When the earth whispers with women's voices

Part 2

They buried three cows this month,” said Ebrheit, pointing into the distance.

Her voice was calm… but the grief inside it was heavier than the rain itself.

Here, livestock is not just animals, but food, income, and sometimes the only family capital.

When animals die, people lose not only food… they lose the ability to continue.

Children no longer find milk every morning, women share scarce food silently, so children do not feel the weight of the crisis.

And with food shortages, diseases began to appear slowly: anemia, weakness, malnutrition. Pale faces, exhausted bodies still working.

Even the houses became fragile. Mud walls cracked from constant moisture, and straw roofs leaked rain all night.

Women sometimes woke up to place containers inside rooms to collect water dripping from the ceiling, then went out in the morning to work as if nothing had happened.

There, I understood something painfully clear: climate change does not only destroy nature… it steals the sense of safety from everyday life itself

Kordofan… When the Earth Began to Lose Its Memory

The first phase of the project ended, and the second phase began toward North Kordofan.

This time, the journey was not to a land drowning in rain… but to a land slowly being swallowed by thirst.

We traveled to North Kordofan State, toward the city of Bara, about three hours from El Obeid, the state capital.

We coordinated with the Sahara and Sahel Organization and the International Fund for Agricultural Development (IFAD) to facilitate logistical and technical support.

We set off at 5 a.m. in buffalo vehicles that seemed to devour the land itself—jumping over sand, potholes, and unpaved roads as if challenging the harshness of the place.

The farther we moved away from El Obeid, the more the land changed before our eyes.

Fewer trees appeared, and yellow slowly swallowed green.

The long distances were silent, but not empty.

Within that silence, there was an ancient fear of drought.

Bara itself looked like a city standing in the middle of a long battle with the desert.

A simple, warm city where people know each other by names, dialects, and laughter.

Its people resemble the land: resilient in endurance, kind in interaction.

Men sit in front of small tea and coffee shops, and women move through markets wearing bright, colorful clothes, as if resisting the harshness of the climate through color itself

Dust was present in the air, but beneath it lay a stubborn scent of life that refused to fade.

On the outskirts of the city, sandy land stretched almost endlessly.

Wide plains, and valleys that once held water and agriculture, now turned into cracked surfaces waiting for rain that may never come.

As we arrived just before sunset at the village of Al-Ahymrat, the sun was fading into a sorrowful orange over the sand.

Children ran joyfully, and small houses made of straw and mud stood as if barely resisting time.

There we met Haja Al-Ni’ma, a traditional birth attendant from the village.

A woman in her sixties, with wheat-colored skin, a warm dialect, and deep facial lines known as shلوخ, as if time had written her story on her face.

She sat quietly and said in a broken voice:

“My name is Haja Al-Ni’ma… I never liked speaking much, but in times like this, silence is no longer enough.”

I am from Bara in Kordofan. I know this land as I know my own hand.

I have been delivering women for many years… I enter homes at night and leave them with a new life.

I saw children being born, mothers growing older, and homes built on joy.

But now… everything has changed.

Even the land itself has changed.

Drought came quietly, but it never left.

The valleys we used to farm became dry and cracked, as if they had lost their memory.

We used to wait for rain to plant, but rain has become very scarce… or it simply does not come.

With its absence, desertification began creeping across the land.

The once-green earth became hard—neither giving nor receiving.

Even livestock is no longer as it was.

Many cattle have died.

The ones remaining are weak, no longer producing milk as before.

And milk… was the life of households here.

Without it, everything changed.

Children weakened, food became scarce, and women now carry a heavier burden than they can bear.

Daily life has become harder.

Women walk long distances to fetch water, carrying containers on their heads for hours every day.

This exhaustion is no longer normal.

We began to see its effects on bodies, health, and even childbirth.

Even night vision has weakened for many women due to malnutrition and lack of food.

We thought things were improving… we farmed, we sold, we built better lives.

But drought took all of that from us.

Then came a more painful moment.

Some women tried to leave our village for other areas, searching for better land, water, and easier life.

But even leaving was not easy.

The cost of building a new straw hut had become very high.

Even the wooden poles we use to support houses became too expensive for us.

And we began to understand something painfully clear…

That climate change does not leave a clear path.

If we stay here… we die from drought. If we leave… we face poverty and hardship elsewhere.

Then Haja Al-Ni’ma raised her eyes toward the sandy horizon and said:

“Before, the desert was far away… now we feel it coming toward us step by step.”

With time, the people of Bara began to understand the scientific name for what they were living through: desertification.

But they did not need terminology to understand the catastrophe.

They saw it every day with their own eyes.

Green land moving away. Sand moving closer. Fields shrinking. Life becoming heavier season after season.

Even people changed.

Some migrated, others stayed to guard what remains of the land, as if staying itself had become a form of resistance