Story teller Badge.table girl

The Beginning… When I Learned How My Heart Said No

I wasn't even five years old when I started hearing that inner voice that would stay with me for the rest of my life… a faint but constant voice telling me:

"Refuse… this isn't for you."

I didn't understand the meaning of refusal then. I was a little girl with short braids, taking my first steps into the grown-up world. My mother insisted I start school early, so I became the youngest student in the class, smaller even than the desk and chair.

I remember vividly the moment every morning when the teacher would lift me up in her arms, place me on top of the desk—on top of it—so I could see the blackboard. The sight made the girls laugh.

They laughed… at my size, at my shyness, at the fact that I needed someone to lift me up to see the lesson.

For the first time, I felt pain.

This entity that had conquered me then.

I didn't know how to deal with it.

But I possessed one thing that wasn't visible to them:

That inner voice.

The voice that told me:

"Don't look at them… look at the letters." "Don't worry about laughter… worry about wisdom."

"Don't chase after toys… focus, this is your lesson."

I sat on the table like a small tablet, but my heart was bigger than my size. I memorized the entire lesson—Arabic, religion, math—and replayed it in my mind as if I were older than my years.

Play called to me… but curiosity was stronger.

The outside world was vast… but the blackboard was my world.

I was five years old… but my spirit wasn't.

The moment of the oral exam

At the end of the year, we all lined up for the oral exam. We hadn't learned to write yet… words were our only weapon.

I stood among the girls, barely shoulder-length, but something inside me felt confident.

I wasn't afraid… I was ready.

When they called my name, I stepped forward with a small, confident step.

I stood like them and listened to the religious chants, and I even memorized the basic addition and subtraction calculations. I came in third in my class. The teachers were astonished. The students' attitude towards me changed. They called me "Nadra the Clever One." I received a scholarship from the school to attend all summer classes up to the sixth grade for free. It was the first scholarship I ever received. Their laughter and mockery were my motivation to progress. I built a ladder of success from their stones. I refused to be defeated or to feel ashamed of my young age and my attempts to learn. I could have refused school and education altogether, but I pursued learning with passion and determination, developing my spirit to help me with the heart of a child and the mind of a grown woman. I realized that the pain they inflicted upon me made me stronger, and that their winks and bullying were a driving force for my success. They lined up around me, clapping, at the school celebration. They began to approach me, wanting to become my friends, so I could help them memorize, and tell them how to read and succeed.

The law was kind to me, taking into account my years of study. When I was in first grade, I was the youngest student in my class.

This progress allowed me to continue on this path all the way to university. Why do I remember all of this today?

Because as I grew older, I realized that the inner voice of refusal—born the day my teacher lifted me onto the table—was the same voice that later drove me to reject injustice, to raise women's voices, to write about war, and to defend myself and them.

That voice… was the first lesson I learned:

That refusal is not stubbornness… but self-preservation.

And that silence is not weakness… but the beginning of truthful speech.

And since that day… I haven't stopped listening to it.

And that scholarship I received wasn't a small one… but it was the seed that would later blossom into scholarships, fellowships, and opportunities from international institutions and organizations in women's rights, the environment, human rights, and peacebuilding.

I realized that their laughter wasn't an obstacle… but rather a ladder to my ascent. I gathered the stones of bullying one by one… and built a staircase to climb.

They could have broken me and killed my spirited soul.

I could have withdrawn.

Refused to go to school.

Let shame consume me.

But I chose to learn with passion.

I chose to push myself forward with the heart of a child… and the mind of a woman beyond her years.

I chose to transform pain into strength, and my limited vision into insight.

The Era of Al-Bashir… And a Test Greater Than My Age

I grew up during the rule of Al-Bashir and the National Islamic Front.

A time when success was a privilege for those who endorsed the regime…

And downfall was the fate of those who refused.

My father refused to compromise.

He refused to sell his principles, his faith, and his dignity for a job or the government's favor.

And he paid the price.

He was fired from his job… and the obstacles kept piling up before us..

