A different type of mistreatment of a journalist held by militias in Sudan’s war By Mohamed Osman Adam

Khartoum, Sudan (PANA) - For almost eleven months, I fought to restore self-esteem so that I could resume writing and filing feature stories. It was during this time that I felt repugnant and ashamed of myself. 

For, physical pain goes away, in a relatively short while psychological agony remains vivid as long as there is a reminder that brings it back to life. 

For me, simple daily occurrences and events such as sun beams, entering the washroom or when rainwater soaks my shoes, brought afresh the memory of my detention on 20 October 2023, four months into the war in the Sudan.  

I was trapped behind the RSF paramilitary group’s lines, believing that the conflict would not last more than a few weeks or a few months.

I misjudged the situation.  I could not practise my freedoms which were the only source of solace for me at the time. I was trapped but that was the easiest part of my ordeal.

One day, I was walking around inside the Hajj Youssef Wahda Market place, Khartoum, Sudan, less than 10 km from my home to buy a kilo of veal, and half a kilo of rice and a few Maggie cubes for dinner.

But I did not expect to end up finding myself forced to standstill in a make-shift garbage collection zone: my shoes soaked in drunkards’ urine and human excreta, heaps of rotten fruits and vegetables: My whole-body started releasing streams of sweat that went down my neck, back, belly and sides, down to my legs to intermingle with the dirty liquid oozing from garbage dumping ground. 

Just a few meters away from where I was standing, smoke  filled up  the surroundings. .  

It was an irony of a sort:  the day was Friday, 20 October 2023, just one day before the anniversary of a popular Sudanese uprising of October 21st, 1964, that toppled a military dictatorship of General Ibrahim Abood (1958-1964) and restored freedom of assembly and a multi-party system that advocated freedom of expression. 

And it was in October 1992, the month in which I got married and it was in October 1994 that I received confirmation that my wife was pregnant.

These were all happy occasions that occurred in the month of October that I wanted to celebrate but the war blocked me from any interaction with the outside world.

 With no internet, electricity, or running water, radio or newspaper, I was in constant search for anything positive, anything to raise my morale. 

As journalists, we were aware that freedom of press and assembly would be hugely repressed with the outbreak of war between the Sudanese Armed forces and paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF). 

Still, the two sides to the war promised that people, with the exception of soldiers or former regular forces, would be free to move around and act as they wished.

The month of October, in Sudanese agricultural calendar, means the start of the dry season: hot weather and crushing heat when crops such as sorghum, millet and rain fed grains need to ripen. It is the start of the harvest. It is end of the rains. Heat is crushing and air runs thin.

 I was holding a light blue colour plastic bag containing my purchase: quarter of a kilo of veal, half a kilo of rice, four cubes of Maggie, half a kilo of black-eye peas, one box of Azapril-5mg and one box of metformin-500mg. I had no mobile on me, and I had no excess money. It was the standard picture of a senior middle-class Sudanese, usually very respectful in the community. Once again, I was wrong. 

At the moment the RSF armed men stopped me, I was coming out of the marketplace heading back to my home. I was just at the periphery of the marketplace, and I was totally absorbed in my reveries, when the harsh reality of angry thundering artillery far away in central Khartoum, of military planes zipping away to the east and the hostile rude voices nearby of armed young men in full military fatigue and military 4X4 trucks camouflaged under trees or in an alley between the shops or inside a building that was vacated and was being used as a hiding place for the military vehicles, brought me to reality. 

I did not focus because the checkpoints were still far away and I had made it a rule to never take the main roads or major alleys where there were checkpoints. I walked to my home using abandoned small alleys.

‘’You there, hay stop. Am talking to you, are you deaf?’’ That was the yelling which brought me back to reality. I did not think I, specifically, was being addressed. That was why I did not respond promptly at first, until the name calling was capped with ‘’are you stubborn or are you Folool (local jargon, meaning: stooges of the defunct regime)’’? 

The shouting was coupled with the menacing metallic clicking of the release of the safety-catch of a firearm, the hammer block, to the ready to shoot position. I froze. 

And I turned slowly to face those yelling at me; they were a group of five middle aged men, all armed with  rapid-fire semi-automatic weapons.  They were dressed in the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) military fatigue, head wrapped in long colorful turbans and their eyes flashing such as burning amber in a winter night.

