I try to appear well and composed in front of my family and children, even though Im not entirely so. I rush them, attempting to mitigate that, urging them to leave without carrying too much because we dont have time, and we fear the resumption of clashes. And as we hit the road, we carry our academic papers, clothes bags, some supplies saved for the remainder of Ramadan, and also the pain that resides in our hearts. We leave the door behind, leaving some of ourselves there, uncertain if we will ever have another encounter in this place or not!

The tears of women bidding farewell to each other indicate the underlying fear they all feel.

I will never forget the feeling that gripped my chest as I drove out of our street, with black smoke and the incessant sound of cannons and gunfire in the distance towards South Bahri. I asked myself, is this the feeling of death approaching? Or what is it?

South Bahri appears gloomy, with a somber sky as if angry at those who have poisoned its air with the smell of gunpowder, awakening its slumber and tarnishing its Ramadan. As I approached Martyr Mohammed Matar Street (formerly known as Al-Anqaaz), I spotted a heavily armed Rapid Support Forces vehicle stationed at the corner of the street. I never expected them to be this close! For a moment, I thought of turning back! But where to? I collected my thoughts and continued. They stopped me, and the heavily armed person asked me:

Where are you going?
Just heading east.
And where are you coming from?
From our house.
Where is your house?
Its on the street right behind us!
Go ahead!

After less than 300 meters, another checkpoint.

But this time, the approach was gentler as the person gestured and said:
Are you a family? Go ahead, go ahead! Then addressing the children, Where are you going, my sweethearts?

Are these the same people who ended the sit-in? And now we see them in videos invading homes and terrorizing the residents? What kind of insane, schizophrenic war are we in?

From one checkpoint to another. I chose to drive through the neighborhoods, traversing Bahri via Kafoori towards the east, hoping for a road that would lead me to the eastern bank of the Nile.

Source: Stories of Sudanese in War, Displacement, and Refuge Facebook page.