War Diaries: The Exodus

Osman Amer
28 June, 2023
osman.amer@icloud.com

Leaving the Nilein meeting point was an inevitable escape, as the relentless war had reached its peak. It ravaged soldiers and civilians alike, and then descended upon a people who had never before experienced such a calamity. In the dawn of that day, we came from various places, branches and relatives, an extended family from the beginnings of childhood to the furthest reaches of old age. We squeezed into a narrow car, so tight it was unbearable, as if its seats were made of steel. The last passengers boarded from the heights of Abrof, Iman and her mother, who helped lift the door of the carriage for young men and women, due to their excessive dedication to assisting and rescuing them. I initially thought they were her grandchildren, only to later learn that they were the children of the neighboring volunteers.

As we crossed the line of bullets, bombs, and fighter jets followed by the whistling of thundering rockets, hitting their intended targets and unintentionally striking others, we had survived the chaos of imminent death. However, we couldnt escape the burning sense of humiliation inflicted upon us by this shameful war. It was a war that felt like a dream longer than our history. When we looked back, the ruins of Omdurman loomed behind us and then disappeared. Moments of happiness in surviving were replaced by tears that were wiped away discreetly or flowed freely. A tremendous sorrow cast its shadow upon our faces. Some tried to conceal it by pretending to sleep, while others looked into a desert where there was nothing to see, a pure emptiness (as if its earth was its sky), as if it were eternal, without a beginning or an end.

Inside the carriage, exhaustion mingled with bitterness, and the shattered spirit surrounded me until I was captivated by a glimpse of hope. I heard, as if in a dream, the voice of Mahmoud Darwish echoing from within the carriage:

The violins weep with the Gypsies
Heading towards Andalusia
The violins weep for the Arabs
Leaving Andalusia

The violins weep for
A lost time that wont return
The violins weep
For a lost homeland that may return

I woke up disillusioned, observing my surroundings, only to realize that everything I had heard was merely the illusion of poetry and the enchantment of poets.

The only constant truth in these shifting deserts is the path of the northern artery. It is, truthfully, an accomplished and destined route that begins from Ambada in the north of Omdurman and cuts through the desert, away from the Nile, until it meets it near Gonti, the village where the Nile descends after its mysterious departure from Abu Hamad in the north, to regain its course before flowing northwards again.

The Nile and the desert have coexisted since time immemorial in the struggle between existence and annihilation. The Nile, in its sources, holds power, greatness, and majestic splendor. It flows driven by the momentum of its numerous tributaries and abundant valleys, which gradually diminish as it travels north, until it ends with the Atbara River, its final mighty tributary. Afterward, it continues its path, steadfast (Noble Mufaq)2 in its journey, without any support from other water sources, resisting the onslaught of the vast and expansive desert.

The engines rumble filled the bus as it groaned over the asphalt that nearly melted from the scorching heat. It was the only sound that persisted after the childrens clamor and cries had subsided and they fell asleep. Silence prevailed after our repetitive and tedious conversations and stories had run dry. As for the elderly pilgrims, with their wrinkled eyelids, they continuously recited their prayers for our safety from the worlds afflictions and the evils of tyrants, and they cursed the instigators of war with damnation and destruction. I didnt hear it, but these were the whimsical thoughts that circulated in my mind. What weighed heavy on my heart were the harsh realities, especially the expanding desert that threatened all aspects of life. It made me wonder, is the desert a friend to people or the cradle of death?

When we reached the confluence of the Nile at Al-Multaqa, a sense of exhilaration prevailed as if we were returning to land after a turbulent sea journey. We freed our feet, trapped between the seats, with relief. Everyone disembarked from their confinement onto the welcoming land, and with renewed energy, they engaged in the activities of daily life. After a short break, we returned to the bus in better spirits, continuing our joyous journey alongside the Nile.

Oh, my God... How beautiful are the palm groves and the green fields in towns with names we now recognize from the road signs. We even saw Karmakol, the land of Tayeb Saleh, which I used to think was located on the eastern side of the Nile, near the Nile of Shendi, Atbara, and Abu Hamad. It turns out it is here on the western Nile, the Nile of Ad-Dabbah, Al-Gold, and Dongola. So, where is Wad Hamid? Does it really exist in this world, or did Tayeb Saleh invent it in the dawn of magical realism, with its intricate details filling its houses with captivating and diverse characters, brimming with vitality as if it still thrives in Wad Hamid on the banks of the Nile, the center of existence, where life begins and ends. The power of the Nile in Tayeb Salehs works is only matched by the reality of the Nile in northern Sudan.

We crossed the Nile from west to east over the bridge in Dongola. After passing its outskirts, we departed from the verdant valley, ascending a road that traversed dark-colored hills and mountains, rugged in appearance as if they were ejected from the belly of a volcano erupting against the planet Earth in a fleeting era.

