Internship in Wartime

Introduction

In this short novel, I present my literary testimony about my medical internship journey amid the war. I, the Sudanese doctor born in North Darfur in 1996 and a 2022 graduate of the Faculty of Medicine at the University of El Fasher, record on these pages profound reflections of my human and professional transformations under exceptional circumstances.

I witnessed how the medical profession shifted from a noble humanitarian dream into a daily confrontation with death, where my professional aspirations intertwined with the bitter harshness of reality. I experienced how hospitals turned into arenas of resistance and humanity, and how medical work became a form of resilience in the face of destruction.

In this short novel, I explore the dilemma of my Sudanese identity, which turned into an existential question—I was subjected to suspicion and interrogation amid wartime conditions. The social contradictions and racial discrimination that conflicts keep reproducing were laid bare before me, while human resilience emerged as a beacon of hope in the darkness of suffering.

Through this literary testimony, I convey to you a vivid picture from my memory of collective pain that stretched from the conflicts of my childhood to the repetition of tragedy in new forms. Within the folds of the narrative, I delve into the dilemma of language and silence, and the power—and powerlessness—of my words to express in moments of extreme pain.

This novel represents a literary document in which I record a pivotal historical moment in my nation's trajectory.

Through it, I offer a critical vision that combines my sensibility as a medical practitioner with my critical awareness as an intellectual. It is my journey as a young doctor who carried in his bag professional dreams and existential questions in a time when mere survival became a daily miracle, and my profession transformed into a humanitarian mission that transcended the boundaries of traditional medicine—where we prescribed local remedies instead of medicines.

You turned us, O war, into carriers of corpses instead of suitcases.

I used to carry my bag and my dream of becoming a doctor…

In a city cut off from medicine and from contact with the world, Nothing remained for us except humanity…

And it was the most precious medicine.

On the morning of the eleventh of Ramadan, as sunlight wrestled with the fog to announce the birth of a new day, I sat there on a chair that smelled of hospitals, after a journey that had lasted three hours.

I carried my leather bag, designed in the local village style, with a rural touch that always reminded me of my grandfather Adam's pouch— that prophet-like man who lived until he grew weary of life yet still loved elegance.

May God have mercy on him.

I remained on alert in the departure hall, Exhausted, barely able to see, after undergoing a harsh security check in which the security man—"al-amnaji"—almost stripped me of my Sudanese identity, even though I carried my official identification papers.

A people forever vulnerable to losing their identity.

A light-skinned man with Nilotic features, Looking exactly like university security guards, Except that here military insignia adorned his shoulders, Signifying his high rank or noble lineage.

The two are the same in my country.

He looked at me with that gaze I know so well— the gaze every man from western, eastern, or southern Sudan knows.

I almost forgot… the southerners have seceded—no, they were separated, as I read in the newspaper that morning under the headline "The Discourse of Victimhood" by a northern writer.

My heartbeat quickened, adrenaline surged through my body.

My face darkened, I broke into a sweat—for reasons I didn't know.

That's how I always find myself in front of soldiers.

The security man bombarded me with a barrage of questions as if I were guilty.

Had it not been for the crowd, I would have become Chadian or Nigerian—or simply… African.

"An African" means nothing in my country.

Everyone knows he can do that.

I always wonder: why this violence inside me toward soldiers?

I hate them for God's sake, as my mother once said while we walked past a military checkpoint.

My nerves remained tense, Sweat on my forehead despite the hall's cold, Amid a heavy calm and anxious anticipation.

After a moment of inner struggle and recalling the past, the silence was broken by the landing of a white plane bearing the "Tarco" airline logo.

It touched down on the runway, causing a violent jolt as if it were about to crash down on us… or did I imagine it?

How could I not? This was only the second time I had ever been to an airport, Let alone traveled by plane!

What a "qawazi" (big deal) this had become.

My first visit was back then, as a fresh student at the University of El Fasher.

I went happily to the airport to collect a gift from my cousin in Uncle Sam's country, who had escaped: a laptop with an inscription on the packaging: "To Doctor Ayoub."

I received it while sweating profusely.

I remember it well—how could I not, being the son of the "ghafir" (watchman) who had never touched a laptop since childhood, only seeing them from afar at NGO offices, or when I went with my father to the locality to collect—or rather, beg for—his salary.

As if it were a grant… it was just a sack of vegetables and some sweets for me and my younger siblings.

The plane appeared through the reinforced glass, and everyone stirred in preparation to board, their patience exhausted, their faces scowling from hunger or waiting?

This was the eleventh of Ramadan— Ramadan had entered its "grand" phase, or "kashar" as they call it in my village.

As I observed the crowd, I spotted a sturdy young man, dark-skinned, with curly hair, Wearing a neck pillow specially made for airplane travel.

