![]() I had gone to Khartoum on a short work visit a week before and witnessed the war break out. I told stories of rape and starvation and Tibyan, a mother of five, was more receptive to them than the others. Having previously worked in post-war Darfur for the United Nations between 20, I knew what came after the hostilities. We lobbied arduously, never shying from weaponising sensationalist war rhetoric to get the job done. Throughout all the intense meditation, matched by the outside sounds of fighting, my sister-in-law Tibyan, who lived in the same compound above my parents, was my biggest ally. The youngest, my nephew Yassin, was not even two. It was April 22, day eight of the fighting and already getting too late to leave. My parents, elderly and set in their ways, had pledged to die where they stood before being subjected to the adversity of displacement. ![]() ![]() Since the outbreak of violence in Khartoum on April 15, I had been advocating for our departure to no avail. I scrambled up the stairs for the 12th time that day. ![]()
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