The Silence That Screams: Sudan's War Through a Journalist's Eyes
There’s something profoundly haunting about a phone that doesn’t ring. For Mohamed Suleiman, a journalist and academic trapped in Sudan’s war-torn el-Fasher, three years of silence weren’t just a lack of communication—they were a symbol of isolation, despair, and the world’s indifference. When his phone finally came to life, it wasn’t a moment of relief but a deluge of loss: messages of death, inquiries about his survival, and the weight of a war that had stripped him of everything but his voice.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how technology, often seen as a lifeline, became a mirror to the horrors of conflict. Suleiman’s story isn’t just about a phone; it’s about the silence that screams louder than bombs. In my opinion, this silence is a metaphor for the global community’s failure to act. We’ve grown accustomed to seeing war as a distant spectacle, but Suleiman’s account forces us to confront its intimate, suffocating reality.
The Fall of el-Fasher: A Microcosm of Sudan’s Tragedy
The fall of el-Fasher wasn’t just a military defeat; it was a collapse of humanity. Suleiman’s description of apocalyptic scenes—dead children in the streets, women too weak to carry their starving infants—is a stark reminder of what happens when war becomes a tool of dehumanization. Personally, I think what’s often missed in these narratives is the psychological toll of witnessing such atrocities. Suleiman didn’t just survive; he carried the weight of stories that couldn’t be told, of lives that couldn’t be saved.
One thing that immediately stands out is the role of communication—or the lack thereof—in this crisis. The blackout wasn’t just a technical issue; it was a strategic weapon. Both the army and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) used it to control narratives, suppress truth, and isolate civilians. What many people don’t realize is that in modern warfare, cutting off communication isn’t just about disabling coordination—it’s about erasing evidence of war crimes.
The World’s Failure: A Deeper Analysis
Suleiman’s bitterness toward international institutions is palpable. “There is no international law in the world,” he declares. From my perspective, this isn’t just frustration—it’s a damning indictment of a global order that prioritizes geopolitics over human lives. The UN’s failure to secure a ceasefire or meet Sudan’s humanitarian needs isn’t just incompetence; it’s complicity in the suffering.
What this really suggests is that the international community has normalized war as a tool of statecraft. Sudan’s conflict, fueled by regional powers backing both sides, is a proxy war in everything but name. If you take a step back and think about it, the world’s silence on Sudan isn’t indifference—it’s strategic. No one wants to disrupt the balance of power, even if it means millions suffer.
Faith in the Face of Famine: A Surprising Angle
A detail that I find especially interesting is how faith became a coping mechanism in el-Fasher. Suleiman describes neighbors gathering to read the Quran as bombs fell, moving from north to south to avoid shelling. This isn’t just a story of survival; it’s a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. In a world where everything is taken away, faith becomes the last refuge.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how religion, often portrayed as divisive, became a unifying force. It raises a deeper question: In the absence of international aid or intervention, what sustains people in the face of unimaginable suffering? For Suleiman and his neighbors, it was their shared belief in something greater than the war.
The Bureaucracy of Survival: A Hidden Implication
Even after escaping el-Fasher, Suleiman faced another battle: bureaucracy. Losing his identification documents meant losing his identity, and the state’s response was callous and inefficient. This isn’t just a personal story; it’s a systemic issue. What many people don’t realize is that war doesn’t end when the fighting stops. For survivors, the fight for recognition, justice, and dignity continues.
From my perspective, this highlights a broader trend: the invisibility of war’s aftermath. We focus on the drama of conflict but ignore the mundane, soul-crushing struggles that follow. Suleiman’s 22-day ordeal to reclaim his identity is a reminder that war’s scars are as much administrative as they are physical.
Conclusion: The Weight of Witnessing
Suleiman’s story is a call to action, but it’s also a reminder of the limits of storytelling. “Until we die, we will convey the truth,” he says, but what good is truth if it doesn’t lead to change? Personally, I think the real tragedy isn’t just Sudan’s war—it’s our collective inability to care enough to stop it.
What this really suggests is that we’ve become desensitized to suffering, especially when it happens in places like Sudan. But Suleiman’s account forces us to confront our complicity. His silence wasn’t just his own—it was ours. And until we break that silence, the screams of Sudan will continue to echo, unanswered.
