Sudan: The Misfortunate Land

Image credit: Nick Youngson, Alpha Stock Images

I have always hated farewells at the airport. Every time, it was someone’s turn to leave Sudan, to make a living and provide for their family. It is someone’s turn to earn a life worth living, to be treated with respect and appreciation, and to be given basic rights. It is someone’s turn to flee to a place where necessities aren’t luxuries and living isn’t a struggle, where saving is more than spending, and where one’s mind could rest knowing that he or she could put bread on the table.

At first, I hated that the West and the Middle East were making better use of our brightest and smartest people. I hated the immense brain drain I was witnessing. I hated the fact that only in foreign lands could our people excel, and feel wanted and appreciated. I hated how our people became theirs and worked for the growth and prosperity of foreign countries and not ours.

I initially hated how we, as Sudanese, did not want to give back to our country; how everyone’s dream was to leave; how success was defined by how fast you left Sudan; and how the longer you stayed in the country, the more you were a failure.

Success, as I had known it, was the accomplishment of a purpose, be it higher education like a master’s degree, PhD, or setting up your own business, etc., and not the race to migration.

Like I said, I initially hated the rush to get out of Sudan, but then I realised, staying in Sudan was almost impossible. Giving back to Sudan was hopeless. Staying in Sudan — and I hate to say this — was like digging your own grave. You can only give when there is a will to receive, where every effort or drop of blood and sweat is appreciated. But, how can you be expected to give everything you have, only to see your efforts go in vain.

I hate to see despair on people’s faces as I drove by the streets on my way to university. As I pass by supermarkets, bus stops, hospitals — each is filled with desperate and defeated-looking people. Their faces tell me they are tired and fed up as if they are trying to stay afloat in the ocean while being dragged down by a strong current. I pity their lives and am saddened that it has to be this way. Winning in a corrupt country like ours is more or less impossible.

I hate how the shop owners سيد الدكان have to sleep nights in the open, guarding their shop or dukkan. Home was work and work was home, and he didn’t have the privilege of distinguishing between the two. His hard-earned business is probably his only asset and his life. He has to sacrifice being with his family to sleep on the streets to protect his belongings. Guarding his dukkan is equivalent to guarding his life as it is his only asset. 

I hate how the house guard’s (الغفير) markoob is dusty and how he wears them with no socks.

I hate that wherever I looked in Sudan, I see signs of poverty. I hate how my friends or friends of friends had to drive taxis or rickshaw as their main source of income. I hate how, even if you have a degree, without sociopolitical connections or money, you cannot move forward. I hate how you need to be بت اخو الوزير (niece of the minister) or حفيد فلان (granddaughter of someone important) or قريب علان (relative of someone important) to have a good job or be a success.

I hate the smell of corruption everywhere I turn. I hate how everyone justifies Sudan’s current situation as ‘God’s curse’.

I hate how women in Sudan have to leave their children miles and miles away for months on end to work as maids, because her town is too underdeveloped to provide employment. I hate how Sudan tears families apart and how every mother’s heart longs for her migrated children; and how the prayer or duaa, اللهم اعدهم سالمين غانمين (God return them safe and sound), resonates in their houses every night.

But most of all I hate what Sudan was and what it has become now; how our stories to our children aren’t going to be like the fruitful ones our parents had once shared with us. I hate how the older generations had beautiful memories and stories of the ‘old’ Sudan; and how this is not going to be the case for us. Instead, we will be sharing stories of a foreign land, how it accepted us and gave us what Sudan never could.

Saria Osman El-Amin is a 22-year-old recent graduate of the Faculty of Medicine, University of Khartoum (Class of 2018). Currently based in Khartoum, Saria is a part-time English and maths teacher. She values time alone a lot, and without it, she feels exhausted and unable to function. She enjoys reading books, travelling, going out with friends, having a laugh and of course, eating good food.