Amina Abdelghani

I was walking on the street from school to home, thinking and comparing our streets to those of the heroes in novels. Their streets have always been covered with snow in winter. They look like they belong to other worlds, while ours are completely different. Does this mean that I am not a hero in a novel?

But suddenly, I paused for a moment and contemplated everything around me: the iron fence planted with bougainvillea, the unfinished structure of the building, the dirt street, and the stubborn stench lingering at the end of the road. I smiled at myself and said, “No, these are the streets of a novel too, and it’s my novel, and I’m the heroine, walking down this dirt street under the bright sunlight.”

When I entered university, I would pass by “” central China” daily, which made me nervous because of the commotion, the overcrowded buses, and the overlapping sounds. The place was so crowded that every step in it needed courage. Even the man who always shouts, “A hundred pounds, a hundred pounds!” became part of the scene. At one point, I went through it every day, and despite my fear, it became an important chapter in the novel.

However…

The heroine of this story loves her country so much. The details of the city, with all its contradictions, noise and chaos, were an essential part of her story and identity. It doesn’t need snow-covered streets or tall buildings to be a novel. Her novel begins here, in the dirt streets, in the bright sun and the people who make life despite everything.

On April 15th, I was on the roof studying for my exams two weeks later, and at the same time, I wanted to watch the sunrise and start my day.

But the sunrise of that day was not like any day before or after. It was the beginning of a war that stole everything from us: our dreams, our homes, and the details of our lives.

My relationship with Sudan is like having a relationship with someone very close to me, or a family member, who held my feelings, made me happy, and sometimes bothered me. But I felt a responsibility for him, as if his spirit was part of my soul. I grew up feeling that it was my duty to contribute, to learn, to understand more, so that I could be part of the solution, not just a witness to problems. I wanted to be a hand that builds, a voice that speaks, a step that changes, even if it is a small step.

But when the war came, it felt like it was testing me, asking me, “Do you still have the same feeling? Do you still want to give despite everything?” and the answer, despite the pain and betrayal, was, and still is, “Yes.”

The war broke many things, but it couldn’t break my sense of responsibility towards Sudan. Even if the road to it becomes harder, and even if the distance imposes itself, my dream of being part of its future is still alive.

But strangely, even when dreams are shattered, they find a way to live. Maybe they changed, maybe they were delayed, but they didn’t die. They resisted with me, re-formed, instead of being just a “plan”. The dream has become a feeling, a conviction, and a desire, no matter how twisted the road becomes, it doesn’t have to end here.