Despite the sophistication and wealth he tried hard to display in his dress and behavior, his facial features and eyes betrayed his misery in a sarcastic way.

My gaze fell on him as he fidgeted slowly to take something out, put it in his mouth, and swallow it silently, Making a suspicious movement.

He reminded me of my friend "al-Kafir" (the Infidel), who would eat his suhoor meal while everyone else was fasting, Eating it in the bathroom—yes, in the bathroom! Fava beans and a few dates, like the Prophet, except for the absence of peanuts in the desert and the difference in his orientation.

Suddenly, murmurs rose disturbingly inside the hall, Resembling noise, with expressions of disapproval on some faces and inquiry on others.

Some people moved around investigating here and there.

I asked myself: Has he been exposed? What will happen to him?

Will he be beaten? Will the hudud punishment be applied, or will he be left to God?

An overwhelming desire gripped me to know his fate—why?

I don't know, perhaps because it was my fate too!

But nothing appeared on the horizon.

A man in his forties jumped up—medium height, playful features, Wearing a gray jellabiya, with a green cap on his head bearing Sufi connotations, Shaping the form of the Kaaba or "al-qutiyya" on his head.

Forgive me, I'm bad at description, Especially when using formal Arabic— it always ends with me wondering: are we Arabs or Africans?

Or Arabized Blacks? Or who are we?

The man stood lazily amid the crowd.

We thought he was begging in the name of religion to sell us some amulets to protect us on this journey.

But he announced in an objectionable manner, with a resonant voice and without the usual introductions: "That there is an armed clash between the Rapid Support Forces and the Sudanese Army in the Sudanese capital Khartoum, Near the sports city and Khartoum airport."

No one in the crowd paid attention to what he said; I even thought he was raving.

So I left him alone and shifted my focus.

The man reminded me of my Sufi classmate when I accompanied him to his sheikh's dome in the Tijaniya neighborhood in El Fasher on an annual commemoration night.

After drumming and chanting Sufi poems, they all became intoxicated and swaying— even I got drunk with them despite my heresy.

Holding hands in a circle, some disciples in the center Spinning rapidly around themselves until one fell to the ground, and was left as he was—just as I'm doing now.

Only the sound of dhikr grew louder.

It was said he fainted or was divinely attracted.

So I asked my classmate: "What's the difference?"

He said: "It doesn't matter which—it’s certain he will meet his Lord."

The scene seemed similar to me, except no one fell today.

Instead, he continued this time with determination, in a loud voice carrying a kind of challenge, as if addressing me directly: "That there is an armed clash between the Rapid Support Forces and the Army in Khartoum, and this video sho…"

Before he could finish his last sentence, a barrage of questions was hurled at him, and the crowd rushed toward him hysterically.

The hall was filled with argument— Everyone joined the discussion except those spared by God or overcome by hunger.

A people thirsty for knowledge—or fond of rumors?

I said to myself: Religious men know well how to exaggerate things and control crowds.

I dealt with the news superficially, as an inflated rumor, and began weaving doubts about the impossibility of it happening.

What is the Army, and what is the Rapid Support Forces?

Weren't they two sides of the same coin?

Or has the coin changed?

Then I remembered that night when my friend was killed in the sit-in square at the General Command.

We were asleep when we were showered with bullets as if we were targets on shooting ranges.

Whose command were we in front of?!

And who killed us?!

Shortly after the news broke, while I was questioning and trying to deny what was happening before me despite the weakness of logic, I recalled that saying: "Man always tries to forget or deny what he hates."

So I stopped in embarrassment.

A news segment appeared featuring a female Al Jazeera correspondent— a blonde Gulf woman with Sudanese features?

No… a Sudanese with Gulf features?

I don't know—just one of them.

She appeared on the screen fixed to the wall, Showing massive chaos at Khartoum airport, Sounds of gunfire, and passengers lying flat, taking cover behind hall chairs in terror of their fate.

Everyone became worried and questioning.

Voices of disapproval rose in the hall— some followed the rest of the scene closely, Others plunged into heated discussion about the general situation, and some even denied the scene, calling it a rumor.

A strange state overcame me, as if I had lived this moment before— but who remembers in which war among the wars?

And do wars differ, or is war one and the same?

I became numb—I looked but did not see, and I did not hear either.

My feelings suddenly dulled, my thoughts shrank, only those disturbing words echoed in my ears: "The oath," "completing internship," "my university degree," "my family."

The genie struck in a moment of my distraction, Crushing my dreams, breaking my sails.

I returned to the hall after suffering— Pale, miserable, scattered, hopeless— after hearing another voice announce the cancellation of the flight.

The announcement gripped me; rather, it forced me to deal with the present.

Some in the hall threw questions about the general situation at the announcer—a light-skinned man, brilliantly white, his face devoid of any emotion, in a formal suit.

