Life amid bullets and bombs: Stories from Sudan

... In a desperate bid to continue our work, we tried to operate from Wad Madani Hospital, but the lack of power, water, and safe conditions made it impossible. The city became a ghost town, and we had to evacuate.

The journey to Wad Madani for the displaced was heart-wrenching. Some arrived by carts, others on the backs of donkeys. Many had walked for five days without food, arriving in a state of utter exhaustion. Diseases were rampant, and supplies were dwindling. 

Our mobile clinics were filled with patients. Each day, over 200 people waited to see us. Despite the intense pressure, we persevered, sorting cases, transferring dangerous cases to the hospital, and treating the less severe ones on site. 

In the early days of the attack on Wad Madani, we braved the sound of explosions to assist the hospital team, treating bullet wounds, shell injuries, and shrapnel injuries. But as the fighting drew dangerously close to the hospital, we had to evacuate the patients and return to our residence. 

We were interrogated by armed men, our residence searched, and our vehicles taken at gunpoint. The next day, some of our team was evacuated to other states, while the rest of us continued to provide support at Bashair Hospital in Khartoum. 

Today, our biggest challenge is the scarcity of medical supplies. We've run out of surgical equipment, and we are on the brink of stopping all work unless supplies arrive. 

Throughout all this, I took a personal risk, deciding to stay and help while evacuating my own family to Sennar. The decision to continue, despite the gunfire and danger, was a struggle, but I trusted in God and chose to help others. 

Now, I am in Khartoum, working amidst the sound of bullets and bombs. I haven't seen my family for four months, and they're no longer in Sudan. They're safe in Saudi Arabia. I miss them dearly, but I know I have a duty to my country and its people. 

Every day I meet people who remind me of the importance of my work. I remember one mother from a camp in Wad Madani, her face lighting up when she met me again in Khartoum as she recognized me as Dr. Ahmed, who used to visit them in the camp. Her joy was short-lived when she told me a disabled man I used to check on had died from a gunshot wound.  

Before the war, life was normal. I would go to the hospital, help patients, and then return to my family. Now, my city lies in ruins, my family is gone, and the sense of fear is pervasive. 

In these dark times, my hope remains. I long for the day when the war will stop, peace will prevail, and we can work on building and developing our country without the threat of being forced to leave."

... Despite the devastation, we've continued our mission, and I have stepped into the role of nurse and supervisor, ensuring our nursing services remain running in their support. 

Umdawanban Hospital stands as a main operational facility in this area. Even when faced with challenges, like a patient with severe diabetes arriving unconscious and in critical condition, our medical support proves to be essential to saving [their] life and many other lives. The joy of seeing such patients recover and walk out of the hospital keeps our resolve strong to push forward, reminding us of why we continue this medical humanitarian support. 

Due to the negative shadow of the war, the relationship with patients has not been limited to the professional aspect of doctor and patient but becomes more human, interacting with the suffering they face in accessing the current health facilities. 

As we mark the first year of the war, my heart aches for the suffering it has inflicted—hunger, a lack of health services, and a future uncertain. Yet, it is the personal stories of those we help, their challenges but also hopes, that transform our relationship from merely medical to deeply human."

... Once a university student studying animal protection, my dreams now seem distant amid the uncertainty of our future. Despite feeling like my family is unraveling, I cling to hope. 

The onset of the war on April 15 trapped us in our home as violence escalated outside. With dwindling resources, we sold our possessions for survival, leaving behind loved ones as we fled from Khartoum to Kosti and finally to the transit center here. 

Life in the camp is harsh, with my mother and sister struggling to adapt to the environment teeming with flies, mosquitoes, rats, and wild animals. Kosti also feels like Khartoum in a way, insecurity and crime is high here. We plan on leaving to Joda, then to Renk. This here is a temporary transit center anyway. 

Despite my efforts to secure medication for my thyroid condition, the camp's hospital lacks the necessary drugs. I explained my condition to the doctor and told him the name of drugs I usually take. He couldn’t help. 

We await my two brothers still in Kosti, one of whom battles schizophrenia. His reluctance to join us stems from financial constraints. The cruel reality is that money dictates our options. Our journey hinges on his ability to join us. This is my story of survival amidst the trials of displacement and illness."

... The conflict ravaging Sudan is unspeakable. We find ourselves escaping one war zone only to enter another conflict here in South Sudan. We're in dire need of help and wish for our plight to be known. The future remains uncertain, especially for our children. Will they ever return to school? 

The war has inflicted severe trauma. I have three children; the youngest, born amidst conflict, is just two months old. The constant worry is unbearable. My children are deprived of their education, unable to grow or learn. Their daily tears are for the longing to study."

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... Every day at the hospital, I find the strength to look after them. I cook what I can with the other mothers who also have their children at the hospital. We sit under a tree. The other children play; they climb trees, and I can't wait for my children to be among them. Many families here struggle for food and water. Hardly anyone has a proper shelter.   

As soon as my children feel better, my husband will join us and we will continue our journey, maybe to Malakal. I will try to contact my extended family in South Sudan, but I am uncertain of the future. We would need a lot of courage and help to survive during the coming difficult days to start a new life in South Sudan.    

My house will still be half full."

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