A Day in A Life of A Displaced Person

Instead of waking up to the loud traffic of Khartoum’s roads, displaced Sudanese people now find themselves adjusting to a new routine – waking up before sunrise for fajr, the morning prayer and the first of the five mandatory daily prayers. The deafening sound of buses honking and picking up passengers has been replaced by the calls of goats and roosters. If the routine itself doesn’t enforce a change in habits, then the morning visits certainly will.

After fleeing Khartoum a month after the war broke out on 15 April 2023 between the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF), we had to seek safety in our hometown village. We settled in Al Goraeer, a small village in Al Shamaliya (Northern State), about an hour’s drive from Meroë. With both my parents having grown up there and most of my family still living in the area, we found ourselves boarding a bus alongside my parents, sisters, aunts, and uncle’s family, heading north. Looking back, I still believe we were in denial – or perhaps we still are – about the entire war situation. The thought of losing your home, town, and daily routine is overwhelming, to say the least. At first, we all treated it like a family vacation – a chance to breathe in the fresh country air and escape the complexities of city life. It felt like a rare opportunity to step away from the fast-paced urban routine.

The day always started early, before sunrise, with the sound of the call to prayer from the village mosque echoing through the air, traveling long distances, and waking anyone who accidentally overslept. We would wake up to the crisp morning air and the sight of the men of the house already awake, filling their ibrig,a traditional water jug, to perform wudu (ablution) in preparation for fajr. Running water is considered a privilege in Al Goraeer, and most people rely on stored water for daily use.

While the men left for the mosque, the women were already up, preparing shai al sabah, morning tea, typically black tea with milk, for the extended family. Some would be busy making tea, while others would go to the small barn to milk the goats, ensuring a fresh supply for the second and third rounds of shai al sabah. The entire family would then gather in the hosh (courtyard), sipping tea and eating freshly baked biscuits as the sun began to rise. Laughter filled the air, echoing through the house as conversations ranged from politics to religion, sprinkled with jokes and gossip.

After sunrise, the village streets would come alive, with men heading to their fields – agriculture being the predominant livelihood. Young girls busied themselves with household chores, while neighbours visited each other, sharing morning coffee and exchanging news about village happenings.

One of the daily tasks involved collecting jareed, which are dried palm leaves and sticks, to light the cooking fire. When the RSF took over Al Jaili refinery, Sudan’s main petroleum processor, it led to a cooking gas shortage, forcing people to return to traditional methods of cooking. The first time I went out to gather jareed for my mother, I had to go back three times because I kept bringing the wrong ones. Once the fire was lit, the women would prepare gurasa and fateer, flatbreads, serving as substitutes for bread, made by baking a mixture of wheat flour, eggs, yeast, and sugar served with different types of mulah or stew, since bakeries had shut down due to the gas crisis too. It was then that I truly appreciated the privilege of having fresh, warm bread every day.

Breakfast was served when the men returned from their morning fieldwork. As per tradition, the men ate first, followed by the women and children. The morning routine wasn’t complete without a round of black tea served after fatoor or breakfast. The afternoons were quiet and slow – except on days when the water supply was connected to the village, which happened every other day. On those days, everyone took turns filling various tanks, storage units, barrels, and zeer (clay water coolers) with drinking water. The rest of the afternoon was spent avoiding the intense heat of the sun.

As evening approached and the sun began to set, lunch was prepared and served, again following the same order – men first, then women and children. The evenings were lively, filled with visits to relatives and neighbors or welcoming guests into our own home. Closed doors were not a thing there; every house’s front door remained wide open, making visitors feel welcome at any time. It was rare for more than five minutes to pass without someone – family, a relative, or a neighbour – stopping by to greet us with ‘as-salamu alaykum’. Walking up and down the street was the safest feeling, knowing that almost everyone was either a first cousin, second cousin, or distant relative.

Night arrived early, bringing with it a deep silence and peace that echoed through the streets. After isha prayer,the last mandatory prayer of the day, people exchanged goodbyes at the mosque, promising to meet again the next day. Children, meanwhile, played under the moonlit sky, enjoying traditional games like Sheliel Weno, which translates to ‘Where is Sheliel?’, where one child would throw an object,  a bone, into the darkness for the others to find. On clear nights, I would lie in bed, looking up at the sky, and for the first time in years, I saw the night sky filled with stars. I had never imagined there were so many. It was a mesmerising sight, lifting the weight of the day off my shoulders.

The change in lifestyle brought by displacement reshaped us in ways we never expected. The struggles people have faced – and continue to face – are indescribable. But the warmth and hospitality of the community were unmatched. The experience strengthened our bonds and allowed us to see life through a different lens. With 11 million internally displaced people and 3 million more in neighboring countries, each person’s experience is unique. But the change that was forced upon us all remains the same.

Lamia Abdallah Ahmed is a final-year medical student at Ahfad University for Women (AUW). She is also a content writer and storyteller who lives for reading, writing, and fighting for human rights.