I wake up to more news
I wake up to more news
on the endless war in Sudan
I woke up to news that my father’s uncle, a man dear to many of us, had died in Omdurman.
hope his passing wasn't as a result of the current bombing of his neighbourhood :(
The message greets me brightly on my small, worn screen. I did not know how to feel.
How did I not know that my great uncle was still in Omdurman? I thought everyone in my father’s family had left Sudan. But of course, not everyone is well enough to travel. I should have thought of that.
How could we not know how he passed? But of course, news from Omdurman is hard to come by. I should have thought of that.
I only hear about the well being of my aunt in Bahri once every few weeks, third or fourth hand, and rarely with any details.
They’re alive, they’re alive.
That’s all we get. That’s all that can be said.
As I read the statistics about the hunger, starvation, famine, sweeping Sudan like a calamity, I wonder what my aunt and her family have eaten today. My memories of them are of soft skin and full bellies, warm hands and round cheeks, twinkling eyes and thick hair. Alhamdulilah. I cannot - do not want to - imagine them any other way. But they haven’t had running water since the war began, and their house is ringed by militia.
My father sends me the phone numbers of family members I must call to express my condolences. I think about how almost every call I make these days is to express condolences.
Is it any wonder I never want to answer the phone?
I feel awful when I read the news of bombings in Lebanon, not to mention the continuing genocide in Gaza. I feel awful because of the atrocities, and I feel awful because I feel like I have so little to give. I feel like my capacity for processing the news, all the news, all the terrible and awful news, is so stretched, so meager, and I berate myself for my lack of superhuman reserves. This guilt I am weighed with is mine - nobody is making any demands on me, nobody! - yet I cannot seem to shake it off. I do not want to. My fatigue and exhaustion are penance, for I am allowed to live while they are not.
My cousin, one who managed to escape after displacement once, twice, many times, writes to me.
‘I am so sad, Yassmin’ she says.
I close the chat without replying, swallowing down shame and self loathing. It tastes like bile, burning the back of my throat.
I am angry at my inability to do anything to change her circumstance.
I am angry at my powerlessness.
I am angry at my self involvement when none of this is about me at all.
I am numbed by the scale of the war.
I am numbed by the greed and cruelty of men.
I am numb/ed.
But I keep writing. Keep talking about Sudan. Keep trying to find ways to do something, anything, always knowing it is not enough, it will never be enough. What is enough?
Enough is only enough if it means the end of the war.
Enough is only enough if it means my family return.
Enough is only enough when we rebuild.
Enough may never be enough.
But we try.
We try.
There is nothing else but to try.
Ina lilahi wa ina ilayhi rajiun.
We are for Allah, and to Allah we shall return.
Recommending some lighter fare here, so prepare yourself for a mood change. This is what happens when you prep recommendations before you write the body text of the newsletter.
Read: Essays on Group Chats
I love the group chat.
Well, I love some group chats.
I am currently in several group chats that I would no longer like to be in, but I fear the drama of leaving them, so I just watch the ‘unread messages’ bubble tick into four digits and pray someone will steal my phone so I can start afresh.
I only check the group chats I am in on Signal.
The group chat is securely a 21st century concept, one almost everyone has a complex relationship with, which is why I so loved this series of short essays on the topic (a couple of excepts included below). Enjoy.
IN A GROUP CHAT, a friend in New York is telling the rest of us about a “nightmare situation.” The night before, he went out with a couple friends who ended up not getting along. As a result, he had to mediate between the two. The night was messy, and the story is harrowing. While we in the group chat express our sympathy for the ordeal, we are also loving every detail. We hang on every text, waiting for the next…
When you send a message to a group chat, and especially when you have good story to tell, you know your audience. A story has to land with the right people—people who will find it funny instead of offensive, who will be interested as opposed to bored, who will know to keep a secret when necessary.
Our friend with the “nightmare situation” had not only found his audience; he also knew how to tell a story specific to the form of the group chat. Sentences were broken up into several short, separate text messages, which functioned like expertly placed line breaks to convey comedic pauses; he left space for the rest of us to interject with questions or reactions. He knew that his story should not be written and sent as a condensed block of text—this is a conversation, not an essay or an email. Attention to the form that a story takes, and the style used to tell it, is part of the “conspiratorial pleasure” that the group chat has to offer. It comes with knowing that a story has been narrated, edited, and tailored specifically for you because you are not “other people”—you are the right people, who will respond the right way.
Listen: The Festival Fossil Fuels Fiasco
Tortoise media deep dives this week into the summer of boycotts and Baillie Gifford. I don’t quite think the podcast does the topic justice, but it’s a good blow by blow of how events unfolded earlier this year for those interested in the thorny issue of arts sponsorship and activism. Full disclosure - I joined the board of the Edinburgh International Book Festival in November last year, but the podcast focuses mostly on the impact on English festivals, like Hay.
Watch: 47SOUL
I haven’t been to a music event for a long time, but I recently had the pleasure of being invited out to see Palestinian Jordanian electronic group 47Soul live (thank you
!) and it was as epic and heart wrenching as you can imagine. Was there dabke? Yes, yes there was. The following song was one of my favourites (Mo Light a close second).ICYMI
A podcast interview I did recently on the topic of ‘Finding Strength through Adversity’.
I’ve got an essay in an upcoming anthology on the Gilmore Girls which you can pre-order here.
I’m joining the incredible judging panel of the 2025 Stella Prize, the Australian equivalent of the Women’s Prize. Big shout out to my wonderful friend Beejay Silcox who in many ways taught me how to critique literature and become the reader I am today.
I’m also joining the judging panel for the Children’s and YA Jhalak Prize. Lots of wonderful reading ahead, inshallah!
That’s all for this week, folks. Reminder as always to support Sudanese fundraisers if you can, subscribe if any of my writing resonates, and find a moment of joy or contentment in the week ahead, if you can. We are here, eh? Alhamdulilah.
Until next week,
Yassmin
Ah. Thank you for sharing this. So much to say and yet only one thing to say.
While listening to the podcast Finding Strength… it became clear to me you’ve learnt a hard lesson about self-preservation and boundaries. I hope you’re aware of Laura Tingle’s recent remark about Australia being a racist country and that it may have somehow bought you some solace.