We need to talk about Sudan

I recently attended an interview with the Egyptian-Canadian writer and journalist Omar El Akkad ahead of the publication of his book, One Day Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This.

The book was born from a viral tweet sent shortly after bombardment began in Gaza in October 2023. El Akkad wrote: “One day, when it’s safe, when there’s no personal downside to calling a thing what it is, when it’s too late to hold anyone accountable, everyone will have always been against this.” The post was viewed more than 10 million times.

More than 150 people warmed the room on a cold London night to hear him speak. By the time I reached the front of the signing line, all copies of his book had sold out. Alhamdulillah (praise be to God), I thought, agreeing with his publisher’s comments that this was a vital message, a critical meditation, the needed challenge for Western readers to grapple with their nations’ complicity in what has been termed the “first live-streamed genocide”.

Yet, despite the sharp clarity of El Akkad’s words, the truth of his analysis and the profound power of his critique, I was unable to remain entirely present during the discourse. Alongside my complete and lifelong solidarity with the Palestinian people, the feeling that kept interrupting was one I did not want to engage with, one I had no sense of how to acknowledge.

Would people ever one day “always have been against” the war in Sudan?

What does the answer to that question tell us? About Sudan, about the value we place on human life, about ourselves?

El Akkad’s writing, and the writing of many Palestinians and their allies, points to a truth about the war in Palestine that is distinct from the war in Sudan: the battle of narrative.

Part of the red hot anger, the betrayal that many in the West feel, arises from the “derangement” of politicians, leaders and news organisations, who continue to disseminate lies, mistruths and propaganda about the war, despite positioning themselves as paragons of moral virtue and truth.

Sudan’s challenge is different. There is no battle of narrative. There is an utter lack of narrative. People are “already against this”, but it doesn’t seem to matter enough. There is an utter dearth of interest in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of us, the genocide being committed as I type these words, the millions facing acute hunger, and the many millions more displaced.

I am reminded of the death of a marriage. When there is an argument there is the hope for progress, because at least the parties are engaged with each other. When there is silence, when all sides have left the table, then you know the battle is lost.

Sometimes, a dark, shameful part of me wishes there was a battle of narrative I could engage in. Maybe it would mean Sudanese lives mattered enough to fight about.

At this point, I feel I must issue a disclaimer. Our causes are not in competition with each other, and freedom is not a zero-sum game. Talking about Sudan does not – must not – come at the expense of talking about Palestine, and we must also be wary of those using the Sudanese cause to diminish the activism and agitation of Palestinians and their allies.

Perhaps this is one battle of narrative Sudan has unwittingly found itself in, used as a pejorative talking point in the same way those defending Muslim women’s right to wear the hijab are faced with accusations that they “don’t care about the women in Iran”. These are bad faith arguments that are unconcerned with the actual people in question.

So why begin a piece about Sudan by talking about Palestine at all? Partly, I suppose, to start to try to make sense of a phenomenon I struggle with daily. To give those around me the benefit of the doubt; to resist the urge to point the finger and issue simplistic accusations forged in the blaze of desperation after years of being made invisible; to connect our struggles.

After all, there are no two flags as similar and as easily confused as Sudan’s and Palestine’s. We are distorted mirror images of one another, peoples so often frozen by the imaginations – or lack of imaginations – of others, refused the dignity of life as full, human beings who desire little more than peace and our freedom.

I had planned to feature more voices on the ground in this piece, yet the reality of the conflict once again interrupted any neat narrative I had hoped to write. My contacts in El-Fasher, the capital city of North Darfur, found themselves squeezed once again between heavy aerial bombardment by the Sudanese Armed Forces and shelling and drone attacks by the Rapid Support Forces, trapped between an exploding rock and a deadly hard place.

“I’m sorry for my late reply,” came a recent message from one contact. “The local authority keeps shutting down the network.” That was the last I heard from them, my questions languishing in the WhatsApp chat unread, “single ticked”.

Another activist tells me she cannot bring herself to ask her contact to do an interview. She was panicking about feeding herself and not getting killed.

I feel ashamed, like a narrative vulture, picking at my people’s bones.

In Khartoum, my aunt does not reply to questions about how she is doing. In the few moments of snatched connectivity, she forwards jokes and Arabic memes to the group chat. “I don’t want to talk about this stinking war,” she said. “Send photos of your cooking, of pretty hairstyles, of nice things.” Joy, she said. That’s what she wanted. Joy.

I am reminded of the bursts of joy I witnessed in the images of Palestinians returning to northern Gaza. Singing, laughter, jubilation… despite the dehumanising brutality, the Palestinians had what Omar El Akkad described as “the asymmetrical power of joy”.

I think of this as another quality the Sudanese share with Palestinians – the asymmetrical power of joy. Unencumbered by our wrangling on moral positions, uninterested in the limitations of our imaginations. They continue to live. Subhanallah. Glory be to God.