The White Nile Bridge crosses the river from Omdurman to Khartoum, Sudan, April 7, 2013. White Nile Bridge by David Stanley on Flickr, (CC BY 2.0). This piece was first published by Raseef22, on May 24, 2023, and was written by Mohammad Najeddine. An edited version is republished here, under a content-sharing agreement. I never imagined that I would long for Khartoum one day, despite being the one who had incessantly complained about feeling trapped between its two Niles, unable to break free. The city's towering walls are tightly constructed, almost suggesting that journalism and politics are “centralized crafts” tailored solely for the city, while the surrounding regions were mere recipients without the power to influence or make an impact. Despite my occasional travels to the surrounding regions for social and work-related reasons, it was only a few weeks ago that I embarked on my first journey as a displaced person. Fleeing with my family, carrying small-sized bags and personal belongings, I left behind my house and a depleted old car, along with some meagre household items, all of which have been left to the chaos of senseless wars and thousands of escaped prison inmates. My relentless efforts failed in convincing my family to leave me behind, to continue my trouble-seeking profession and my duty to guard the house. Every conversation ended with a phrase reminiscent of military leaders in Hollywood war movies: “We will depart together, leaving no one behind.” As the echos of gunfire and artillery drew nearer to our home near the Halfaya Bridge that connects Khartoum and Omdurman, a prime target for the warring factions, the final decision was made: “We will all leave.” We were fully aware that the road is fraught with dangers, requiring us to traverse the blazing Khartoum from its northernmost point to its southern end before reaching the state of Gezira. Khartoum. Screenshot from ‘Sudan's conflict, explained’ by Vox, May 23, 2023. Fair use. We distributed canned food and leftover vegetables from our home to a few neighbors who chose to stay behind, despite a significant decline in food supplies and the severed access to drinking water. We asked them to keep an eye on our house as much as they could. My wife recited verses from the Qura’an, seeking protection and hoping it would still stand tall when we return. Amidst the chaos and the frantic rush, alongside hundreds of others seeking to flee, we managed to secure three seats on a passenger bus bound for Madani, the capital of Gezira State. Our foremost challenge at that moment was to pay the cost of the journey. The banking system had stopped, rendering it impossible to access the modest savings that remained from my March salary, which had evaporated between Ramadan and Eid al-Fitr. Following a prolonged discussion, my wife reluctantly sold our wedding ring, rejecting the notion of selling my phone or laptop, both of which were indispensable for my work and communication with the outside world. The ticket price for the journey to Madani skyrocketed to SDG 30,000 (50 USD) a significant increase from the previous cost of SDG 3,000 to 4,000 (5 to 6.6 USD) until 14 April. The vehicle owners justified the price hike by citing fuel scarcity and unsafe roads. However, all the passengers knew that this was the “business of crises.” The exchange rate for the 1 dollar reached SDG 600 in official bank transactions on Thursday, April 13, only 48 hours before the outbreak of the war. The bus, alongside dozens of public and private vehicles, maneuvered through the asphalt side roads within the city of Bahri. The streets were littered with burnt cars and bloated corpses. Hemedeti‘s soldiers could be seen wandering on foot or riding in armored vehicles. As we traveled, we observed the desolate streets of Al-Halfaia and Shambat, devoid of any signs of life, except for a few passersby. Fear was palpable on their faces as they focused on securing water for their families because the damage had affected water and electricity networks. The most harrowing sight I witnessed, even darker than the war itself, was when we traversed the industrial area that housed prominent local factories and branches of commercial banks. Widespread looting and extensive destruction had ravaged the area, leaving behind a landscape of utter chaos and despair. As the fires continued to rage, we witnessed cars, motorcycles, carts, and people — men, women, and children — scrambling to carry whatever they could. Belongings, furniture, cooking gas cylinders, and even empty barrels were hoarded in the absence of any government presence and amidst an unprecedented state of chaos. It is undeniable that Sudan has endured a significant depletion of food and medicine supplies.