‘’Yes, peace be upon you,’’ I said, trying to sound calm, pretending not to have heard the name calling.  But the armed men did not respond in kind. That was not a good sign, I told myself. The usual response would be something like ‘’Peace and blessing of Allah be upon you!!’’.

‘’Stop.!! What is it that you are carrying in the bag?’’ the one in the front seat beside the driver asked. I was still two steps away from the car.  I said I was carrying rice, black eye peas, Maggie cubes, and meat in addition to my medication, stuff for cooking my meal.

‘’These are samples. Are you a merchant??’’ the man in the back seat, gun always pointed at my belly, or was it my chest? asked. I replied I was not.  

The spot was not far from the center of the market place. People who happened to walk by, kept a distance. No body stopped to enquire or to show any curiosity. It cost one their life in such a situation. Mind your business, was the golden advice, we learned in this war situation.

At this point I was standing nearer to the car’s front door. The one in the front seat stretched his arm and snatched the bag. He opened it and could clearly see that, beside what I have said there was half a kilo of a second-hand type of tomatoes. ‘’What are you?’’ They asked. I responded immediately and directly. I showed no hesitation. I said I was ‘’by profession a journalist’’.

‘’And what is your tribe, or you don’t have a tribe?’’ the one in the back seat of the pickup asked, sarcastically. When I told my tribe, he made no comment. It was clear he was disappointed that I was hailing from a small, minority tribe, and I was from central western Sudan. 

“Come closer,” he ordered. I moved forwards -intentionally my right foot first- as military men march forward from a halt, off straight ahead with their left-foot first.  I was aware that ‘come closer’ meant to see if I were a retired military who start his march with the left foot or not. These were methods of survival that one recalls at times of need.   

"And why do you talk in their accent, them the northerners?” the one at the driving wheel, the meanest from his appearance, asked me. I failed to answer.

His question was meant to say “why you DON’T t speak the jargon of those who hailed from Western Sudan.” When he saw that I was not panicked but at the same time I did not demonstrate any disrespect, I did not frown and I did not stare at them and when I spoke, I looked them in the eye but just for the movement when I answered,  when they speak I lowered my eyes, it was a training I received from a UN agency, as part of preparing group of local journalists to cover war and war situation, especially when dealing with child soldiers who are cladding firearms.

‘’Where is your ID?’’ The one in the driver seat ordered. From my trousers’ back pocket, I produced a copy of my passport. He looked at the picture and at me. And I was sure he did not read the information in the passport but he sarcastically added ‘’ and you have a passport, like as if you were VIP?’’.

"Bring him along with us," the one in the back seat whispered. 

Then the one in the front seat thrust back my bag and I thought that was the end. I was about to emit a sigh of relief, when the “let him wait and rot” hit my ears. “They are the ones smearing our reputation, they are the ones also who sold our cause.”

Ironically, this tragic situation reminded one of the phrases in Schlageter play by Hanns Johst, a Nazi-aligned playwright 1933, where a character says, "When I hear the word culture...I release the safety-catch of my Browning!". It was mistakenly attributed to Hermann Göring. Whoever said it, I had a living embodiment of that dictum just behind my back in Khartoum, Sudan, Africa.

“No let him wait and rot”. It was clear I wasn’t a good catch, I had no money, but I was a potential source of bad stories. The driver-commander emitted. I made no comment. It was the best strategy I could pull out.

From the area where I was stopped, at my back, there was a short wall, a group of unfished canteens buildings. The heap of garbage burning and the drunkards crossing the street and go there to empty their bellies and bladders, formed a massive heap of ordure.

And the ordeal started from here. I was ordered to walk straight to the center of the heap, not to look backward and not to stop until I was told to do so. “go uncle, go”, they ordered me. I complied.

It was a short distance of less than five meters but it was the longest trajectory that I had ever made. I was sure they wanted me to go there aim at me and shoot. And no one would care, no one would object. I was thinking this was a bad omen to die in this place. It was a sign that my deeds in life were bad, that Allah was not happy with me and with my actions, that my parents were not happy with me before they departed, and I was thinking about who would come to collect my body from this place, that in a few minutes warms and flies would be feasting on my blood and remains, that I would not receive a proper burial like any decent Muslim would wish to. 

I was thinking nobody would know my identity and that- like thousands of bodies which got rotten in morgues and hospitals in different part of Khartoum- I would end up being buried in a mass grave.  That was not a mere worry. It was a living reality in my area and in Khartoum in general.