He replied hurriedly about communication blackout and lack of sufficient information on the situation, and that everyone must leave following safety procedures, then turned away as if avoiding further questions.

Silence struck us, as if bidding farewell to a martyr.

Why do they always flee from us in haste?

A dull feeling grips me—a kind of disorientation, or rather, a sense of emptiness close to death.

I froze for a moment, smelling the scent of talcum powder.

I was surprised by the emptiness around me too.

A quarter of an hour passed quickly.

I tormented myself trying to comprehend what was happening— this time, the emptiness of places.

I only found that "Kafir" huddled in his place, Looking at me in silence.

So I asked him: "Where is everyone?"

He did not answer!

Despite his silence, I felt some improvement—I don't know why.

Because he was with me?

Or because I could talk and he couldn't?

Do we humans relatively rejoice in others' pain before grieving for them?

My chest suddenly tightened.

My heartbeat increased.

I left him in his silence and hurried away, fleeing the airport— Geneina Airport, a vital lifeline on the eastern extension of Geneina city, Connecting eastern and western Sudan.

It was not just a domestic airport— or rather, it served neighboring western countries.

Chadians and Nigerians frequented it more than Darfuris themselves.

A Chadian friend once told me that they don't even show their IDs— Money is their only identity.

So I wasn't surprised then, but today I understood.

I saw a single taxi in the middle of the courtyard in front of the airport— Weak engine, making an annoying sound, Yellow, old model, no license plates, front door open, Driven by an elderly man.

I approached him inquiring.

He spoke broken Arabic.

The driver said: "Trip or passenger?"

I said: "How much for a trip? How much per passenger?"

He replied calmly after examining me from the soles of my feet to the hair on my head with an experienced gaze…

"Ten thousand for the trip."

Then he looked around us in silence…

And said: "I'm only doing trips."

Before I could say anything and turned his face away from me, he added: "Don't you see the situation—how bad it is?

And it's unknown what will happen to fuel in the coming days.

If it works for you, get in; if not…"

He didn't finish his sentence— just moved the car forward a step, then stopped, saying: "This time isn't even a time for a man to sit around."

I got in angrily.

I could barely breathe from the injustice I felt.

He drove us into Geneina city— Capital of West Darfur State, which I had never visited before despite its proximity to my hometown "Seref Umra," the last area in North Darfur Bordering West Darfur.

It is said that half its houses are inside West Darfur State, like the Dutch town "Baarle-Nassau" on the border with Belgium— Except that in my area there are no prominent landmarks for description, like "Van Geel Café" in the Netherlands.

Only some cement relics Placed by my ancestors with the English, Now used by native administrations to divide houses or sometimes when disputing land.

On the way, I called my classmate who lives near the airport in a neighborhood called "Ardamata"— an ancient neighborhood considered the army's stronghold because it contains the General Command in the north, Crossed by Wadi Kaja which separates its eastern part.

It expanded due to repeated displacement waves, so it now has an adjacent displacement camp separating it from the airport, Creating a visual distortion at first glance, but the soul blooms when you delve deeper— like the body of a dark-skinned woman who abandons makeup on her face.

A garden covered in greenery on all sides, Its streets clean as snow, even its dust has the taste of authenticity, and Wadi Kaja added another charm to it.

Before ending the call, I heard booming sounds—I imagined gunfire.

The mind is capable of creating a complete world and believing it too.

Am I still raving or what?

As I argued with myself, I turned to the driver with frozen features.

He returned his gaze to the road, Increasing the pressure on the steering wheel, and began muttering to himself softly: the anxiety had completely overtaken him.

"What's happening here tonight too, people?!"

After five minutes of listening, the sound repeated— this time strong and clear, Coming from behind us, Followed by the sound of shells detonating.

The man involuntarily called upon divine power loudly, raving and convulsing, Began praying.

Signs of panic and fear were evident on him.

He didn't even glance at me, as if I didn't exist.

He just accelerated the car— we drove recklessly despite the congestion caused by the cannon booms.

Everyone moved randomly— no traffic laws, no public manners, only fear ruled the scene.

Does fear turn a human into an animal?

And to what extent?

We are people only in peace!

I remembered that humans don't transform— they revert to their origin.

After great difficulty, we reached my friend's house.

I confirmed then that what was happening was an attack on the airport by Rapid Support Forces, with reports of casualties among passengers and airport security, and it was said the airport had fallen and was now in the hands of the Rapid Support Forces.

I was shocked by the speed of events, but what shocked me more was the speed of language transformation.

I struggled greatly to digest these new terms— I became small, naive, inexperienced in the face of this catastrophe.

Even my memory full of events didn't help me today.

I just wanted to escape to a faraway place— I wanted oblivion.

What I also don't understand, despite the sounds of shells and gunfire and the smell of death, There was a strange calm and emotional steadiness in everyone.

