I was about 13 years old when the Darfur conflict began in 2003. As a teenager reading and listening to the news before the dawn of social media, I didn’t fully understand the historical or political context, but I knew I needed to act. The need to end the humanitarian crisis. This is one of the events that led me to eventually become a doctor and work in areas of conflict and natural disasters.
For the first two weeks of December, I volunteered with an NGO providing medical care in an internally displaced persons (IDP) camp in Al-Daba, Sudan’s northern state. In a way, I’m back to square one, right back to the place that first inspired me to take action.
In the two weeks we were in Ardaba, the camp’s population grew from 2,000 to more than 10,000. Sometimes it felt like there would never be enough resources to accommodate all the newcomers. There’s not enough food and water. There’s not enough medicine. There aren’t enough toilets.
Instead, what I witnessed again and again was the courage, generosity, and selflessness of Sudanese people, from the IDPs themselves to the local staff of the NGOs where I volunteered.
These are the stories of some people I met during my day at camp.
There are people like 15-year-old Fatima*. It took her 21 days to reach al-Daba. She fled El Fasher as the Rapid Support Forces, a militia currently fighting the Sudanese army, marched into her hometown.
She was 10 weeks pregnant with her first child. She had to be taken to the hospital for a fetal ultrasound. I gently asked her if the child’s father would accompany her to the hospital. She looked away. Her mother whispered to me that she had been raped. I took Fatima’s hand and sat with her in silence, her tears falling onto my sleeve.
There I met Aisha, a mother of five children. She had lost her husband during the long and harrowing journey from El Fasher to Al Dabba. I told her that her hemoglobin was so low that she needed to be taken to the nearest hospital for a blood transfusion. After losing their father, she could not bear to be away from her children as they suffered from recurring nightmares and could not sleep well at night.
We spent the better part of an hour trying to resolve the issue with her and decided to let the kids stay with grandma until Aisha was taken to the hospital.
Then there was Khadija. It took four weeks for her to reach al-Daba. In the chaos as El Fasher flees, she watches her husband get shot in the back. It was heartbreaking to leave without a proper burial, but she fled on foot with her three young children.
Along the way, there was little to eat and limited drinking water. Her youngest child died from severe diarrhea and malnutrition. She somehow managed to find enough energy to hitchhike in her car with her two remaining children.
However, tragedy struck again. They got into a car accident. Her second child died from his injuries. Khadijah arrived in al-Daba with her eldest son, the only survivor.
Khadija was 36 weeks pregnant with her fourth child when I met her in the medical tent. She had a urinary tract infection so they gave her antibiotics. She thanked me profusely, kissing me on both cheeks. Her gratitude made me feel even more embarrassed that I had so little to offer to someone who had been through so much. I told her I would pray for her.
Suddenly, she leaned in and asked my name. I told her my name and she repeated it, rolling it gently off her tongue. Then she pointed to her pregnant belly and said, “This is what I’m going to name my child.” I felt overwhelmed by what she had given me, even though so much had already been taken from her.
One time I needed to take a break for midday prayers, so I walked to Aunt Najwa’s thatched house. She had been in an internally displaced persons camp for over a year. Her prayer mat was one of her few possessions. But she gave it away for free to anyone who needed it. Her home felt like a safe haven. She insisted I have tea. When I politely declined, she gave me some cooked beans and lentils. I was humbled by her generosity.
The courage of my interpreter, Mr. Ahmed, was similar. He was part of the local staff of an NGO where I was volunteering. When the war broke out in 2023, Ahmed took his parents and siblings to Egypt and, once it was safe, returned to Sudan to continue serving his people. I’ve heard stories like this many times.
Sudan’s local team has remained in the country and made countless sacrifices to serve its people, despite countless threats to their personal safety. Considering the care and concern of my father as he dropped me off at the airport before my flight to Sudan, I can only imagine how Ahmed’s parents must have felt knowing their son was staying in a war zone by choice, despite living in relative safety.
Sudan is facing the world’s largest humanitarian crisis. However, it still accounts for less than 35% of global financial needs. One-third of the population has been forced to evacuate. One in two people is hungry. Famine is occurring in many parts of the country, and millions of people are at risk of starvation.
I don’t know where the solution is. But we know that as an international community, we have failed Sudan and its people time and time again.
We can do better. we have to do better.
Fatima, Khadija, Aisha, Aunty Najwa and Ahmed deserve more recognition.
Sudanese people deserve better.
*All names have been changed to protect their identities.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial stance of Al Jazeera.
