By Brojen Thangjam
“We suffer from an incurable disease: hope.” Mahmoud Darwish
Sudan: A Fractured Beginning
The recent and ongoing conflict in Sudan has once again drawn the world’s attention to this vast and troubled land. It is also a country that would hold me for nearly five years, long enough for its dust to settle into my skin and memory.
For much of its post-independence history, Sudan has lived with fracture. A long and brutal north–south war had ended only months before I arrived —not with resolution, but with an uneasy peace. The Comprehensive Peace Agreement promised a future referendum on self-determination, deferring the country’s hardest questions. Beyond that divide lay other regions shaped by their own histories of violence, leaving Sudan feeling like a land of overlapping wounds.
It was into this uncertain interlude that I arrived in mid-September 2005, as part of the United Nations Mission in Sudan (UNMIS). The air in Khartoum was thick with heat and dust. As I stepped onto the tarmac, it felt as though a giant blow dryer had been turned on my face, the heat sudden and unrelenting. The airport itself appeared battered by desert winds; its walls, unpainted for years, carried the dull fatigue of a country long at war with itself. Even the turquoise-blue uniforms of the policemen looked faded, as weary as the landscape they were meant to guard.
A Different Kind of Fracture
When President Omar al-Bashir was removed in 2019, after months of public protest and a military that briefly aligned itself with the streets, Sudan appeared to stand at a threshold. The moment carried the promise of a reset. What followed instead was a fracture of a different kind—one that opened not between the state and society, but within the security apparatus itself.
The Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) carried a long inheritance. From colonial times, command structures had been dominated by elites from the Arabised Nile Valley, while soldiers were recruited largely from the peripheries. That imbalance survived independence, embedding hierarchy and grievance deep within the institution. The creation of the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) in 2013 widened this fault line. Drawn largely from Darfur’s Arab militias, the RSF stood outside the traditional military order—loyal to commanders rather than institutions, and only loosely anchored to the state.
For a time, the SAF and RSF found common cause, most notably in the removal of Bashir. Once he was gone, the alliance unravelled. On 15 April 2023, open fighting broke out in Khartoum, marking the eruption of a struggle long in the making.
What followed was not merely a contest between rival generals, but the violent surfacing of structural tensions that had been deferred for decades. External actors, professing concern yet pursuing access to gold, land, and influence, found ways to accommodate the conflict rather than resolve it. With that eruption, the country slipped once more into a familiar cycle of violence, where it is ordinary lives that bear the first and longest disruption.
Desert Sunrise:
And yet, away from these fractures of power, life continued in its own rhythms. Some two hundred kilometres from Khartoum, deep in the desert and not far from the Nile, lie the ruins of Azrabiyah. Just as the Egyptians had done, the Nubians here once attempted to lift stones toward the sky, shaping smaller, steeper pyramids that mirrored their own beliefs and sense of order. The remnants now stand silent in the sand, and a quiet retreat for the small but growing number of foreign travellers drawn to this ancient land.
In a modest camp run by an Italian couple, I watched the desert sunrise. The morning sun in the desert is startling in its candour—larger, redder, and more sharply defined than anywhere else I had known. The air was still cool, the light almost pure, giving no hint of the searing heat that would soon follow, when temperatures would climb past fifty degrees.
At the first break of dawn, before the sun scattered its light across the sand, the city’s silence was pierced by the mournful call of the muezzin summoning the faithful. Men in long white robes and skullcaps emerged to greet one another as they made their way to mosques whose minarets puncture the Khartoum skyline.
Elsewhere, pickup trucks began to snake through the streets, piled high with vegetables and meat. Butchers, axes freshly sharpened, took up their usual spots, waiting to be summoned to one of the wealthier homes. Children in neat uniforms stood beside their mothers as they waited for school buses.
The smell of fresh bread drifted through the air. Vegetables were laid out on makeshift stalls, and traders went about their business with practised ease. In this city shaped by desert and history, the day opened much like it does elsewhere, quietly insisting on continuity.
And Quiet Flows the Nile
When I returned to Sudan in 2007 for a second tenure, this time as full-fledged UN staff, I went to the same bank inside the UN compound to open an account. The manager, an elderly woman, glanced at my papers and smiled. “I think you were here before,” she said. As she finished the paperwork, she added, almost conspiratorially, “I have reactivated your account. Do you know, whoever drinks from the Nile will always return.”
Outside the bank, I asked Waheid, my all-knowing Man Friday from my office, if the saying was true. He burst out laughing. “Chief, she was just flirting with you! Who in their right mind would come back to this country?” Later, I learned that it was indeed a popular expression both in Sudan and Egypt. The water of the Nile is said to bind those who taste it. For a while, I wondered if it was indeed the water that had brought me back. Throughout my years in Sudan, I lived by the bank of the Nile watching its serene flow. My most cherished moments were the morning walks along the river, when the air was still cool, before the desert sun began its daily siege.