Everyone in the house received the new moving reality with complete coldness— even the children began mechanically preparing some belongings.

I said involuntarily and loudly: "What's happening?"

My friend replied calmly with a touch of sarcasm: "People should travel light." He looked at my luggage, then added: "But are you ready?"

He uttered his last sentence and closed his mouth with a bitter laugh.

To what extent does a person lose their feeling and sense of bad things?

Do they truly lose it, or just deny it?

And do they then feel good things like joy, for example?

Or do they lose feeling for things entirely?

And do they ever return to normal?

Would the law apply if they committed a crime?

After minutes of nightfall, the sounds of gunfire stopped, and calm enveloped the city.

My friend asked me reverently: "You, Ayoub—why does this keep happening to us every time?"

I remained silent, thinking for a while, then he continued: "Sometimes I think strange things, but I can't tell you.

You'd consider me racist or an infidel."

I turned to him consolingly, showing understanding, but he didn't hear me— Instead he said: "Why are all the camps in Darfur only for the Zurga (dark-skinned people)?

We couldn't find a single person from the Arab tribes in Darfur displaced, even though they're not as educated as us, and our ancestors owned this land!

Why is it always only us Blacks who suffer?

This God—if He didn't want us, why did He create us?

Or did He create us to suffer?

Or is the problem in our genes?"

He hurled those questions at me all at once as if raving, then said: "Astaghfirullah" (I seek God's forgiveness).

We remained motionless, as if cursed.

We talked that night until sleep overcame us.

The next morning, the city was stable, with complete absence of gunfire— a state of general stillness.

Only some gatherings here and there Exchanging snippets of conversation.

That morning I became weak, base, despairing— I even avoided thinking to myself, Tasting food with difficulty.

My friend reminded me that I hadn't changed my clothes since arriving.

I moved around the house aimlessly, Trying to sleep but unable, Feeling lethargy and energy at the same time.

Is man this weak in the face of calamities?

Or did I catch a fever?

Due to communication network blackout, the geographical location of Ardamata, and general caution restricting movement, we were completely cut off for three days from what was happening in the rest of the city.

Human behavior becomes strange in such circumstances: always forgiving, Giving generously, Living life with full energy as if it were their last day on earth, Losing sense of time, never getting angry even in the worst situations—as if saying: There is no time for anger in our lives.

Does fear of death make us more human?

Or is it a survival mechanism from remnants of our evolution?

Or what?

On the afternoon of the fourth day, we heard heavy cannon fire from inside the city, Increasing in intensity over time, with heavy movement of Rapid Support Forces combat vehicles in and out of the city.

We stayed indoors in complete shock and troubling silence— even the children stopped crying, as if silence had been imposed on us.

We spent that night with great difficulty, Amid cannon booms and the sounds of projectiles Detonating in the space above us.

Things tasted bitter: Food, drink— even talk became expensive in taste.

I confirmed then that food has no taste in itself— only our feelings give it flavor.

In the last third of that night, Having drowned in the sea of insomnia up to my ears— I had been forced to visit these depths often, but this time I drowned willingly— yes, willingly!

Drowning to escape reality, that spot I know well.

I remember living my whole life waiting to reach it, but today, waiting for life, I live it— Finally, that idea gripped me that every sleep is preceded by pretense, despite my disbelief in it.

I began pretending that I was pretending to sleep.

I heard murmurs of people and footsteps Hurrying in the street, and accused myself of hallucination and dehydration, until a child let out a resounding scream, as if addressing me— Cutting off every speaker.

I staggered out from exhaustion, Carving my way with difficulty through pitch darkness to the room door overlooking the street, Separated only by a short local-brick wall.

I went out without knowing why, Remembering I was a guest and the world was at war, but I continued walking.

I stretched my neck until my head appeared over the wall, inquiring.

I was shocked by the large number of people Walking in groups and alone.

I returned to the room, Terror overtaking me.

I woke my friend with a light tap, Alerting him to the need to go out to see what my eyes had seen.

I confirmed then that he wasn't sleeping— he was only pretending.

We hurried out to the street, at first not believing what our eyes saw: People leaving the city in a pitiful state.

Women carrying children, Elderly dragging their feet slowly, Patients supported on shoulders.

All showed exhaustion and fatigue, their faces covered in humiliation and degradation, Heads bowed in defeat.

They carried nothing— only some placed small bundles on their heads and shoulders.

We talked for hours in front of the scene, stunned.

At dawn, all the people of Ardamata came out to receive them, Carrying water and food.

The residents mixed with them, Everyone cried in regret—even the men.

The voices of adults and children blended in a scene that makes the forehead sweat.

What distinguished these fleeing death was that they were women and children, with only a few men and elderly among them, and all from African tribes.

Some were hosted in homes, Others used schools, mosques, and squares as temporary shelters.

