When the Darfur conflict started in 2003, I was about 13 years old. Before the emergence of social media, I was a teenager who read and listened to the news, but I now fully comprehended the historical or political context. a need to end a humanitarian crisis One of the events that ultimately led to my career as a doctor and working in conflict and natural disasters.
In al-Dabba, in Sudan’s Northern State, I volunteered with an NGO that provided medical care for internally displaced people (IDP) during the first two weeks of December. In some ways, I have turned my attention to the beginning, to the moment when I first started acting.
The camp’s population increased from 2, 000 to more than 10, 000 over the course of the two weeks we spent there. There were times when it seemed like there would never be enough resources to accommodate everyone. Not enough water and food. Not enough medication. Not enough latrines are available.
Instead, I repeatedly witnessed the Sudanese people’s courage, generosity, and selflessness, from the IDPs themselves to the local NGO staff I was volunteering with.
Some of the people I met while spending a day at the camp have these tales.
Fatima, 15, is popular among people. She had traveled to al-Dabba in 21 days. She fled as the Rapid Support Forces, a militia that is currently battling the Sudanese army, advanced upon her hometown.
She gave birth to her first child at 10 weeks. She required a hospital transfer for a fetal ultrasound. I politely inquired if the child’s father would accompany her to the hospital. She turned her head away. I was informed by her mother that she had been raped. I placed Fatima’s hand in hers, and we sat silently there, her tears slipping down my sleeves.
Then, I ran into Aisha, a five-year mother. On the difficult but exhausting journey from El-Fasher to al-Dabba, she lost her husband. I informed her that she would need to be transferred to the hospital where she would receive a blood transfusion because her hemoglobin was so low. After losing their father, she couldn’t bear to leave her children, who were repeatedly having nightmares and not sleeping well at night.
We resolved to let the children stay with their grandma while Aisha was transferred to the hospital after trying to solve problems with her for the better part of an hour.
Khadija followed. She had to travel to al-Dabba for four weeks. She witnessed her husband being shot in the back while he was attempting to flee El-Fasher. She carried on with her three young children, fleeing on foot, as it was heartbreaking to leave without giving him a proper burial.
There was little food and potable water on the way. Her eldest child, who was malnourished and severely diarrhoea, was also fatal. She managed to snag the money to travel for a portion of the way with her two other children while trying to cobble together the money.
However, another tragedy struck. They were involved in a motor vehicle collision. Her injuries caused the death of her second child. Khadija brought her only son, who was the only one still living, to al-Dabba with her.
Khadija had her fourth child at 36 weeks pregnant when we first met in our medical tent. I prescribed her a course of antibiotics because she had an infection in her urinary system. She generously kissed both of my cheeks and thanked me profusely. I felt even more embarrassed when she expressed her gratitude for everything she had to offer a person who had endured great hardship. She was being kept in my prayers, I told her.
She suddenly asked me my name as she approached me. She kept repeating my name after I gave it to her, letting it gently fall off her tongue. Then she said, “This is what I will call my child,” and then pointed to her pregnant belly. When she had already taken so much from me, I was overwhelmed by what she was giving me.
I once needed to take a break for Auntie Najwa’s thatched straw home because I needed to pray at noon. She had spent more than a year interning at the IDP camp. One of her few possessions was her prayer mat. However, she gave it to anyone who needed it. Her home sounded like a secure haven. I was told to drink tea, but she refused. She graciously offered me cooked lentils and beans when I declined politely. I was left humbled by her generosity.
And Ahmed, my translator, had the same level of courage. He was a member of the neighborhood staff at the nonprofit where I was volunteering. Ahmed traveled to Egypt with his parents and siblings at the start of the war in 2023, made sure they were safe, and then went back to Sudan to serve his people. This is a story I’ve heard before and always.
Despite numerous threats to their own personal safety, the local team in Sudan had made countless sacrifices to remain there and serve its citizens. I can only imagine how worried and worried my own father is when he dropped me off at the airport before my scheduled trip to Sudan, knowing that Ahmed’s parents choose to keep their son in a warzone and live in relative safety.
The world’s biggest humanitarian crisis is occurring in Sudan. It has only received 35% of its global funding needs, or less. One-third of the population has been relocated, according to wikipedia. One in two people is hungry. Millions of people are famine-prone in many areas of the nation.
I’m not sure what the solutions are. However, I am aware that the international community has repeatedly failed Sudan and its people.
Better is possible. Better work is required.
Better is due to Fatima, Khadija, Aisha, Auntie Najwa, and Ahmed.
The people of Sudan deserve much better.
*Names have been changed to protect their identities in all cases.
Source: Aljazeera
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