SUDAN: Between the Mines and the Music

Nadra AlMadhi traveled to displacement camps, met a president in Juba, and watched peace turn into dancing in a courtyard. Now she writes from exile, still fighting for it.

"Peace wasn't just a ceasefire. It was a girl being able to return home without her body being used as a battlefield."

There is currently a bill in Congress to create a cabinet-level Department of Peacebuilding (DoP/ HR 1111) to make nonviolence and building peace a priority in our public policy and decision-making.

I watched this debate from afar, from an exile that resembled a bridge between two worlds. I wondered: Can peace become an official institution governed by a budget and laws?

In Sudan, peace was never an institution, but a fragile dream reflected in the faces of women returning from collecting firewood and in the eyes of children inside displacement camps. From the war in the south to Darfur to the latest conflict that shattered Khartoum, we have known conflict more than stability.

All these wars left behind people clinging to life like straws in a turbulent sea. I heard their voices and recorded their pain until an overwhelming desire overcame me: to write their stories not as victims, but as beacons of possible peace. Hence, my initiative, Noura, was born to combat violence against women. It's a small attempt to restore meaning to a big word — "peace."

When I was a budding journalist interning at a newspaper in Khartoum, I heard that the war in Darfur between armed movements and the government was being waged against women's bodies — that assaults on women were being used as a weapon to humiliate communities. I silently wondered: Could this be true? Could women's bodies be turned into battlefields?

Unable to accept rumors or reports from international organizations, I decided to travel to the displacement camps. I entered hidden among the displaced, carrying a pen, paper, and a camera hidden in a backpack.

There, I saw what changed my life forever.

I saw a number of women and young girls who had gathered ropes and knives, tied clothes around their midriffs, and sat in a small circle on the dry, dusty ground. The sun beat down harshly on their faces, and the air was dry, as if conspiring with oppression. They raised their hands to the sky in desperate devotion, tears falling silently, leaving thin furrows on faces worn by time.

I moved closer, my heart pounding. One of them asked in a low voice, "What are you doing? And why are you crying like this?"

A 23-year-old woman raised her head, her eyes sunken as if carrying the weight of the earth. She said, "We're getting ready to leave. We're going to collect firewood to cook for our children. But we know the road could bring us death — or something else."

I hesitated before saying, "But... wouldn't it be better if the men went?"

She answered quickly and firmly: "If they had left, they would have been slaughtered right in front of us."

At that moment, I realized that peace wasn't just a ceasefire. It was a girl being able to return home without her body being used as a battlefield, or losing her husband or father.

Years later, I found myself in Blue Nile State, traveling with a journalistic delegation to report on the stories of those affected by the conflict. The vehicle swerved violently. I shouted at the driver, "You're killing us!" His increasingly agitated response was: "Shut up! If we don't hurry, we'll really die. This area is littered with mines, and this narrow road lined with blue stones is the only one that's been cleared."

After much effort, a ceasefire allowed children to return to school, farmers to their land, and markets to reopen. It was a living lesson: peace is a necessity.

Years later, in 2020, a peace agreement was signed between the Hamdok government and Malik Agar's armed movement, bringing peace to the Blue Nile region. This fulfilled Christine Carlson's saying: "When you are in touch with your heart, you feel connected to others and access your inner wisdom."

Then, years later, I woke up to the sound of a hand drum, songs, chants, and the stamping of feet inside my house. I ran out with my entire family — still in our pajamas — to the courtyard. There I found Teresa, our southern nanny, who had brought her entire family: her children and grandchildren, dancing to tambourines and southern rhythms.

That was the day the peace agreement between North and South was signed after 21 years of war by John Garang.

That day, we all danced — neighbors and all — hugged, distributed sweets and drinks, and cried with joy. It was a day that brought an end to long-standing misery between North and South Sudan.

John Garang's words came true: "Peace is not just a signature on paper. It is a life given to people."

In Juba, the capital of South Sudan, the scene was different. Guards surrounded us and asked our press delegation — accompanying the Sudanese Foreign Minister — to wait until President Salva Kiir Mayardit arrived.

I was extremely nervous. It was my first time meeting the southern president ahead of the historic referendum, following the Comprehensive Peace Agreement that ended twenty-one years of war.

We were asked to leave our bags and shoes behind and turn off our phones. When my turn came and I shook his hand, I surprised him with the question: "Are you really going to secede? And what will happen to the peace agreement? And if you cannot stand alone, will you return to Sudan?"

There was a brief silence. Then the president shook my hand and said seriously: "Yes, we will separate. The referendum will decide that. But we may return one day. We are now working to implement the peace agreement, so that our people may reap its fruits in development."

I left the meeting recalling the Quranic verse spoken by God to the angels: "Will You place therein those who will cause corruption and shed blood, while we glorify You with praise and sanctify You?" He said, "Indeed, I know that which you do not know."

And I remembered Nelson Mandela's words: "The brave are not afraid to forgive for the sake of peace."

These words were no longer just words — they were lived experiences. I saw how peace could turn into dancing in a courtyard, into a narrow blue line between mines, and into a bold question for the president of a new country searching for its identity.

And today, years later, the current war has torn Sudan apart once again. I found myself in exile, far from my homeland, trying to restore meaning to life. Through individual effort, I founded the Noura Initiative to combat violence against women. It is not a massive initiative, nor is it supported by major countries — but it is a cry in the face of devastation.

Today, after the current war has placed my entire country in exile, I write these lines from afar. Nevertheless, I believe that words and individual effort can be the seed of peace.

Peace, for me today, is when a displaced woman laughs as she distributes bread to her children. When a child sleeps without being awakened by the sound of bullets. When a road is cleared of mines. When a girl in Darfur is not forced to choose between her own death and the survival of the men in her family.

I appeal to the leaders of the world — not only as a witness, but as an actor in the cause of peace. Do not leave us captive to texts written on paper that die in reality. Peace needs to be built as a living institution, with ministries and policies that protect civilians the way armies protect their borders. Peace is a right: bread on the table, a roof over your head, and justice that cannot be bought or sold.

If you do not make peace your top priority, history will record that you were witnesses to massacres, not makers of life.

Today, as I write from exile, I do not ask for sympathy. I ask for responsibility.

The war in Sudan cannot end with temporary truces or fragile agreements. We need a comprehensive political settlement that protects civilians, includes women and civil society in decision-making, and ensures accountability and justice.

Peace will not come through statements alone. It requires real pressure to stop the fighting, open humanitarian corridors, and prioritize civilian lives.

Do not let Sudan become a proxy battlefield. Peace is not optional — it is an ethical and humanitarian necessity.

We Sudanese are ready to build it, if the world is ready to stand with us.

STORY AWARDS

This story was published as part of World Pulse's Peace Is... campaign, in partnership with the Women's Peace and Humanitarian Fund (WPHF), amplifying the voices of women on the frontlines of crisis and conflict, sharing what peace means to them.