Inside a hospital in Sudan: “If we die, we die with dignity”

I am a doctor. But in Sudan, over the past three years, that has meant far more than medicine. 

It has meant answering calls for help while knowing you cannot reach the person on the other end. 

Walking into danger — not because you are fearless, but because a patient is waiting for you.

Carrying memories that do not fade, no matter how much you try to move forward.

What I share here comes from the early days of the war in Khartoum — when everything unraveled at once, as the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) advanced into the city, street by street.

This is where my experience begins.

The day the phones never stopped ringing

On April 15, 2023, I went to work as usual. By 9 a.m., everything had changed.

I was standing by a window at the central ambulance base in Bahari, in northern Khartoum, when I saw people running. Then came the sound — explosions, heavy gunfire. A building in front of us was bombed, and within minutes, neighbors were carrying the wounded in their arms, shouting for help.

Inside, the phones began to ring. And they didn’t stop.

“Please come.” “He’s bleeding.” “She’s dying.”

We tried. But we couldn’t move a single ambulance. The streets had already become too dangerous. With clashes erupting unpredictably, any movement meant risking all of our lives.

Hours later, some of those same voices called back.

“Don’t come anymore,” they said. “He died.”

There is something inside you that breaks in that moment. Because you are a doctor. And suddenly, you cannot reach the people who need you most.

Three days trapped — and the decision to go back

I was the only woman on duty.

I had heard stories from Darfur — areas of Sudan under the RSF militia — about sexual violence and what happens when armed groups take control. But now, as RSF fighters moved through Khartoum, those fears were no longer distant.  

We were trapped inside the ambulance base for three days — listening, waiting, not knowing what would come next. 

After I evacuated, I spent a week in Omdurman, a town just across the bridge from Khartoum.

It was Eid. There was a temporary ceasefire. For a brief moment, people tried to hold on to something like normal life.

But even then, we knew it would not last. We stayed in touch, calling each other, returning again and again to the same question: If hospitals are closed, and ambulances cannot move — what happens to the next person who is injured?

There was no system anymore. So we made a decision. We would go back.

Building something from nothing

When I told my family of my decision, they were afraid. My uncle tried to stop me.

I told him: “This is my duty.” Not for bravery. But for my medical responsibility.

We had one aim: Together with a small group of colleagues, we would reopen Bashair Teaching Hospital, in the south of Khartoum.   

We would bring together medical staff who were still nearby — people who knew the neighborhoods and could move more safely — and restart services, even in a limited way.

We began with almost nothing. A few doctors. A few surgeons. Nurses. Volunteers.

We opened from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. After that, the doors were closed because of the lack of resources. It was the only functioning hospital in the area.

We focused on trauma — gunshot wounds, blast injuries. Victims of the war. The hospital was no longer just a workplace. It was a lifeline. 

Living with fear

At first, I stayed in a nearby house. But nights were unbearable. 

Every sound felt like danger. Every silence felt like waiting.

I would return home late — sometimes close to midnight — often stopped at checkpoints. Questions. Suspicion. Unpredictability.

After a while, I no longer felt safe outside.

Some soldiers began approaching me — trying to talk, even proposing marriage. I refused. I told them I am a married woman, a mother.

But refusal does not guarantee safety. So I moved into the hospital. Even there, armed men would come and go — smoking in corridors, moving through spaces that should have been protected, with no regard for the sanctity of the medical facility.

We were a small team, working under pressure, making decisions every hour that could mean life or death.

We told ourselves something simple: If we die, we die with dignity.

It was not courage. It was acceptance.

No longer alone

For weeks, we held everything together with almost nothing — improvising, stretching supplies, making impossible choices.

Then, MSF came to support the hospital. Slowly, something began to shift. The risks didn’t disappear. The war didn’t stop. But we were no longer completely alone — and that changed what was possible.

The moments that never leave you

A mother arrived one night after RSF soldiers entered her home.

They accused the family of supporting the Sudanese government. They looted everything. They killed her husband. They shot her.

We took her to surgery, while her son — no more than 9 — stood nearby, crying. “One day, I will kill them,” the child said.

At that same moment, RSF soldiers were inside the hospital. I remember thinking: If they hear him, they will kill him too.

Another day, a survivor of sexual violence came in.

I sat with her. I listened. And then I cried with her. Even now, I still see her face. 

And then, among this chaos, something surprisingly positive happened: A pregnant woman arrived in labor.

We had no maternity services. No preparation. She gave birth in the emergency surgical room. In the middle of war, a child was born. For a moment, everything softened. We smiled. We remembered what life feels like.

Why we stayed

Those early days in Khartoum were about survival. Not just for patients — but for us. We were afraid. We were exhausted. We doubted ourselves, but we stayed because patients kept coming.

Because even when we could not save everyone, we could still save someone.

Because sometimes, in the middle of everything, life still finds a way.

I am a doctor.

And in those early days of war in Khartoum, that meant staying — even when the city, and part of me, was falling apart.

* Name withheld for security