In fact, the Resistance Committees in Khartoum complained in statement, July 2025, that ‘’hundreds of bodies have been left to rot inside houses, whereas hundreds and hundreds of dead bodies were buried inside squares of living areas because people could not take the dead to the burial ground (least be shot and killed themselves)’’. 

So, my fear was justified. But I kept on walking. The armed men observing and giving instructions, said nothing. I kept on trekking. The distance was not more than five meters, but to me it sounded like eternity. I did not hear stop until I was in the middle of the heap of dirt, near the smoke emitting inflaming garbage center. 

I was praying and I was thankful. Even at this dire moment I could see a situation was better than another: the did not order me to take off my shoes.!!!!

‘’Stop there.’’ Was the order I heard. At that point, I was expecting a shot, a bullet, where? May be in my head, or the chest, most probably in the head because a few days before I saw a man short in the market place, in the head. The head content, gray mixed with red blood and dust, scattered all over the place, like a fresh water melon tossed into pieces as it lands from speeding lorry. 

‘’Not a single movement. Stand there….’’ I expected the worse to come. Then this was followed by ‘’We will come back to you’’ they threatened.

I stood there, for how long I couldn’t tell, I couldn’t know, two hour or three hours am not sure. But it was eternity. No body came near me and I was not sure the car had moved or not.

It was humiliating and degrading to a level one would not imagine. They wanted to humiliate me in the dirtiest of ways. I came to a conclusion they did not want to shoot and kill me, but they wanted to revenge, to humiliate me in a way that no one had undergone. 

I was aware their intelligence knew about everybody that remained behind and did not move out of the region, the RSF had ‘advisors’ and; consultants’ in every quarter, especially reporting about what they considered the VIP, the functionaries, the former and present employees and above all the military and regular forces all over the area under their control; I escaped death but I was soaked in humiliation, I couldn’t  say more. 

The more I stood there, the more my legs felt tired, my back aching and my lungs found it difficult to breeze, my eyes were now watering, not tears, but water that washed the cloud of smock and the heat that poured from every direction. People were no longer coming near that spot. Was it they saw when I was being interrogated, a process that did not last more than quarter of an hour? Was the car still around? I did not hear whether the car had moved or not, I was thinking as long as no people crossed near or behind me, then danger was imminent.

I could not hear the Friday prayers: there was no electricity and there were no loudspeakers. I was physically and psychologically isolated, socially aloof. 

Then I heard somebody saying ‘now you can go, uncle journalist’.  As simple as that. The armed reappeared from nowhere, or were they there all this time monitoring me, I could not tell.

It was here that I knew Friday prayers were over and that the car and its leaders were gone. I was denied my Friday prayers.  

That was the movement I pulled my shoes out of dirt; I was still holding to my bag. My whole body was soaked in sweat and in dirt. I did not feel human at all. But with the instinct of homo-erectus, walk-run out of the place. I just moved out of the area, walk-running, focusing in front of me and wishing I could fly to reach my house. 

I avoided the main street and took small allies. As the small streets outside the market place were deserted and people kept to their homes, I did not meet people in the street, until I reached the main road from which I would cross to my house. 

That was where I felt something like a lump, something solid, building up in my throat and refusing to go down, I was feeling a breeze hitting my face and my body, I did not stop, I crossed the road and in about two miles I reached my house, opened the door and entered, it was there that my stomach emptied itself. I thought I was vomiting my whole intestine, my repugnance and my frustration. 

What was more painful for me was that I had to use the scanty amount of water- two jerry canes- to wash myself and my cloth. 

We did not have running water and we had to go fetch water, about three blocks away from my house, each three days, spending hours in long queues under the threat and fear of getting into trouble if the RSF armed men thought the gathering was a source of insecurity. 

We used to pay 1500 to 2000 pounds for each inhabited house to buy gasoline from the very RSF people, for the water pumping generator. They did not pay but they came and had the priority in collecting water. No body protested. No body could.

But still I felt I was lucky, I was still alive whereas scores of my colleagues were killed in cold blood, some maimed, some injured and some detained for months and months. 

Volker Türk, United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, has pointed out in October a year later 2024, on the occasion of the World Press Freedom Day, ‘’journalists are the eyes and ears of a world on fire, and the voice of victims in crisis. They shine a light into the darkest corners of our societies; bearing witness to wars, oppression, corruption and disaster; and holding up mirrors that reveal the very best, and worst, of humanity.’’ I found myself being the victim, under fear and threat and isolation.