The Nile flows through eleven countries—from the highlands of Burundi, Rwanda, and Uganda, through Sudan, and finally into Egypt, where it spills into the Mediterranean. It is, in fact, two great rivers in one. The White Nile begins its long, meandering journey from Lake Victoria, drifting through swamps and flatlands, carrying pale, sediment-light water. The Blue Nile, by contrast, tumbles down from the Ethiopian highlands at Lake Tana, swift and dark with silt. The two meet in Khartoum, where their contrasting colours—one light, the other heavy and dark—run side by side for miles before they finally blend.
Egypt still calls itself the “gift of the Nile,” and rightly so. The river shaped its civilisation, continues to power its cities, and carries tourists along its course in steady numbers. Upstream, however, other nations—Ethiopia, Uganda, and others—are asserting their own claims, damming and diverting the river for electricity and irrigation. The Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam has already begun to alter an ancient balance. It towers over the Blue Nile, all concrete and water, grabbing hold of the river’s old energy to light up Ethiopia’s future.
It is often said that future wars will be fought over water. Watching the Nile glide past Khartoum—serene and unhurried—it was hard to imagine such a conflict. Yet beneath that calm surface, the ambitions of states and the thirst of millions move together, carried silently by the river’s slow and patient flow.
A Different Rhythm
I met Imad at a cultural evening inside one of those Khartoum compounds where Sudanese musicians sometimes performed. He was young, tall and wiry, with a mop of Bob Marley–like hair that stood out in a city where even a hairstyle could invite moral judgment. In a small music band, he played the guitar and belonged to a small, restless generation trying to find its own rhythm.
I accepted his invitation to share a meal, and a few days later, came to pick me up. There was another boy in the car, and as soon as we pulled out, the volume was turned up. Imad glanced at me and said, almost defensively, “Jimi Hendrix—you know I like him.” Outside, the evening azaan echoed from the mosques; inside the car, the wail of Hendrix’s guitar filled the space. For a moment, I forgot I was in Khartoum.
We wound through dimly lit lanes until we reached a quiet corner known as the Parliament Café. Inside, the city seemed to change shape. This was a different Khartoum—young men and women, many from well-to-do families, sipping cocktails, passing the shisha, laughing with an ease rarely seen in public. On a small, makeshift stage, Imad and his friends played western music that carried little social approval, yet offered a taste of the freedom they could not openly claim.
Imad remained a friend throughout my stay. He often offered to teach me the guitar, but my hands were too clumsy. Perhaps, if I had a cause to rebel, I might have learned the chords he patiently tried to teach me!
And in that small café, amid smoke and the hum of forbidden music, I came to understand that rebellion wears many faces. In some places, it takes up arms; in others, it picks up a guitar. The impulse, however, is the same—to reclaim a measure of freedom when the world insists on conformity.
Father of the Bride
I met Tariq one morning as I was leaving for the office. He stood outside the house, supervising the setting up of a tented hall across the street. When he saw me, he raised his hand and waved me over. Tariq was my landlord in Khartoum—a quiet, courteous man. As I came closer, he told me the preparations were for his daughter’s wedding reception; the ceremony itself had already taken place. Almost casually, he asked if I might join them later in the evening. Out of courtesy and curiosity, I agreed.
The gathering was simple and unpretentious. The groom’s family arrived in small groups—men in white jalabiyas and traditional headgear, women in flowing Sudanese dresses. What caught my eye were the women’s shoes; carefully chosen sandals, finely embellished with gold or beadwork, suggesting how style finds its way within an otherwise modest dress. In a society where public display is restrained, weddings seem to allow these small expressions of elegance.
I stood with Tariq for a while, sharing tea and small snacks as guests settled in. Gradually, the mood shifted toward celebration. I was told that the father of the bride was expected to step forward and dance. Tariq obliged, lifting a slender stick as a makeshift prop and taking a few tentative steps. It was clear he was not a man much given to dancing.
The groom stood nearby, noticeably older than the bride, reserved as custom seemed to require. When Tariq returned and sat beside me, he sensed that I had noticed the age difference. He leaned in slightly and said, almost as an aside, that the groom was doing well in his business. “I think she will be happy,” he added. As he spoke, his hand rose briefly to his face, brushing across his eyes, as if to steady himself—or to wipe away what might have been a tear.
It was a moment, and yet in that fleeting gesture lay something familiar. Some emotions travel easily across cultures. Letting go, I realised, looks much the same everywhere.
Let the Tukul Burn; Give Us the Water
Beyond the capital, life took on a sharper, more elemental form. Abyei lay somewhere in between—not quite Sudan, not quite South Sudan—a land suspended between two sovereignties and burdened by competing claims. I went there as the United Nations expanded its presence in the lead-up to the 2011 referendum.
The days were long and dry. In the evenings, when the generators came on, grasshoppers rose from the swamps and struck the lamps in dull, persistent bursts. One night, after dinner, we saw a column of smoke rising near the town. A cluster of tukuls—small, thatched huts—was on fire. We climbed onto the water tanker and drove toward the flames to help douse the fire.
