Fatima Osman

Leaving Khartoum… When Memories Become a Homeland

It never occurred to us, not even once, after the June 3rd Khartoum massacre, that a time of even greater cruelty would come. We thought that the sorrow had reached its peak, that pain knew no bounds beyond this, but Khartoum had a different opinion. It was beyond our imagination to witness the destruction of our city, to hear the raven’s cawing in our homes, to be forced to bid farewell to everything we loved without a final glance.

War came uninvited. It struck us while we were fasting, anticipating Eid, raising our hands in prayer to help us continue our fast and protect our small dreams. At that time, I was outside the country, having performed Umrah, packed my bags, and bought gifts for my sisters and friends. My heart was set on returning, but on that night, I felt a strange anxiety, a feeling I couldn’t explain. I went to sleep hoping to wake up with more peace of mind, but a dream overwhelmed me. I saw Khartoum burning, houses crumbling, and lost faces amidst the destruction. I woke up startled, sought refuge in God, and tried to push the thought from my mind. But the truth was quicker than forgetfulness…

My mother’s voice woke me, trembling as she told me: “The war has broken out in Khartoum!”

I felt my body collapse, thinking I was still in a dream, but the terror in my parents’ eyes was enough to bring me back to reality. I tried to call my sisters, but the network was as silent as death. We sat waiting anxiously, each minute felt like an eternity, until finally, we heard my sister’s voice, saying in a tired voice: “We are fine, the war hasn’t reached us yet.”

But we knew it was only a matter of time…

War doesn’t stay in one place; it spreads like a plague, surrounding you from every direction until it suffocates you. Khartoum became a city that no longer resembled itself. Its safety vanished, its streets were no longer the same, and death was closer than ever. The hardest decision had to be made: ‘Evacuating my sisters.’ But what path could be safe amidst the destruction? And what place could truly be called a refuge? After much exhausting thought, they finally found a way out that guaranteed their safety, but they had to leave everything behind…

They left our home… the memories that filled its walls, the photo albums, our laughter echoing in its corners, the smell of coffee greeting the morning.

Our childhood photos, the first day of school, our birthdays, our travels across Sudan, my parents who were once newlyweds carrying flowers, now grandparents holding prayers in their hearts. My mother and her friends, dressed in white, on their way to work, their fields of struggle, their dreams that never faded. My brother and his medals of success. We always set off as usual, but this time… there was no way to return.

My room flashed in my mind…

I had asked for it to be painted sky blue, the color of the Nile and the sky, a color that reflected my dream of travel and freedom. My bookshelf filled with the works of Hamid, Mahgoub Sharif, Abu al-Qasim al-Shabi, my notebooks, my colors, my suitcases that had traveled with me on every trip, every celebration, every meeting. How could I leave all of that behind? How could a house full of life become just a memory?

But the hardest part wasn’t saying goodbye to the house; it was saying goodbye to the homeland…

The war spread, leaving nothing behind. It made no distinction between young and old, and didn’t even give us a chance to catch our breath. Khartoum became a city unrecognizable to the eyes, reduced to bodies in the streets, and the echo of our home that once resonated every morning… turned into a heavy silence that filled the emptiness.

How can we leave Sudan?

How can we leave this vast valley, this fertile land, this abundance flowing through its veins? How can we depart when our souls are tied to every detail, every corner, every sound, every scent?

My mind is filled with the voice of the conductor shouting in the buses, the never-ending noise of the Arab market, the concerts of Mohamed Al-Amin at the officers’ club, the voice rising from deep within the rickshaw reaching the world through Mahmoud Abdel Aziz’s throat. How can we forget the mornings by the Nile, the sunrise as it touches the faces of lovers?

The pyramids of Meroë, tombs of nuri, and the towering Baraka Mountain… Were we meant to see them for the last time? Will these landscapes bid us farewell, and will we never return to see the city of El Fasher with its hills, or attend New Year’s Eve in the tall buildings of Deling?

Can we say goodbye to the waves of the Red Sea, to the chance of seeing the colors of the Eastern Sudanese clothes dancing in the wind?

Let me see Karima and its people one last time. Let me dance El Karnak as if the dance were a prayer for survival. Let me attend its performance on the banks of the Nile. Let me stay… I don’t want to be the one absent from my homeland, nor do I want my homeland to be absent from me.

Exile without features, and estrangement without a homeland.

I am now standing at the edge of the unknown… returning to the homeland means death, it means throwing myself into the mouth of the fire, returning to the destruction, the bodies, and the silence that fills the deserted streets. But staying away… is staying without a soul. I am now without a homeland. Living in a country that is not mine is like walking on the edge of an abyss. Here, I am here as an internally displaced person not a visitor nor a person seeking a new beginning. Here, I have no right to be, no right to dream, no right to live as others do.

The doors of the world are closed in our faces. We don’t know where to go, which city will take us in, or which walls will shelter us. Without work, without stability, I try with all my strength to search, to knock on doors, to cling to any opportunity, but the conditions are always impossible, as if they are saying to me, “Your place is not here.”

I am stuck… I can’t return, and I can’t move forward… All I have is my bag weighed down with disappointment and my days passing by, burdened with the helplessness of reality.