Türk has rightly stated that journalists are being killed, harassed, intimidated, imprisoned or silenced – from Gaza and Ukraine to Sudan, Myanmar and beyond.

‘’In 2023, 71 journalists and media workers were killed, and over 300 imprisoned. Women journalists are often specifically targeted for online harassment that can escalate into physical violence.’’ He said.

A year later, an additional 61 journalists have lost their lives in the line of duty – very often while reporting on conflict, on climate change, or on other crises.

The Committee for Protection of Journalists (CPJ) has lamented that the global upswing in killings was largely driven by the Israel-Gaza war, which accounted for 85 journalist deaths, all at the hands of the Israeli military. Most of those killed, 82, were Palestinians. Sudan and Pakistan had the second-highest number of journalists and media workers killed in 2024, with six each. 

In Sudan, a devastating civil war has left thousands dead and millions displaced. While Pakistan had recorded no journalist fatalities since 2021, roiling political unrest in the country spurred a spike in killings

And I was aware that if anything happened to me, it would go unpunished. Who would care about a reporter for a Pan-African news Agency (PANA) killed in Sudan? When around the world ‘’more than eight out of every ten killings of journalists go scot-free,’’ according to Türk.

In Sudan in particular, the Sudanese Media Forum, in May 2025, said it ‘’looks on with sorrow and deep concern at the grim reality’’ faced by journalists and media workers in Sudan, particularly since the outbreak of war on April 15, 2023.

‘’The media landscape in Sudan has turned into a battleground of grave dangers, where journalists and media workers face existential threats and systematic violence from conflicting parties. 

It lamented that many journalists have been arbitrarily detained by warring parties and held in inhumane conditions, some subjected to torture and ill-treatment, and others remain unaccounted for after being forcibly disappeared. 

Two weeks after the outbreak of the war, an Indian CNN new channel contacted me for an interview. I agreed for the interview as I was aware at the time that the warring parties were focused on the battle field, the media was not yet a priority.  Alas, that ideal situation did not last long.   

Three of my immediate colleagues at the Sudan News Agency (SUNA),  Ismail Al Hakeem,  Mohamed  Abdul Rahim and Abdul Rahaman Al Amin, were arrested, one a junior journalist with the Sudan news agency was detained for three months the other was detained for almost two years, the third for over two months. They were lucky, they were subjected to untold torture and mistreatment. But not killed.

In my home area, when internet was severed, the RSF installed Starlink units where one would be able to enter the network upon paying a fee. But then it was a way of monitoring the  activities and contacts of the families and individuals who remained behind.

It was there that I was once stripped off cell phones and cash money that I had on me, and I was asked to hand them right away, ’without protesting or frowning’’. I was told it was mere checking and just for formalities. 

The mobile, along with a few thousand pounds, 50USD, that I had, never returned to me. It seemed they noted a high traffic coming out of this number. That was the last time I had contacted my family, towards the end of 2023. 

I had to cease filing stories for the Pan-African News Agency (PANA) and declined any contact with outside and even local media in the Sudan. I burned down all press ID, deleted all stories and background information and data, used print and clipping as fire wood, to prepare my tea and food. Afterall cooking gas was nowhere to be found and trees, even those grown in front of houses, were cut, and even the roots were dug and used as fuel.  These papers were incriminating elements, that lead journalists to the firing squad, especially on the side of the RSF.

So, when the militia came to my house, in search of any activities, clandestine activities, they were surprised to find nothing at all, save collection of books, thrown on the floor, on the bed and at the windows. 

This was the time journalists had to exercise the worst of all censorship: self-censorship. And they have to disavow their profession. That was exactly what I did.  I have to protect my family, relatives and friends anywhere in the Sudan, specially in areas under RSF control. And at that time in 2023-2024, no place was immune, as incursion and counter incursion in towns and villages was the norm of the day.

‘’Journalists who attempt to cover events objectively face constant threats of death, arrest or harm to themselves and their families, forcing many to stop working or practice harsh self-censorship.’’ The Sudanese journalists syndicate, a pro-opposition to the government in Port Sudan said in a statement on the occasion of the World Press Freedom Day 2025.

Severe restrictions have been imposed on media coverage, information has been deliberately withheld, many media institutions have been closed or destroyed, and an atmosphere of fear and repression has prevailed, preventing the press from fulfilling its role in conveying the truth, exposing violations, and informing the public. 

