Ethar Ahmed

Roots and Identity

I am a Sudanese woman — Muslim, African, Black, and Arab. Growing up in Sudan, my identity was as rich and vibrant as the spices in the bustling marketplace of Khartoum. Surrounded by the murmur of a hundred languages, my heritage was a beautiful mosaic, not a single, separate tile. Being a minority was a concept I ticked on Western forms, a formality that held no weight in the embrace of my homeland. That all changed the day I left home.

Childhood in Aljazeera

My childhood was spent in my grandfather’s house in Aljazeera — a cherished experience. At a young age I moved to his home, where we cultivated vegetables that became my playground. Among the animals in another space, I found joy and learned the importance of caring for our surroundings. The environment provided abundantly: fresh milk straight from the cows for breakfast, and food that came directly from the soil and nature. These memories of a childhood intertwined with nature and family stories remain my favorite to this day.

My dearest childhood friend, the lemon tree, witnessed countless afternoons spent under its dappled shade, listening to my grandmother weave tales of our rich heritage. The rough bark held silent answers to my childhood curiosities, and its branches, like a wise elder’s arms, embraced my daydreams. That tree is more than a fixture — it’s a member of my family, a repository of shared stories and songs, imbued with the warmth of my grandmother’s kindness and the quiet wisdom of my grandfather. It offers not just tangy lemons but also a haven for laughter-filled coffee sessions. The yard beneath its canopy becomes a gathering place, welcoming family, friends, and creatures seeking refuge. Under the lemon tree, all are embraced.

I am the product of my home, everywhere I visited, and every soul I met. Who I am today is what Sudan taught me to be — a lesson I share with my lemon tree, a constant reminder of my roots. I felt such a deep connection to our soil that I even turned to Google Maps to check if the tree still stood tall. Today, that tree holds the stories of my life, perhaps better than I could ever tell them myself. Once I’m back, my first trip will be to that lemon tree.

The War and the Breaking Point

Despite risks associated with the EU’s “Better Migration Management” project — which placed militias with troubling human rights records in charge of border control — I clung to the hope that our national unity would hold. However, seeing heavily armed militias patrolling city streets made it starkly apparent that war was looming. The optimism fueled by the revolution had instilled a belief that our Sudanese identity (Sudanism) could overcome external influence — a sentiment that resonated with most Sudanese from 2013 to 2022.

April 2023 found me in a state of suspended awareness. Deep down I felt there might be trouble, but I didn’t fully realize its seriousness. A few minutes away from our house in Khartoum, clashes were already taking place. My phone exploded with messages: friends checking on us, telling me the war had started. I was in denial. What seemed like a European project to stop illegal migration had turned into the war Sudan is witnessing today.

The turning point came when embassies began destroying passports and evacuating staff. Watching UN agencies and INGOs depart through military airports on military aircraft made the reality undeniable — we were on our own. The message was clear: amidst this madness, our survival depended on each other. I never imagined war could happen; we believed Sudanese unity was above all.

When the network stopped working, only TV remained. A trusted reporter listed the places hit. Airports — places once thought untouchable — were now in danger. I became like a machine, collecting information without feeling, focused only on ensuring the safety of everyone around me.

Family Decisions and Escape

On the third day I spoke with my sister Azza about our next steps. We prepared supplies: food, water, medications. As a family we allocated responsibilities; my role was to determine our next move. Eid had just begun, and despite gunfire, my mother insisted we open our doors to guests — “How could one celebrate Eid with closed doors?” — even as the shootings drew nearer. My mind remained focused on finding a way out.

We decided to go to Egypt — the only country accessible without a visa. It took five days to find a way to leave. A friend offered tickets intended for family who chose not to leave. With only three tickets for four people, I couldn’t leave anyone behind. The plan: my parents and sister would go first; I would follow once I found a way. The driver refused to separate our family, promising to find a place for me. That moment defined us — our Sudanese identity had to prevail. And prevail it did.

A surge of kindness washed over our communities. With help from a friend, the driver, and countless strangers, my family and I escaped. Our bond as Sudanese people strengthened, even as fear became a constant companion. The instinct for survival numbed pain’s edges, but worry gnawed at us: when would we return home, if ever?

Losses and What I Left Behind

I left behind everything that held emotional value: our photo album and laptop containing countless pictures and videos of Sudanese stories I’d collected since 2016. I pray to retrieve them; they narrate our stories and showcase the beauty of Sudanese people and our connection to our land. Crossing the border, the weight of the word “refugee” settled on my shoulders — a label of difference and displacement. Leaving Sudan was a brutal awakening; I would not return the same. Forced displacement compelled me to confront a new reality and rewrite my story.

In Sudan, family included uncles, cousins, aunts, neighbours, and my grandfather’s house — that house was family. Sometimes the network prevents contact, yet the connection remains. Being saved while they stay there makes little sense to me. We grew up knowing that what one gets, we all get. We live collectively; there’s no place for me vs. you. In Sudan, it’s always “us.”

