The Mirror of War

Mamoun Al-Tilib

(1)
When the Janjaweed’s crimes were transmitted to us live through their phone cameras at the start of the war, when they took control of most parts of the country, delirious in their victory, screaming because they were mad—none of it was surprising. Even when they launched their retaliatory attack on the people of Al-Jazira, whose villages and towns had been briefly liberated, allowing them to celebrate their safety from the Janjaweed; even when they inflicted torment, besieged them in mosques, starved them, then poisoned their food; even when they bombarded them with heavy weapons and razed their homes to the ground; even when they exterminated dozens of my brother Al-Tayeb Al-Musharraf’s family members, and I saw him standing at my door in Zanzibar weeks later, during a work mission. I saw him and could not muster any reaction. I understood Najlaa Al-Tom when she explained the meaninglessness of saying to Al-Tayeb, "My condolences." It was not surprising—after all, they were made to fight this way.

That is how their wars have always been in Darfur and South Kordofan: wars against poor, defenseless civilians. A relentless cycle of revenge, planting hatred in the hearts of men and children who witnessed rape and destruction, in the little girls who fled on foot with their mothers from El Geneina, only to see their brothers torn away and executed before their eyes. This is their war.

But what has it done to Sudanese people who have never tasted this bitterness before? The experience of war is not like poverty or economic collapse—it burrows deep into the living flesh of memory and turns people into rebels.

(2)
I forced myself to watch every execution and slaughter video I came across, scattered everywhere. My focus was on the children and teenagers whose innocent faces flooded the footage: a child with a rope stuffed in his mouth. A child spoken to in the language of beasts. A child thrown into a river, riddled with bullets as he fell, his scream echoing endlessly.

A "brave" soldier executed an unarmed man cornered against a wall. The gathered civilians had already condemned him in one way or another. They all had their cameras out, filming the merciless killing of the man crouched in the corner. After emptying his rage into the man with bullets, the soldier turned away amid the hysterical chants and shouts demanding more shots. When they said, "He’s not dead," the heroic soldier, in full military attire, returned and fired another round into the lifeless body.

The video wasn’t over yet. The camera panned over the jubilant crowd, their jumping figures. In the last fraction of a second, a child leaped in front of the camera, arms wide open, and the recording ended. I nearly dropped my phone, frozen with horror, my heart hardened by that child’s leap into the frame.

It is not normal for people to be slaughtered, their stomachs slit open, their intestines scattered in the streets. It is shocking for people to revel in such death.

(3)
What I say now concerns the future—our future as humans first, and as Sudanese second. All areas liberated from the Janjaweed by the army must be protected. There must be an independent force monitoring and safeguarding civilians. In South Al-Hizam, civilian bombardment has never ceased since the war began. I wrote an article then, published in Sudanile, titled "South Al-Hizam: The Red Sky", where I pointed to the "racist indifference" with which the air force treated the people there, particularly in the bombing of Goro Market.

That market was bombed again last Thursday with the same indifference. None of the victims were combatants. I heard the same justification now being echoed: "Civilians in South Al-Hizam collaborate with the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) and trade with them in those markets!"

Even if that were true, is the punishment for such a crime death by airstrike? Or is it simply that the lives of those people hold no value? No, this is the complete erasure of human worth.

The time for justification is over. Now, the hidden voice, long buried, has emerged—a voice from the depths of history that still believes in the existence of "slaves." That voice now speaks through educated men in full suits, appearing plainly, united in one goal: the removal—no, the extermination—of the kanabi people and their communities.

(4)
The world will not believe us if we say that these targeted people had already fled to the capital and major cities—most often escaping another war. And every time they were displaced, they were met with brutality, discrimination, and immense racial arrogance.

This relentless oppression, this absolute loss of hope in justice and humanity—what justice, by God, whether in this world or any other? Grant them at least the right to life, the one right they were born with on this planet.

The massacres reached one of the most peaceful communities in Khartoum: South Sudanese who remained woven into Sudanese society even after their country’s independence. Most of them returned, fleeing old wars, and settled here. Our friends among them believed they were not targeted because, simply put, they were not part of this war. Politically speaking, they were foreigners, citizens of another state.

Yet the shameless disregard for their lives, their dignity, and their very existence has reopened old wounds. That hidden voice has now emerged into the open—the deep-seated racism that afflicts large segments of Sudanese society in the Nile Valley, Khartoum, and centers of political, media, and military power.

(5)
The greatest defeat this war has inflicted upon us is that it has stripped people of their humanity and compassion. It has drained them of mercy. It has exposed children to horrors that will shape their futures in ways we cannot yet comprehend.

We will never know the full weight of the moment when a woman untied her child from the cloth that had secured him to her back—after days of walking under the scorching sun to reach refugee camps in Chad. There, she lowered him—a lifeless body.

We will never understand the future unless we reflect on the ornate madness produced by this war.

We will never know what future awaits the child who leaped into the execution video’s final frame.

We will never grasp the hollow, stunned expression of the South Sudanese man who walked, and walked, while insults, beatings, and killings trailed behind him—walking side by side with the certain danger ahead, walking through our tears, reminding us how imaginary borders are in this conflict.

(6)
What has war done to me? I do not know. But I know it has become a part of us—like lungs, stomach, heart, memory, and dreams.

Everyone fights this war alongside the soldiers. This is unprecedented in human history. War has become two wars: one on the battlefield, and another in the strained nerves and unrelenting rage of individuals trapped inside their phones—contributing through writing (what a terrifying weapon), filming victims, and crushing language itself, reducing it to meaningless, hollow letters—words shrunk to two or three characters.

(7)
From our experience, we have learned that wars expose societies. War is the only mirror that captures human attention. It is the only way they learn.

But first, they must truly look into the captivating mirror of war and see beyond their own reflections—the small, lifeless limbs, the women killed by rape who continue walking through their permanently exiled lives, their memories drenched in the scent of Janjaweed soldiers.

This is the strange face of our nation. The faces of Sudanese people were never strange. The Janjaweed’s actions were never strange.

The true strangers are those who chant God’s name while slaughtering His creatures, killing His beloved children.

The children—the war’s eternal losses.