As a result of this deteriorating and hostile climate towards press freedom, the global press freedom index has placed Sudan in 156th place out of 180 countries, a decline of seven positions from last year's index. 

The Sudanese Media Forum, on the occasion of World Press Freedom Day, strongly condemns all violations faced by journalists and media personnel in Sudan, including killings, arrests, threats, and intimidation, as thirty-one journalists have been killed, eight of them while performing their duties. 

It pointed out that additionally, 67 journalists have faced assaults, 33 of whom were shot. Moreover, 69 have been arrested while working or crossing checkpoints to fighters, and some were taken from their homes. 

With more and more stories reaching me that journalists were being targeted and while I kept on receiving indirect threats , the like of:‘’we still have to clean some pockets in this quarter’’ as I was once told by RSF informant- advisor, then I started preparing my exit to government held areas in the east and the far north, of the Sudan. The situation grew dimmer, and I could not go to the market except in the very early hours of the day, to collect the essential necessities.

I had to join 1,000 journalists and media people who fled the national capital and other regions areas within the country, while 500 of them have fled across the borders seeking asylum, the Sudanese Media Forum said. 

It argued that the international community, including the United Nations, the African Union, and international human rights organizations, are urged to intensify pressure on the parties to the conflict to stop the violations and to conduct independent investigations to hold accountable those responsible for crimes committed against journalists, as no investigation has been conducted so far into the killing of any journalists. 

My back is open then for any unprotected attack.

Over the past two years, the Sudanese Journalists Syndicate said it has documented the ‘’killings of thirty-one journalists and media personnel due to assassinations and direct shelling. At least 239 journalists have also been arrested and detained, while dozens of others have faced beatings, abuse, harassment, and threats, bringing the total number of documented violations against journalists since the outbreak of war to 556 cases.’’

It added that moreover, the war in the Sudan, has caused the collapse of the journalistic work environment, leaving more than 1,000 journalists without job opportunities. Most of them are from official media institutions, receiving only a third of their salaries or being retired without settlement.

The tragedy intensifies for those colleagues in exile, as more than 500 journalists have sought refuge outside the country, facing legal restrictions and various pressures. However, many of them continue to speak out the truth and denude violations against civilians in Sudan, despite the lack of sufficient international coverage.

‘’In conclusion, we affirm that hope endures as long as the word is alive.’’, the Sudanese Journalists Syndicate.

However, as put by Secretary General of the Sudanese Journalists Syndicate, Mohamed Abdul Aziz, those journalists who remain in the country, write in the open—unprotected, without contracts, and sometimes without witnesses, vulnerable to all hazards and harassment. 

With 90% of the Sudanese media outlets falling silent, not because they chose to remain silent, but because they were bombed, shut down, or stifled by censorship, it becomes clear that the war has not only destroyed homes and schools; its flames have also reached the heart of truth.

‘’Sudan needs all its journalists…and journalists need the world to stand with them, not turn a blind eye.’’ Abdel Aziz, the Secretary General of the    Sudanese Journalists Syndicate, once wrote on the occasion of the World Press Freedom Day.

That dim atmosphere compelled me to sneak out of Khartoum, to look for a place where, albeit the lack of full freedom, I would still be able to survive and to hope for a better future where I would be able to resume my work as a journalist, for as the saying goes ‘A dead journalist is a bad journalist". 

It was evident for me that without a journalist being on the ground to report development, smell and see, and hear the complaining and suffering of ordinary people, reporting from far away is tasteless and blind.

In fact, my situation or that of the Sudanese journalists, were not unique, according to the UNESCO, 2025, Every four days, a journalist is killed due to their reporting, and 85% of these deaths go unpunished, Beryn Orera, journalist and content writer at Black Ballad, wrote in June 10, 2025. 

In fact, the Committee to Protect Journalist (CPJ) reported in January 2025, that the number of conflicts globally – whether political, criminal, or military in nature – has doubled in the past five years, and this is reflected in the high number of deaths of journalists in nations such as Sudan, Pakistan, and Myanmar. But, it added, that the toll of conflict on the press is most glaring in the unprecedented number of journalists and media workers killed in the Israel-Gaza war, 85 in 2024, and 78 in 2023. 

‘’The global total of 124 deaths exceeds the record high of 113 killed in 2007, when the Iraq war accounted for almost half of journalist casualties. Outside of Gaza (82) and Lebanon (3), the committee documented the killing of 39 other journalists and media workers in 16 nations, with the deadliest being Sudan (6), Pakistan (6), Mexico (5), Syria (4), Myanmar (3), Iraq (3), and Haiti (2) during 2024.