Mountains surrounded the lands of Al-Mahas and Al-Sakout, interlocking like intertwined or reincarnated rings. Among them stands Mount Abri with its strange elevation and its surface and sides that seem as if they were brought from another place. It is a solitary mountain that I knew from a distance, as this is my homeland and the birthplace of my mother and father.

The mountain, the Nile, the desert, and the palm trees were the fundamental elements of the four natural elements in our fading memories of childhood. The mountain had a magical allure, both attractive and distant. The more our childhood explorations failed to reach it, the more it retreated from us, leaving us frustrated and allowing it to bask in its glorious isolation.

With the disappearance of the sun, its rays vanished, and only the remnants fell here and reflected there. After the twilight, curtains of darkness descended, separating us from the mountains whose mere appearance failed to bring us joy. But being absorbed in them was better than staring into the depths of infinite cosmic darkness.

At night, before reaching the crossing point in Halfa, we stopped to rest at a campsite where the leader of our journey works. Slowly, we extracted our bodies, stiffened from the bus. With some effort, we attempted to walk on the ground, gradually returning to the activities of life that culminated in a delicious dinner and a deep sleep under the warmth of the reception and the overflowing hospitality offered by the young residents of the camp.

With the first light of dawn, we were surprised by the waves of the High Dam Lake crashing beneath the edge of the cliff next to our lodging. As the sunrise unfolded, the panoramic view of the sea expanded before us, revealing the details of natures realms that we had never witnessed before while being so close. Before this, we were walking while observing the encroaching desert, and afterwards, we rejoiced in seeing the Nile and its fertile banks until our patient journey came to an end among the mountains that epitomized frustration.

Now we stood before the lake that submerged the land of palm trees, fields, villages, and hills, encircling the mountaintops, leaving us only a place to sit, be silent, and contemplate the blue sky descending into the blueness of the water until they merged on the distant horizon.

I wondered how the cycle of life was harmonized in the course of their days, and where were the houses and manifestations of civilization that existed beneath these waters sixty years ago? Was the forced displacement of the people of Halfa back then better than our current displacement, or are they both equally cruel? Questions and fantasies wandered and overflowed from my mind until I grew weary of the repetitive sorrow that neither heals nor finds solace.

After two nights of rest and comfort, we set off early in the morning towards Halfa. Our condition was better than those who had been in the open for many days. We were also luckier because none of us needed an entry visa, which thousands now wait for as their options narrow in the bottleneck between Halfa and Egypt. They are the new people of Sufa, who should be the subject of future political sociology, with a separate chapter dedicated to their rights that swing between the laws of the United Nations and the Convention of the Four Freedoms, which have proven to be of no use to them. They are stuck and will remain so until the war ends.

At the Egyptian Qastal border crossing, despite the congestion and the tedious customs and administrative procedures, the Egyptian police officers and soldiers carried out their work with patience and professionalism. Some of them were even kind and hospitable, as if they were consoling the Sudanese in their profound affliction, and then they facilitated our entry into Egyptian territory after days of our bitter departure from Al-Nilein.

We arrived at the Qastal Port near the crossing and waited until our small bus was squeezed onto the deck of a giant ferry alongside trucks, buses, and government and private vehicles. It sailed with us for an hour until we reached the city of Abu Simbel, and from there we continued our journey through the night until Aswan. I wont repeat the details of traveling in cramped vehicles and their substantial impact on weary bodies.

In Aswan, we stayed at an elegant inn built in the style of Nubian architecture, overlooking the first waterfall, where you could hear the splashing of water as it rose and fell over the rocks of the Nile. It was a pleasant and friendly place, which we left with regret, saying, If only we had come here at a different time, other than now.

The journey of displacement from Al-Nilein to Egyptian territory ended in Cairo, the city with which I have been familiar for decades. It has always embraced me and immersed me in a vibrant vitality, where I do not feel the anguish of exile or the longing for homelands. That was how it used to be, but now the wearisome stagnation has settled in. The monotonous days have multiplied like rabbits, and the postponed questions awakened and fluttered like bats.

We contribute during the day, and as the sleepless night comes to an end, we sleep and wake up in front of a television screen and a phone, watching a country burning in water, drowning in flames. Where will we fly? How will we bear this heavy burden?

Arjuzah by Rubaah ibn al-Ajjaj
Poem of the Nile by Tajjani Yusuf Bashir
Meeting and divergence point between Omdurman-Dongola Road and the Merowe-Karima Road
Ibrahim Ishaqs story about the myth of the dog
A term given to the poor migrants to the city
Groping for the Light by Charles Bukowski, translated and introduced by Abeer Al-Faqih
*From Adel Al-Qusas Facebook page