Slaughter: Or the Link Between Public Space and the Memory of Blood
Mohamed Badawi
The escalating killing of civilians in the streets by warring factions in Sudan—filmed and disseminated, often preceded by inflammatory rhetoric— is not merely an impulsive act or a lapse by some fighters. Observers note that the victims are consistently civilians, despite the varied justifications given for these acts. Civilians remain at the heart of a strategy aimed at transforming public spaces into zones of death. The purpose, in my assessment, is to instill fear in people, deterring them from engaging freely in public life. This strategy seeks to enforce rigid behavioral patterns in public spaces, effectively criminalizing freedom of expression and protest. The excessive violence—extrajudicial killings through gunfire, beheadings, or even burning bodies—reveals an intention to sever public spaces, both physically and symbolically, from the equation of political change.
If we examine the perpetrators by demographic category, they largely fall under the classification of youth—the very group that historically embodies courage and defiance in public spaces. The record of abuses against youth can be traced back to the South Sudan war, where they were targeted for recruitment into various militias, from the Popular Defense Forces to other factions. They were also recruited into extremist groups like ISIS and other militant organizations in Libya, Somalia, and Mali. They were killed during protests in 2012 and September 2013, throughout the December 2018 revolution, and after the 2021 coup—right up to the current war. The pattern suggests that these young fighters are now turning their weapons against their own demographic group, while their political and military leaders—who average around 55 years old—remain far removed, safe, and enriched by vast wealth. The fighters, trapped in a meticulously designed system, dare not even contemplate challenging the status quo, for doing so would mean stepping outside their assigned role of killing and being killed.
Whenever either side of the war seizes control of a residential area, violations immediately emerge that contradict their declared control. These violations send a message: returning to one’s home comes with conditions—chief among them, severing any ties to peaceful activism in public spaces. Accusations of collaborating with the opposing side—whether by transmitting information, placing tracking devices for airstrikes (which are rarely military in nature), or being identified by informants—serve to reinforce the idea that permission to move freely in public depends on submission to repression. This mirrors the strategy of public order laws, which sought to govern public spaces based on the arbitrary interpretations of enforcement authorities, without any reference to broader legal principles.
These forms of violations are not new; they have simply been brought in front of cameras this time. The deep history of violence in Sudan is rooted in the absence of social planning as a foundational role of governance. Military coups, economic mismanagement, and the interruption of democratic growth have fueled internal political wars. The ongoing crisis reveals an unresolved question: federalism remains the most suitable system for Sudan’s historical, social, and political composition, yet military repression has been the preferred method for addressing economic and political challenges. We have never seriously examined how armed robbery surged following severe droughts. Instead, we militarized our response, ignoring the need for justice in all its forms. Historically, successive governments have refused to formally acknowledge past atrocities, let alone issue official apologies—an absence that reflects a fundamental disregard for human dignity. This disconnect between the state and the individual manifests in the failure to protect citizens and provide services, instead militarizing their lives and shooting them when they demand their constitutional rights.
The warring factions have built their power strategies around separating civilians from public spaces, drawing lessons from their experience with the December 2018 revolution. Although they have been fighting since April 2023, they recognize that their true threat lies in public spaces. While they have the financial resources—exploiting Sudan’s natural wealth—they are actively working to dismantle the crucial pillar of resistance that has remained silent since the war began: civilians.
Finally: Human history compels us to reassess our record, extract lessons, and trace root causes. These beheadings and mutilations invoke the memory of ISIS, just as they recall the severed head of General Gordon during the fall of Khartoum—though the contexts differ. They also bring to mind numerous past atrocities, some of which we have glorified in school curricula, while others were buried behind political and legal immunity. The current reality, marked by the widespread destruction of cities, reminds us that our analytical frameworks must link the social with the political. Violence has been accumulating in both individual and collective memory, yet we have evaded confronting it by boasting about our values.
The warring parties are not external actors; they are an extension of our own historical curse. Political Islam’s past lives on through the experience of ISIS. War in Sudan is merely another chapter in a series of conflicts whose root causes were buried beneath the ashes—only to be reignited time and again. The ongoing failure to govern Sudan effectively, the historical absence of national coordination (not necessarily unity) on critical issues, and the inability to break free from cycles of destruction raise a crucial question: where does the real crisis lie?