As I looked at the faces, the scene took me back to 2003, when I was a child in my sixth year.

I remember that day well despite my young age.

It was a stormy morning with dry cold.

I fidgeted a lot before being forced to go to school.

My mother and siblings caught up with me after crossing that small dry valley.

On my back a white cloth bag, Wrapped in a sheet with drawings of the old Sudanese flag, Made by my father from his worn-out clothes.

I remember my mother calling me after we had walked a short distance from them.

She wiped her hair with her hand and put liquid peanut oil on her palms, on my face, focusing on my cheek.

I still smell peanut oil in my nose.

Our school wasn't far— we reached it with the sound of the morning assembly bell.

But due to the storm, our school surrounded by hard "kitter" thorns, Morning assembly was canceled that day.

Our classrooms were made of thick sorghum stalks.

Every student had to bring a bundle of stalks during harvest season and a precious "kitter" thorn in summer.

Only three classrooms were made of local brick—for sixth, seventh, and eighth grades, our dream in lower classes.

We didn't know benches— we sat on sugar sacks, Wearing white jellabiyas as school uniform.

I remember that morning, Sitting in the first row by the aisle, on a "Kenana" sugar sack, a gift from Hajj Adam the shop owner after helping him "pack" sugar.

Rest in peace, Hajj Adam— that noble man killed by the Janjaweed while harvesting his crop.

The teacher "Madina" was late— she was our mother in first grade— Chaos filled the classroom.

A large group of us students went behind the classroom to warm ourselves in the morning sun, and were shocked by the same scene, at the same time.

Only today I had grown older— or had our sorrows grown older?

People moving in groups and alone, some on donkey backs: Women, children, elderly, and patients.

The bell rang, and we were dismissed home.

Our mothers and fathers came out to receive them, Carrying water and food— so we cried, and they cried, all of us.

While distributing water to the survivors amid the fleeing crowds, we collided with our classmates—doctors in their white clothes, Wearing scrubs and lab coats, Stethoscopes around their necks, Blood pressure cuffs in hand, in full majestic attire.

They didn't break for a moment, Except for the visible misery and hardship on them.

Despite the pain and shock evident on their faces, they still performed their role— Heroes on the battlefield, unyielding, Spreading humanity to patients.

Their motto: "Practicing humanity has no conditions."

They moved here and there among the crowds, Examining patients and the elderly.

They were surprised by our presence, and we embraced in silence despite the long time apart, as if language was incapable or hadn't evolved enough to express what was inside us.

Our last meeting was on university graduation day.

I was an intern at Zalingei Teaching Hospital, they at Geneina Hospital.

The distance separating us didn't exceed two hours, but it became the shortest distance between strangers.

Wards and operating rooms were our world— we struggled silently to prove our worth.

We dreamed of becoming reliable doctors, Driven more by being beside our people in neglected areas.

I was scheduled to move to pediatrics after finishing general surgery training, but fate had something else in store.

Suddenly, the medical oath ceremony was announced in Khartoum— over two thousand kilometers just to prove my commitment to professional ethics and humanity, as if in cruel irony testing our ethics and humanity while we traveled miles to perform their formal rituals, Unaware how we had already been tested in ethics and humanity on our journey.

We left at dawn on the twelfth of April from Zalingei city to Geneina airport— Due to the absence of airlines in Zalingei, capital of Central Darfur State— to catch the 8 a.m. flight.

My father always told me in childhood, Whenever a disaster struck—and what a catastrophic childhood I lived: "The world goes on, Ayoub—whether you grieve or rejoice, so better to rejoice."

Where are you, father? Just to say those words to me.

I'm sure you're still there and believe them.

We all went, after checking on patients, children, and the elderly, to our friend's house.

Silence became our language— we understand it well, even remaining silent within silence sometimes.

Can the language of silence be more truthful and stronger than spoken language?

Or did humans develop words to lie?

The silence lasted about half an hour as we sat on the mat, some resting heads between knees, Others staring at the ceiling in confusion, Contemplating how we ended up at this stage.

My colleague Ahmed exploded—the cheerful man Born to laugh before others laugh, a man who lives life with full vigor, Finding everything funny, even the saddest moments.

I remember that night when I went to offer condolences.

In the mourning tent, everyone tried hard to paint the funeral picture.

Ahmed sat near the deceased's son, consoling silently.

Suddenly we heard a painful laugh.

Everyone turned—Ahmed bowed his head in shame, and the deceased's son still laughing, barely able to close his mouth.

Everyone collapsed into hysteria, and some said: "Losing a parent is hard."

Everyone was deceived except me—the scene didn't fool me.

I know Ahmed's ability well.

What happened to you, Ahmed? Your face became grim, a mix of sadness, anger, and anxiety, Covered in lethargy leaning toward tears, like a satirical painting splashed with water.

