I was about 13 years old when the conflict in Darfur began in 2003. As a teenager reading and listening to the news before the emergence of social media, I did not fully understand the historical or political context, but I understood that action was necessary. The need to end a humanitarian crisis. It is one of the events that ultimately led me to become a doctor and work in conflict zones and natural disasters.
In the first two weeks of December, I volunteered with an NGO providing medical care in a camp for internally displaced people (IDPs) in al-Dabba, in the northern state of Sudan. In a way, I’ve gone back to the beginning, to the place that first inspired me to act.
Over the course of the two weeks we were in al-Dabba, the camp’s population grew from 2,000 to more than 10,000. At times it seemed that there would never be enough resources to accommodate all the newcomers. There is not enough food or water. Insufficient medication. There are not enough latrines.
Instead, what I witnessed time and time again was the courage, generosity and selflessness of the Sudanese people: from the IDPs themselves to the local staff of the NGO I volunteered with.
These are the stories of some of the people I met over the course of a day at camp.
People like Fátima*, 15 years old. It took him 21 days to reach al-Dabba. He fled El-Fasher when the Rapid Support Forces, a militia currently fighting the Sudanese army, advanced towards his hometown.
She was 10 weeks pregnant with her first child. They had to be taken to the hospital for a fetal ultrasound. I politely 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 in mine and sat with her in silence, her tears falling onto my sleeves.
Then I met Aisha, a mother of five. She had lost her husband on the long and harrowing journey from el-Fasher to al-Dabba. Her hemoglobin was extremely low and I told her I would have to transfer her to the nearest hospital for a blood transfusion. She couldn’t bear to leave her children because they had recurring nightmares and didn’t sleep well at night after losing their father.
We spent the better part of an hour trying to resolve the issue with her and decided to have the children stay with their grandmother while Aisha was taken to the hospital.
Then there was Khadija. It took him four weeks to reach al-Dabba. In the chaos of El Fasher’s escape, she saw her husband shot in the back. As heartbreaking as it was to leave without giving him a proper burial, she carried on with her three young children and fled on foot.
Along the way, there was little to eat and limited drinking water. His youngest son died of severe diarrhea and malnutrition. Somehow he managed to find the strength to scrape together enough money to hitchhike in a vehicle with his two remaining children part of the way.
But tragedy struck again. They ended up in a car accident. His second son died from his injuries. Khadija arrived in al-Dabba with her eldest son, the only survivor.
When I met her in our medical tent, Khadija was 36 weeks pregnant with her fourth child. He had a urinary tract infection, so I gave him a course of antibiotics. She thanked me profusely and kissed both cheeks. Their gratitude made me feel even more ashamed that I had so little to offer someone who had been through so much. I told her she would be in my prayers.
Suddenly, he came up and asked me my name. I told her my name and she repeated it, gently letting it roll off her tongue. Then she pointed to her pregnant belly and said: “This is what I will name my son.” I felt overwhelmed by what she was giving me when so much had already been taken from her.
At one point, I needed to take a break for midday prayers, so I walked to Aunty Najwa’s thatched house. He had been in the internally displaced persons camp for more than a year. His prayer rug was one of his few possessions. But she offered it freely to anyone who needed it. His house seemed like a haven of security. She insisted that I drink tea. When I politely declined, she offered me cooked beans and lentils. Your generosity left me humbled.
And so did the courage of my translator, Ahmed. He was a local staff member of the NGO where I volunteered. At the start of the war in 2023, Ahmed took his parents and siblings to Egypt, made sure they were safe, and then returned to Sudan to continue serving his people. I heard stories like this over and over again.
The local team in Sudan had made countless sacrifices to remain in the country and serve their people despite countless threats to their personal safety. When I think about my own father’s worry and concern when he dropped me off at the airport before my flight to Sudan, I can only imagine what Ahmed’s parents feel knowing that their son remains in a war zone by choice while they live in relative safety.
Sudan is experiencing the world’s largest humanitarian crisis. However, it has received less than 35 percent of its overall financing needs. A third of the population has been displaced. One in two is hungry. Many parts of the country are suffering from famine and millions of people are at risk of starvation.
I don’t know where the solutions are. But I do know that we, as an international community, have failed Sudan and its people time and time again.
We can do better. We must do better.
Fatima, Khadija, Aisha, Aunt Najwa and Ahmed deserve better.
The Sudanese people deserve much better.
*All names have been changed to protect their identities.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.