As we began to spray water, villagers gathered. At first, they watched in silence, then with growing agitation. A few men rushed forward, shouting words we could not understand. Finally, our local interpreter turned to us, half-smiling, almost apologetic as he translated: “They are saying, let the tukul burn—give us the water.” For a moment, we froze. It made perfect sense. There was little in those huts worth saving. Water, on the other hand, was life.
The irony was inescapable. Beneath our feet lay one of the richest oil belts in the region—the very reason two states laid claim to this land. Yet on the surface, people were willing to trade their homes for a few buckets of water. In Abyei, the struggle was never only about borders or oil. It was about survival, played out quietly, one choice at a time.
Who Belongs to the Land? Abyei and the Question of Voting
What I witnessed in Abyei on the ground later reappeared, in another form, at negotiating tables and in courtrooms.
The Dinka have long regarded Abyei as their home. They cultivated the land, built permanent settlements, and buried their dead there. Each year, however, as pasture in the north dried up, the Misseriya—Arab nomadic pastoralists—moved south with their cattle. They stayed for months, grazing, trading salt for grain, and then returned north with the rains. Repeated over generations, this seasonal movement bound the Misseriya to the land in its own way.
As the referendum on Abyei’s future approached—whether it would remain with Sudan or join South Sudan—this lived reality hardened into a legal dispute. Khartoum argued that the Misseriya should be allowed to vote: their survival depended on access to Abyei’s land and water, and exclusion would deny their way of life. Such inclusion would also tilt the outcome decisively in Sudan’s favour. The Dinka countered that voting rights belonged only to permanent residents—those who lived in Abyei year-round and had no other homeland to return to.
The law offered no resolution. The Abyei Protocol referred vaguely to “residents” but never defined the term. The Permanent Court of Arbitration in The Hague clarified Abyei’s boundaries and affirmed the Misseriya’s right to seasonal grazing, yet deliberately avoided ruling on voter eligibility. The referendum, therefore, remained suspended. When the Dinka later organised a unilateral vote, its result was predictable—and internationally unrecognised.
Beneath the legal arguments lay a deeper question. When land and livelihood are contested, belonging itself becomes uncertain. Abyei was never only about borders or ballots, but about who could claim a place without fear of erasure. In the absence of agreement, the United Nations deployed the United Nations Interim Security Force for Abyei—mandated not to resolve the dispute, but to prevent it from exploding. It is a familiar pattern: conflicts frozen into management, while the lives caught along the fault line remain suspended, vulnerable to rupture at any moment.
End of Mission: When War Returned
With the referendum concluded and Sudan formally divided, the United Nations Mission in Sudan (UNMIS) was winding down. Its mandate ended with the birth of South Sudan. The separation itself was largely peaceful, and in that narrow sense, the mission had met its central objective. Yet the creation of a new country left others behind. In the Nuba Mountains of South Kordofan, a non-Arab, largely Muslim population—long marginalised and excluded from power-sharing—rose in rebellion. The Sudanese Armed Forces moved swiftly to suppress it.
I was in a place called Kadugli, coordinating the closure of the UNMIS compound. The timing could not have been worse. As fighting erupted, we were effectively trapped. The airport had already been seized by the military. Soon, thousands of displaced people streamed toward our compound, desperate for safety, food, and water. Makeshift shelters and ragged tents ringed the perimeter. I had never witnessed such suffering: the wounded without care, children crying from hunger and exhaustion, and the dull thud of shelling echoing through the valley. At night, tracer rounds cut across the sky like red ribbons of fire.
The World Food Programme maintained a large warehouse nearby, but by the second day, it was taken over by the military, along with food that could have sustained the displaced. Other UN premises were similarly commandeered. A colleague and I visited one such site. The colonel in charge was courteous, almost relaxed. “We won’t be here long,” he smiled. “This will be over soon.” When I asked if we could retrieve our equipment, he suggested we return the next day. We did—but the access road had already been mined, warning signs pasted everywhere. We never saw him, or the building, again.
Back in Khartoum, as I prepared to leave for Juba, Waheid—by then a close friend—walked me to the aircraft steps. He hugged me and said softly, “You’ll still drink Nile water there.” This time though, he was not teasing.
Assessments of UNMIS remain mixed. Supporters note that it helped avert a return to full-scale north–south war and delivered a referendum few believed possible. Critics argue that its narrow mandate and deference to the host government left it unable to protect civilians when violence returned to South Kordofan and Blue Nile.
In the end, UNMIS managed the political transition but was constrained in confronting conflicts rooted in history and grievance. It was a reminder that peace agreements may conclude wars on paper, even as the deeper causes of violence continue to unfold in the lives of ordinary people.
NEXT Please Read: https://thefrontiermanipur.com/in-the-shade-of-a-young-nation-a-journey-through-south-sudans-promises-and-pain/
(Brojen Thangjam recently retired from service with the United Nations. He can be reached at [email protected])