Does death really turn a person into something? Even you, my friend!

I confirmed that injustice is one, but every injustice has its pain.

He began recounting bitterly the injustice they endured, without raising his gaze, in a low voice, Drawing with his finger on the ground: "I was in emergencies working normally, and today was very crowded—no news of the world.

Around ten in the morning we heard gunfire in the eastern side."

He stopped suddenly as if wanting to back out of telling, like someone realizing a bad decision.

He took a sip of water in front of him and swallowed it violently, making a sound in his throat—as if punishing himself— then continued: "We didn't pay attention, continued our work.

Though since morning we'd heard some talk of clashes in Khartoum, but the situation here is always different, man— the situation here is like this."

He tapped my shoulder gently with his hand, Restoring some of his voice— he became my colleague I know in voice, though his features hadn't recovered yet.

Ahmed is a simple man, created to be a doctor, Hiding tenderness enough for a whole country despite his small size, always giving up his right, granting others even in his sadness.

He raised his head and scanned the room and the guys with prolonged looks as if surprised by their presence—or his own.

Then continued: "On the second day morning we left the mess, Found the streets full of soldiers—in huge numbers."

I asked inquiringly: "Army soldiers?"

He gave me a pitying look and a lip movement, then said: "Army where, buddy?!"

With a smile on his mouth this time.

"Janjaweed, Ayoub—Janjaweed, Janjaweed, Riding motorcycles and camels, with Rapid Support vehicles."

Janjaweed are not humans—they are thugs, Modern-day Vikings, Created to practice violence and killing until they became a word—and an idea—synonymous with death, and ideas don't die.

A savvy "Koz" once told me in university days during a political maneuver: "Before we created the Janjaweed, there were Bedouin people owning horses, we gave them the 'Jeem'—a deadly weapon— and told them in the presence of sheikhs to go 'Janjaweed,' so they went Janjaweed."

Janjaweed is short for "Jeem-Jawad" (gun-horse), Pronounced by non-Arabs as "Janjaweed," Meaning death and destruction by definition.

Ahmed continued: "The situation became terrifying, foretelling disaster— the streets emptied except for Janjaweed and the smell of death."

"Death has taste, color, smell, and memory too."

"Some doctors, especially seniors, didn't leave the mess, but us juniors went to the hospital, Continued following admitted patients, but a large part of patients fled."

"Soldiers held firm, leaders fled.

Does high status equate to baseness?

"Or does selfishness increase with higher rank?"

"Around two in the afternoon Gunfire intensified— I imagined it from all directions, from building echoes and closeness—I don't know.

With panic and fear I found myself under the office stairs, in a terrible state."

He turned slowly to confirm I was listening, Found me completely immersed with him, Fear and panic on my face, even feeling sweat under my arms.

O greatness of your creation, language!

How did humans live all those lives before you?

Now a person can live a full life just through narration.

He returned: "I never feared like this in my life, Ayoub.

I sat there for a while not knowing what's happening or what will happen to me.

Electricity cut, room dark, but I kept repeating: Hasbuna Allah wa ni'mal wakeel until I heard a shot right in front of the office door I was in.

Ayoub, I wished the earth would swallow me whole.

With the ringing of the shot still in my ears, I heard a voice speaking far and getting closer each time, the ringing decreasing until I heard clearly.

The voice saying: 'This is the last warning— any slave inside, let him come out before we enter.'" I crawled out on my hands from fear, saying: I'm a doctor, don't kill me, I'm a doctor.

Found myself under the legs of a tall man wearing a Chadian jellabiya, Face covered in kadmool, only eyes visible, Holding a weapon with both hands aimed at my face, until I smelled gunpowder.

I raised my head involuntarily backward—he kicked me, until I sat sideways, and he kept saying while kicking my back with his foot: "You slave, slave, you filth."

Then turned back after spitting in my face.

"Abd" and "Anbay" are used to describe me— to describe you, the ugly dark-skinned African.

Can you accept them without racist connotation?

How, when they are everyday terms in my country!

Did time strip them of their racist meaning?

Or in another narrative, they evolved to join values of accepting the other— and I'm still backward, you African!

The flaw isn't in your will—it's in your genes, so you truly deserve death?

"After that he drove me like a sheep in front of him to emergencies.

I became just something walking on legs, not knowing what I feel: pain, anger, sadness, emptiness— I don't know, by God.

My scrubs and lab coat soiled with sweat and dust, and on my face a shoe mark from the earlier kick.

It didn't matter anymore—I didn't wipe it until I reached Ardamata here."

(A single tear fell from his right eye—only one tear, as he stared steadily, as if it was his last remaining tear, thrown alone to declare his tear bankruptcy.) "I found the entire hospital staff in emergencies— though emergencies full of chairs, they sat on the floor, huddled.