Transformation and Determination

This experience transformed me. I am now a different person — a tapestry woven with threads of joy and sorrow, strength and vulnerability. These opposing emotions coexist within me, a complex dance that is both burden and blessing. This newfound strength fuels my determination to carve my own path, independent of a system that has proven inadequate. I carry the rich tapestry of my Sudanese identity with me, forever shaped by my homeland, yet determined to forge my own future.

In Sudan, I built AKHDUR, a social enterprise tackling food waste and creating opportunities for IDPs and refugees. It was a project fueled by hope and earned me recognition as an “Enterprise for Peace Scholar.” But war shattered those efforts. My people lost jobs, and some lost loved ones. For them, I’m determined to do more — to rebuild what was lost or to forge something entirely new. Until then, I’ll keep surviving and finding ways to move forward.

Support, Gratitude, and Community Healing

The strength I found came not only from myself but from the incredible team at AKHDUR. They helped me secure a job within a month of fleeing. Without them I wouldn’t have left Egypt when legal residency became a struggle. They pushed me to believe in myself. All these years I thought I was helping them, but the truth is they were the ones holding me up. I am eternally grateful to them and to the loved ones we’ve lost. May we all be reunited in heaven.

While I can’t erase the images I’ve seen, I close my eyes and push away destruction. Instead, I see people — strong, resilient, faces etched with hardship. Their eyes hold a spark of hope and a quiet strength. This is the image I hold onto: a testament to human capacity for forgiveness, belief in a better tomorrow, and the enduring strength of our Sudanism.

During those grim days when corpses lay in the streets, it wasn’t international aid organisations that stepped forward — it was Sudanese youth, the real heroes, who collected the fallen. When Madani city faced disaster, there were no police to guide frightened children to safety; it was the youth who took charge. And when the educational system collapsed, they improvised, creating grassroots programs. We are far from helpless; our actions speak louder than the media’s silence.

Rebuilding and Resilience: Stories of Hope

There’s always hope. Take the story of the demolished factory in Sudan: rather than merely rebuilding, returning workers chose to train local farmers in crop processing techniques, empowering the community to become more resilient. This resilience is ingrained in the Sudanese spirit — we build, we rise, and we never give up. These are the people who give me power and hope. We will never stop; we will always keep rebuilding.

My grandfather used to say, “الله يهديكم زمن سميح.” For the longest time I didn’t fully grasp its meaning, but now — after war and forced departure — it is crystal clear. We are scattered around the world, and bringing people together has always been my passion. This spark began unexpectedly: I gathered a group of friends for an outing; they were strangers to one another, yet they bonded over their shared love of Sudan. Witnessing them connect over familiar melodies and childhood memories reminded me that isolation is common for those who’ve left their homeland.

I often find solace in sharing my feelings with a friend. We allow tears to flow; it’s cathartic. I thought about those whose pain is trapped and unexpressed. That spark of connection confirmed my belief in the healing power of community. Fueled by this discovery, I continue to create spaces for connection wherever I am. To those struggling within or outside Sudan: you are not left behind nor forgotten. You are our family; we are all in this together. Though scattered globally, the distance between us is shorter than it feels. Our shared spirit — our Sudanism — binds us closer than any map can show.

Fighting Hate and Building Unity

For the love of Azza, we will rise together, stronger than any challenge. Throughout history we have faced immense struggles, but our collective will has always prevailed. Hate terrifies me because it can fracture us from within — which is why I became part of a “laugh project,” an initiative to address anger and emotions. Hate speech threatens unity; I refuse to let it become part of our culture. Even when guns fall silent, how will we look at each other? It shouldn’t be Sudanese against Sudanese — we must stand united against external forces.

We will not only survive — we will thrive, our roots growing deeper toward a brighter future. Let’s share our stories, celebrate our cultures, and keep the flame of hope burning bright. Together, let’s build a network of support wherever we are in the world. We are Sudan, and our unity is our strength.

Home and Belonging

Today, wherever we are, we carry the soul of Sudan with us. We left our homes but we carry homes with us. Home is the soil, the soul, and everything in between. Home nourishes the spirit and is where it thrives. Home is the tapestry of culture, heritage, people, and values — where I feel deep belonging and connection. Home is where my soul finds its anchor; the land that holds a piece of me. In turn, I carry pieces of her on every journey, just like my fellow Sudanese brothers and sisters. Sudan — Azza, as we lovingly call it — pulses with a vibrant spirit that I carry wherever I roam. This is my true home, and I know deeply that I will come back.

We miss home. I miss my brother’s house and my room there. I miss my parents’ house and the room we built over years — everything to them. I know they want to go back. I wish that for them and for myself too. Everything I left behind in Sudan is home, and everything I took with me is home too. Home is the soul of Sudan, and today I choose to be that soul. I am that soul of Sudan. As Sudanese, we take our identity wherever we go and build from there.

Tribute and Resolve

My beloved friend Ammar is my “why.” Together we vowed to embody the soul of Sudan wherever we went. He honoured that promise, living by his medical oath and giving his all. Driven by love for Sudan, life, and our people, he was on a medical convoy in Karri, Khartoum, when tragedy struck. His loss pains me deeply, but his sacrifice ignites my resolve to fight for our homeland, Azza. I will fight now and forever. I know this deeply — our Sudanism will win.