Sudan on the Brain

my mind of its own

I have forgotten what it is to sleep without dreaming.

My dreams are often strange, haunting experiences, immersive worlds that fill me with a heavy dread that I dare not name, because my mother always told me speaking of our nightmares breathes them into life.

I cannot remember my last easy night’s sleep.

For a while, I could not understand why. Yes, work was difficult and the television industry is collapsing, but I was doing what I wanted to do. I had the gift, the pleasure, the privilege of a creative career, a vocation in words, a practice many yearn for but few achieve. I had chosen this path, or rather, this path had chosen me. I had followed along willingly, stepping over the bramble separating the paved track I was on, onto a route barely visible, grown over and gnarly, requiring a compass and machete to push through. But I’ve always been one for adventure, and hacking my way through the wilderness is my idea of a good time.

the AI generator could not generate an image where the path was not visible. make of that what you will

I wake up from these dreams gloomy and afraid, and unable to understand why. When people ask how I am, I say fine, because ostensibly I am fine, I have my health and my relationships and my practice and my faith, Alhamdulilah, Alhamdulilah, Alhamdulilah.

But then, I remember.

I remember Sudan.

I remember every phone call to family is a loaded affair, like the slow approach of a doctor in hospital. Every conversation is just small talk around the only questions that matter - where is everybody, when is the last time you heard from them, what is the plan, what can we do.

The weight of these questions makes you not want to pick up your phone, makes you want to avoid your messages, but then you feel guilty, because what are you afraid of? You, safe in your warm house with food digesting loudly in your belly. It is not rational, to be afraid. But rationality fled like a thief in the night, many months ago.

You remember Sudan.

You remember the majority of your public education and media work on Sudan can be summed up as ‘begging for attention’, and that - as pointed out by Khadija, the director of Logic(s) magazine - in almost every article written about the situation, half the real estate is taken up by a basic explanation of the context, of the history, so much time taken on background, there is little time to do the present justice after all.

We remember Sudan…

It feels indulgent, reflecting on the impact of the war in Sudan on my psyche. I have had these conversations with many an activist friend from around the world, Palestinian, Lebanese, Tamil, even Russian. When your physical body is safe, when you are not in the line of fire, but those who you love - or even the land you feel connected to - are in danger, how do you make sense of the vicarious trauma? How do you allow it space, when the needs of others are so urgent?

I wonder how generational a challenge this is. My father’s attitude sharply diverges from my own; his is a pragmatic approach, process oriented and structured like a first aid responder. DR ABC. Danger. Response, Airways, Breathing, Circulation. Life is about the vitals, in my father’s world. Appropriate, when you consider the challenges faced on the ground. But even after we migrated to a ‘safer’ society, the approach remained the same. A vigilance hangover, perhaps. A coping mechanism. Or perhaps I am projecting…

I cannot be all doom and gloom. Because yes, while the vicarious trauma might be real, and while the concern for family and countryfolk might at times, feel overwhelming, I simply am not on the ground. I do a disservice to myself, and those fighting for their lives, if all I do is wallow. I tell myself this on a daily basis, I tell my friends this, I tell my family this, I tell my instagram and titkok feeds this. I repeat it like a mantra, like a prayer, hoping that if I say it enough times, it will lessen the load. I will stop clenching my teeth in the hot night and waking up with a pounding head, my body remembering the score of a game I did not realise I was playing.

I am safe, Alhamdulilah.

I believe it.

If I say it enough times, maybe my body will believe me too.

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Read: Resisting Borders and Technologies of Violence

Recommended by my dear friend Dhaskh Sooriya, this anthology arrived in the post a few days ago, and I’m besotted. It’s academic, so expect dense theory, but it’s a vital intervention and required reading for anyone who believes in a world without borders.

Listen/Watch: Farasha

As per the YouTube description: Farasha is a song dedicated to the women of Sudan, their strength, perseverance and diverse beauty. Sampling never before released field recordings gathered during the filming of the award-winning documentary “Beats of the Antonov”, this musical collaboration between Sudanese artists Alsarah, Sufyvn, and Flippter aims to create a globally geared sound that is unmistakably Sudanese.

It’s a visual feast, and a beautiful track. Have a listen!

Watch: War at Home

Sky News released a documentary this week, marking the one year anniversary. It’s less than half an hour, if you have a moment, I’m sure it’s worth your time.

If you’re interested, I also participated in a panel for TRT on why the world is ignoring the conflict.

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Thank you, as always, for reading.

You know, it’s funny. When I began this newsletter, I did not expect so many of my weekly musings would be related to Sudan. I pitched it to myself - and to all of you - as a dip into ‘the complexities of contemporary life and culture’, but more often than not, what’s on my mind has revolved around the conflict which has thrown my life into upheaval. I feel in me an urge to apologise for the desultory tone of this newsletter, for the constant focus on Sudan, for dampening your spirits maybe in a time when we could all do with some raising. That said, I trust you. I trust you will meet me where I’m at, week after week, trust that you trust my writing and the unguarded sincerity I bring to these digital pages, trust that you will come with me on this journey. We’ve grown to a community of over 2000 now, subhanallah. But I trust you. Khair, inshallah.

Thank you all, for subscribing, sharing, and participating in this corner of the internet.

Until next week (which I’m thinking might be the next installment of AT SEA… what do you think?)

Yassmin