Those staff became completely different people.

After a while, after they added me to the guys, they started robbing us… saying: 'Hand over what you have,' Weapon pointed at your head. We handed over everything.

After robbing, they said: 'Run.' From pain and anger I couldn't walk, but the guys helped me.

After leaving the hospital I saw them start looting offices."

His voice hoarse, sweat running on his forehead, until a drop fell on his medical glasses— he wiped it indifferently.

I extended water to him, bowing my head to let him regain composure.

He continued after drawing enough water to his mouth, Followed by a dry exhale before it reached his throat: "We went after that to the mess—found it empty, destroyed, our remaining belongings on the floor.

I remember finding my anatomy reference torn on the ground— I picked it up and put it on the broken hall table.

We didn't know what happened to colleagues in the mess: Killed, arrested, escaped?

We didn't know where they were.

We became scattered, not knowing where to go ourselves.

Suddenly we became displaced, despairing— Felt sitting wasn't safe.

So we moved walking nowhere—we just walked.

We headed east, then north, then west, then north, then east— only instinct guiding us and avoiding gunfire sounds.

Streets completely empty, Except some fallen bodies, flowing blood, and smell of death.

And since we hadn't been long in Geneina, we didn't know its neighborhoods.

Lost for over two hours expecting death any moment, until Wadi Kaja appeared with masses of people walking.

Suddenly we found ourselves running to catch up with the displaced, Joined them without asking where they were going, until we arrived here."

He finished his last sentence wearily, Drew air into his lungs and exhaled slowly.

Blood flowed to the pores of his dark face, calm washed over him, and a kind of victory appeared on him.

The others remained heads bowed, Drawing a picture of gloom and injustice.

That night passed in silence.

Early next morning we began checking on everyone in schools and squares— Hopeless, having nothing to offer Except consolation and some local prescriptions.

We continued like this for a week, but the situation worsened with intensifying war inside the city, Strategic goods depleted among hosting residents as new arrivals increased.

Repeated deaths appeared among children, elderly, and chronic disease patients.

The atmosphere became grim—we smelled death everywhere, even the sky covered in red.

Despair nearly struck us due to the catastrophe's scale and blocked horizons.

On the fourteenth day from the catastrophe's start, we gathered after Taraweeh prayers at Ardamata Grand Mosque with neighborhood notables: omdas and shartays of various tribes, Said to have inherited authority from ancestors Representing entire peoples, Continuing tasks from their villages before displacement to Ardamata.

The meeting also included some intellectuals and resistance committees.

After reciting Quranic verses and a speech by native administration notables, we all deliberated on confronting the unbearable health catastrophe.

Some emphasized it was a divine test, Stressing return to God and supplication.

The resistance committees representative praised youth role, Urging need for committees and youth, saying: "Nations rise with the rise of their youth."

He passed the floor to a political intellectual— a thirty-something young man, tall, thin, Showing wisdom—someone who always knows what to say.

After praying for martyrs' souls, he delivered an angry revolutionary poem loudly, Full of condemnation of the "Kizan," Describing them as the state of evil.

Then began his speech in elevated language barely understood by attendees, but distinguished by historical depth of Geneina people's suffering, Describing them as the people of Dar Masalit.

He said pointing to the ground: "We prove this land has a people, and anyone knows this is Dar Masalit."

He ended his speech apologizing for its length with his famous phrase: "Given time constraints, we must leave bread to its baker."

Finally we displaced doctors spoke briefly on health challenges, Concluding with the necessity of reviving Ardamata health center at any cost.

We arranged a meeting with health cadre and some notables.

"Attendance at the center, folks—8 a.m. on the fifteenth, no delays."

"Close for us, Sheikh," said one omda sarcastically.

The sheikh recited Quranic verses, then we dispersed reverently.

The fifteenth of Ramadan, 8 a.m., the city enjoying relative calm, Except occasional explosions Heard from the other side of the city Now the battlefield.

Everyone related to health attended, Plus some youth volunteers.

The meeting was at Ardamata Health Insurance Center— a center designed specifically for primary health care for Ardamata people, had lost operational capacity Due to years of security instability in Geneina and weak or absent federal support.

It was said to open certain days of the week, with lack of medicine and qualified cadre.

We began cleaning the abandoned center, Inhabited by spiders and insects.

We inventoried medicine and equipment— most expired.

We divided cadres into groups by specialty, Letting each determine their department challenges and proposed solutions.

They were just health students who hadn't finished studies, some trained paramedics, and us intern doctors.

What distinguished the initiative—despite cadre inexperience and weak specialization— was strength of will and activity.

I remember one volunteer, Second-year medical student at Geneina University: "Folks, these people's lives are in our hands now.

We're their only hope—no other way. This work must continue."

The first day ended quickly— Everyone returned home before 4 p.m.