In fact, the name of the Sudan has been cited in almost every list or report about how journalists are being mistreated or killed, drawing a picture of hopelessness.

But I wasn’t giving up hope. For once a group of people around me in the area, those frequenting the mosque and the colleagues of my son and prominent among them a friend who formerly used to be employed by the Qatari embassy in Khartoum, Subuhi Abdul Momen, worked out a plan to get me out of the area and of East Nile locality, sometimes at their peril. 

The plan was that I should never shave or trim my beard, dress in shabby traditional cloth, hold sophist necklace of beads and cover my heads with a head scarf. My shoes should be that of a dervish. And I should act, walk, talk and eat normally. Should show no fear or apprehension. Three months later, I grew a bushy beard, overused my cloth, though clean but clearly overworn, and my second-hand sandal was dilapidated. 

That was how my friends put me in a midsize mini bus, paid whooping sum of about 300 dollars, to somebody in the bus commuter mini-buses terminus in Wehda market place. The place was swarming with RSF armed men and their intelligence. I was served a plastic bag packed with several X-ray and brain ultrasound scanning, cartoon along with my own ultrasound results of a prostate scanning.

The day I was leaving Khartoum, mid July 2024, I did not tell my prayer goers in the morning. We usually chatted after prayer and exchange information. I did not mention my leaving that very day. A rickshaw driver came to pick me and drove me directly to the mid of the marketplace. It was a daring drive. When they see somebody acting that way, they usually took him for a VIP, somebody with close relations with the quarter’s consultant.

The trip from Khartoum to Atbara which in normal circumstances takes between 2 to 3 hours, took me two days, 48 hours, day and night to reach the town: no shower, one meal during two days, no laying down for a sleep: sleeping in a sitting position. The minibus did not head to Atbara in northern Sudan, but headed eastwards where few RSF checkpoints were erected and where, the driver told me later, RSF people accepted money to let go. 

It was a tedious journey. In the first day in particular, out of Khartoum alone we had to spend about six to seven hours, trekking our way. Each 500 meters there was a check point: paying fees and selecting few individuals, sometimes all passengers, who were mostly women and children, beside five men, all in all 25 people, to come down. All were subjected to body and sometimes to luggage double check. 

From each check point, an RSF element would climb the mini bus with us, and accompany us to the next stop-checkpoint, where the same ordeal was repeated: check your luggage, produce an ID, pay money and keep quiet, no comment and no unwanted reaction. 

Sometimes they would collect all the bread and food the passengers had, sometimes they took water jerry canes and bottles, but at all times they made sure that the sums required for buying ‘’weeds’’ was secured. And we kept on paying until we had nothing. Then at that time, the driver was made to pay. This payment stopped only when we entered Shendi, northern Sudan, after two days of torture and pain, and suspense. We passed through dozens and dozens of deserted villages. However in those deserted areas, out of nowhere, a group of armed men would pop out and hands-up the driver, checked the few luggage with the women, asked about ethnicity, and issue threats ‘’wherever you go we will reach you.!!’’

But we finally made it to safety. We were lucky. A mini bus just few hours behind us, was looted, because the driver and the passengers were reluctant to pay, some body said they showed discontent. That was a serious mistake they made. The militias took everything they possessed ‘’including paper napkins’’ as one lady told me when we were still standing at Shendi check point. 

Men were beaten up to their satisfaction. From Shendi I crossed to Atbara and from Atbara I was able to travel to Kassala, where I was able to meet my family for the first time in over a year and three months, that I spent behind the militia lines.

At each stop the approach was humiliating and teasing: they would use the nose of the weapons they carry to check luggage or to push you a side. It was only natural  that if you don’t take a path for a week, and you wore the same clothes during all this time, and you smoke Hashish and, live under a tree for days and days, or at least for hour, the smell not at all doubt remain unforgettable if you come closer to people inside a close mini-bus, or if you bend on somebody to check.

It was a relief for me: the smell reminded me of the place where I was made to stand one Friday in Khartoum. Until freedom is in place and a civilian government that respects human right and freedom of expression where I could write about these ordeals, is restored, that would be my recompense, relief. God has afflicted them with that awful smell: ‘’As man sows, shall he reap.’’ 

-0-PANA MO/RA 8July2025