Then, after my father was dismissed, we lost our chance at life. We couldn't go to university, we couldn't work, and we couldn't get training opportunities. They put us on a blacklist of opponents.

But I did not give up, I declared my battle and began studying.

When the time for the final exams came, they told me:

– “Why are you staying up so late? You won’t even get into university.”

– “Why are you putting in the effort? They’ll pass you over even if you pass.”

– “You’re on a blacklist… forget it.”

Their words were an attempt to kill me… but my heart responded

“Giving up isn’t in my nature.”

Eighteen hours… and the battle of the girl who suddenly grew up.

I prepared the room like a trench.

I put down the prayer mat, the books, the coffee, the sandwiches, the cushions… and closed the door.

I studied for 18 hours a day.

Quiet… exhaustion… tears… prayers… and a determination unlike any other girl my age.

Each exam had its ritual:

I would knock on my father’s door… and ask him to pray for me.

I felt that his prayers were my shield… and my own hard work my weapon.

Khartoum Gate… and the Triumph of a Girl Who Refused to Break

Then came the day I had long awaited.

Despite the hardships, the discrimination, and the system, I succeeded in gaining admission to the largest university in Sudan: the University of Khartoum.

The university about which it is said:

"Only the brightest can enter."

And those who do enter have their names broadcast on national radio. It is the university of those who can lead the country in the future, and all those who have held high positions in the government were its graduates.

At that time, however, society viewed education as secondary for girls;

In the eyes of many, a girl's destiny was marriage, not lectures or halls of learning.

On top of that, there was a totalitarian government that stifled every opportunity, especially for the children of opposition families.

But I broke through two walls in one day: the wall of society… and the wall of the authorities.

The Day That Became a Celebration in the Neighborhood

One afternoon, one of my mother's friends came running, tripping over her dress, and said to my mother, "Turn on the radio! They announced your son and daughter, and they'll mention the names again!" I couldn't believe it. We rushed to the radio and turned it on. We waited for the names, and then the house filled with well-wishers. My name was announced. My name... and my older brother's name...

Both of us were among those accepted to the University of Khartoum.

That day turned into a celebration in the neighborhood.

The women came bearing roses.

The men brought juices and sweets.

They were smiling, offering their blessings, and ululating with joy.

I had become the first girl from the neighborhood to enter the University of Khartoum.

The first girl to break through the barrier and open the door for many girls who would come after her.

And my name was no longer just "Nadra"... They started saying it with pride:

"Nadra the clever one... got into the University of Khartoum!"

That day taught me that victories aren't made by circumstances…

They are made by an unyielding will.

It taught me that my refusal to be bullied, my rights and dignity violated, and my belief in my right as a human being with the freedom to choose, were the source of my strength, and that their oppression was the reason for my rise. Their placing obstacles in my path was my launching pad to wider horizons, where my spirit ignites and creates change.

In conclusion… oppression didn't break me, it forged me.

Today, as I look back on the long road I've traveled, I understand that every mocking laugh, every closed door, every trial I endured… was building within me a voice stronger than injustice.

That voice is what carried me, years later… to receive the “Storyteller” award from World Pulse.

An award that made my name resonate globally and opened doors I never imagined.

And when I won it, the Sudanese Journalists Syndicate dedicated an entire Facebook page to celebrate me. They wrote about my journey… about my stories… about my advocacy for women.

My page was filled with congratulations from colleagues, friends, and people who suddenly remembered that old name that had been with me since first grade:

“Nadra the Clever.”

But despite the awards, the novels, the travels, the grants, the fellowships, and the acclaim, I still know one unchanging truth:

I am that little girl who was placed on the table to see the blackboard… and rose above the whole world.

A girl who possessed nothing but a small heart that said, “No”… and a voice within it that said:

“If they oppress you… rise up. If they mock you… learn. If they close doors… create a new door yourself.”

They oppressed me… yes.

But their oppression was the spark of my story, and my determination was its fuel. My story was the story of a girl who refused to be broken, and who forged glory from pain.

The Story of the Girl at the Table