How Sudanese women are protecting their families amid war and displacement

... I’d heard from neighbors that in previous attacks, the armed men had ordered boys out of the house and killed them, solely based on their gender. So we got in the habit of dressing our boys as girls. Ayoub was about a year old at that time, but I still dressed him as a girl, so he would not get hurt.

Before leaving our house, they took whatever they could steal and told me to leave, saying, it was not safe to stay there because another team of armed men was coming, and, 'They are more frustrated. You must leave now.' I didn’t have much time so I took my kids and the few things I could carry with me, like kids’ clothes. But as we made the journey towards the border these were also stolen by armed men—they wouldn’t allow us to cross the border with anything.

When I left the house, I saw a lot of people dead on the road. Some of the bodies were decomposing. It was horrible to see. Some of my neighbors had been killed. I fled with the other survivors. On the way, I managed to find my husband and we joined the crowd of people fleeing together. We got stopped twice on the way. People were killed. The first time, armed men started shooting at the crowd. My husband got shot in his right foot—he could barely walk. The second time, armed men attacked us again. They kicked me and they badly beat my husband with a stick. After this, he could barely move so I tried to carry him as much as I could with my young baby Ayoub in my arms. A woman kindly offered to take care of my daughter Aya as I strove to carry my husband and son.

On the last stop of our journey, I tried to find my daughter again, shouting her name among the crowd. At last, we found her, still with the woman who had looked after her. I felt so relieved. In the village, I also met the army who told me to leave my husband there and go to Adré to ask for help at the hospital. It took us took us four days to reach Adré. At the hospital, we were taken care of by the medical teams, supported by MSF, and had surgery and treatment. That was when we got the news that my husband’s left arm and leg were paralyzed for life, because of the beating.

Our kids are traumatized by everything they saw on the way. When they hear gunshots or loud noises, even loud voices, they hide and cover their ears, crying. The eldest one keeps asking questions about what has happened, why we were not safe and what will happen now.

In El Geneina, before the war, our life was great. I was a midwife working at the hospital, and my husband was a businessman, trading cars. Once Sudan is safe, we will go back because life here is so difficult. We suffer without access to basics: food, water, school, work. We have no bed, no mattress, we lack many things. The only food we get is from humanitarian organizations. Sometimes people in the community support us and give us a bit of food. But there is nothing we can do here—there is no work, no land, no way for us to save ourselves. I am the only one taking care of my family. My husband cannot move because of his paralysis so I must do everything, from carrying the water to finding food."

... We could not find any clean water. It was the rainy season, and we’d found some rainwater on the way, and we slept under a tree at night because of the downpours. We had a few clothes with us, but the armed men did not allow us to cross the border with them. Arriving in Adré, we found refuge in a school building. An organization gave us food and vaccinated the children."

Jeta: "My dad [Gamera’s husband] was killed two years ago during a previous violent attack, and my husband disappeared around the same time—I don’t know if he is dead or alive. So my two boys, Abdel Aman and Mohamad, are the only men remaining in the family. I did what I could to protect them as we fled. I dressed them in girls' clothes so they wouldn’t be killed. But my oldest one was discovered and beaten until he was in a coma. I was very worried, but when we managed to reach Adré, they took care of him at the hospital and he is better now.

After a few weeks in Adré, I became ill myself and spent about 20 days in the hospital, supported by MSF teams. After that we were moved to Aboutengue camp. I was able to officially register as a refugee and got a shelter for me and my five children. My mom [Gamera] did not directly get the registration so does not have anything—she is staying with us. But we don’t have enough. We depend 100 percent on what humanitarian organizations give us. Sometimes my kids must beg for food in the camp. They don’t go to school; they don’t do anything here.

Our life in Sudan was good. We had our house, enough food and comfort. We were working. I was a nanny and housekeeper. Even if we could go back to Sudan, everything is destroyed now—what will we do? What will happen to us now? We don’t feel safe anywhere. Yes, it is better here than the massacres in Sudan, but sometimes here in the camp there is crime. We do not have any protection, except each other. It is worse for my children; they are still afraid, crying and panicking every time they hear a loud sound."

... Six days later, I found my husband in the hospital. As the crowd ran, he had been shot in the arm. At the hospital, he had surgery with internal fixations, screws, and plates. He spent a month in hospital to help with his recovery, but today he is still struggling with the pain, and he cannot lift heavy things like the jerrycan for water. So I must take care of him.
 
We arrived in the new camp mid-July last year. How can I describe it? Well, at least there are no bombs or gunshots. We are not getting killed, but we have nothing to eat. Some days we don’t eat at all. We fully depend on humanitarian aid, especially for food.

Water is a big struggle as well. The queue for water is very long, I must get up early and place my jerrycan in line so I can get water later. 

In Sudan, we were farmers. But here in Aboutengue, there is nothing. We are in the middle of nowhere. The only thing I found for work is to help construct bricks—for that, I earn only a few hundred CFA francs [less than one US dollar].

Today, it is still hard for our children. There’s nothing for them to do; they don’t go to school. They keep asking questions to understand what happened in the war. They told me that when they were separated from me on the journey here, they saw a lot of dead bodies, including children. They told me that armed men asked them, 'Where is your father? Where are his guns?' They were afraid. My five-year-old son keeps waking up at night with nightmares screaming, 'They are coming!' My seven-year-old daughter, Maria, cries multiple times a day."

... I like studying and am happy to have school here. We study under the tree in the wadi [a dry riverbed]. But I am not going anymore because I must take care of my sisters. My mom is trying to go back to Sudan to grab whatever she can take for our survival. We have nothing here; it is very hard to live. In the future, I want to work for a humanitarian organization so I can help. But I don’t really know what will happen to me in the future."