Due to army-imposed curfew on Ardamata citizens.

As mentioned earlier, army command is in Ardamata neighborhood Near the health center.

Despite catastrophic security over at least fifteen days— Displacement, destruction, genocide— the Sudanese army remained inactive in positions, as if existing only to protect itself.

My friend Ahmed said angrily, Having lost hope in army advance to protect us from thugs: "By God, when have these soldiers—who just sit and kill us by turn—ever protected us?"

That evening of our first initiative day, we called at the mosque after Maghrib prayer Pharmacy owners and medicine/equipment agents in the neighborhood—who had displaced there— to support the initiative now the lifeline, and anyone with any energy must join, even if only sharing our silence.

The initiative representative—an elderly man Said to have lost his son in the catastrophe, may his soul rest in peace— Closed with his famous phrase: "Al-jaflan khalluhum aqrun al-waqfat" Meaning: Leave what is gone and focus on what remains in your hands of resources or opportunities.

Then he cried standing at the pulpit.

On the initiative's second day, Volunteer numbers increased, Pharmacists and agents brought some medicines and IV solutions.

We all gathered and discussed challenges.

At ten in the morning before starting our first treatment day, we were surprised by the appearance of "Mayarem" (women community leaders) in groups, Carrying pots and food pillars on their heads.

Their presence painted a beautiful scene cloaked in heritage spirit, Reflecting solidarity values as if a celebration, despite evident sadness and despair on their faces.

A people who give generously—and why wouldn't they give one day?

I wondered: Does this people truly deserve death?

On our first treatment day we received over fifty cases.

I confirmed then that need creates innovation, and solidarity makes the impossible.

We worked in silence, Overcoming difficulties one by one, as if created to overcome hardships.

We arrived at the center before patients, even visiting the bedridden and elderly at home, despite our small number and weak resources.

What drove us forward was everyone's determination, Community support, and growing need daily with the accidental siege imposed on us, Intensifying battles, and lack of escape routes.

Communication channels completely cut from the city.

Coldness of feelings struck me— we lost sense of time and place.

When clashes occurred while at the center, we'd weave stories and search for jokes to make us laugh, as if we had anti-shell ammunition!

Death became our friend— we coexisted with it every moment.

Oh our strength! Or our weakness?

Over days, the situation gradually became more complex— Out of control.

We lost between one and three patients daily.

Chronic diseases worsened, Cases of child malnutrition, injuries, and miscarriages increased.

Even we health cadres Became weak and exhausted, our bodies thinned from hunger and psychological pressure.

All conditions against us—sails broken, no escape from drowning.

After a month from our start, Medicine and equipment stocks depleted.

We prescribed local food remedies to patients.

Death at the center became synonymous with death at home— but more dignified at home.

We didn't say "we despaired"— we became unable to offer hope to those with no hope.

The situation continued like this for over a month— Losing a martyr or more daily, Battle zones approaching us.

Due to stray bullets and inability to provide first aid, Injury meant death— as if in the Stone Age.

On 27 May, I fled Geneina city, Unable to remain idle Watching everyone die before me.

My own death had become a matter of time.

Conclusion

After all this crossing, I am no longer the doctor who left Zalingei carrying his dream and bag.

I became a witness to a time when we no longer knew whether we were saving lives or merely delaying their death.

In those days, our profession shifted from treating patients to bidding them farewell, from prescribing medicines to reciting prayers.

We became doctors without medicines, and companions to death without weapons.

I learned that war doesn't begin with bullets nor end with ceasefire.

War is a wound that keeps bleeding in survivors' memory.

It is those empty gazes in children's eyes Wondering why bread lost its taste, and why shells sing instead of birds.

It is the memory of doctors turned into corpse carriers, and hospitals turned into temporary graves.

But I also saw the miracle.

I saw how humans can be reborn from rubble.

How a woman who lost everything can distribute her last food.

How an exhausted doctor Finds healing for his wounds in a patient's eyes.

I saw death wrestling life— and life always wins, even if by a single heartbeat.

Today, walking peaceful city streets, I carry in my pocket a handful of Darfur soil.

I remember every face I couldn't save, every hand I couldn't hold.

But I also remember how we learned to make hope from despair, Medicine from herbs, and peace from the womb of suffering.

Perhaps I'll never understand why wars happen, but I understood why we continue.

We continue because inside us is something deeper than bullets, Stronger than hatred.

Something like that child who refused to die, the woman who refused to stop giving, the doctor who refused to lose his humanity.

In the end, we weren't heroes. We were ordinary people who tried, failed, rose, and stood again.

And as my father said: "The world goes on, Ayoub."

And we still go on…

Carrying our wounds and our hope, Crossing life's path, Searching for a glimmer of light in the night's darkness.

By: Dr. Ayoub Ibrahim Adam