The return of the seagulls

In their small eyes, I find my refuge, and in their hands, I find solace. These little refugees… the very pulse of my life and the source of my strength in the bitter cold.

The phone rang one freezing evening in exile. On the other end, a trembling voice:

“Why are you so late this year? You haven’t distributed the blankets or winter clothes!”

The question was painful, direct, and it awakened every sense of responsibility.

This winter, we were late because our efforts were individual and self-funded, and most of our supporters had left exile for other countries, leaving thousands of Sudanese refugees to face the harsh cold alone.

The reality was shocking: refugees sleeping on the ground on worn-out cardboard boxes, without mattresses or blankets, crammed into a single room. Little children shivered from the cold; their small bodies couldn't withstand the biting wind, and their eyes searched for warmth they could only find in a simple touch of tenderness. Every home told a story of suffering, and every missing blanket meant a night longer than the pain and silence. Faced with this reality, and that disturbing call, I decided at the Noura Initiative Against Violence not to expect ideal support. I coordinated with another initiative, and we began distributing blankets and winter clothing, trying to cover as many of the Sudanese refugees' needs as possible.

Every blanket we distributed was more than just cloth; it was temporary warmth, an acknowledgment of a humanity that has been exhausted, and a message saying: We see you, we haven't ignored you, and we haven't turned our backs on you.

Every night, with every distribution, we planted seeds of hope, softened the long silence, and proved that humanity doesn't freeze in winter, that the refugee's voice is sacred, and responding to it is an absolute duty.