I Fled Sudan Like Millions of Women. Healing Is Still Possible.

It didn’t take long for the war to reach my home in Geneina, West Darfur, Sudan. By the end of Ramadan, the rattle of machine guns and the thud of explosions were already drawing closer.

For two months, my city became a battleground. More than 50 families sought refuge in our large house. Armed groups burst in three times, pointing guns and torturing us. Women and children were not spared. Kidnappings and rape were common.  

With water running out and the bombings intensifying, I made the agonizing decision to leave with my grandmother, my aunt, and her daughters. I was only one semester away from graduating from medical school. 

I grieved for my country and for my future. 

Over three years of conflict, tens of thousands have been killed and more than four million people have fled Sudan. They left behind a country where some 12 million people — a quarter of the population — face the risk of gender-based violence; where acute food insecurity affects 21 million; and where drone attacks on schools, hospitals, and markets are becoming increasingly common. 

For Sudanese refugees, the journey into exile is perilous. I traveled by car for hours through the desert. We were stopped at checkpoints; I was beaten. Men and boys were separated from our convoy. Those who didn’t answer questions or pay money were killed on the spot. If you had cash, you could save yourself. 

Most of my family have since escaped Sudan, but we have lost contact with my older brother who stayed behind. It has been almost a year since we last had news of him. We pray that he is alive. 

When I arrived in Aboutengue refugee camp, eastern Chad, I was stunned by its scale. A sprawling, overcrowded labyrinth of tents, with no lighting, it was, and still is, dangerous to walk at night. Since my arrival, its population has grown to around 46,000 people. 

Cuts to foreign aid have reduced the availability of food, and with more refugees arriving daily, tensions are rising. Budget cuts are also hurting child protection and education services, heightening the risk of exploitation, family separation, and child marriage. 

I have been lucky to find work that gives me a renewed sense of purpose. I’m now a supervisor in Plan International’s child protection team in Aboutengue. We move throughout the camp, encouraging children to attend temporary learning spaces we’ve established with local partners, providing psychosocial support, and protecting them from gender-based violence. 

Much of our work happens in child-friendly spaces we’ve set up, where hundreds of children come each day to play, sing, dance, draw, and begin to heal. Older children learn handicrafts and other skills. All find comfort in being together.

The challenges remain enormous. Many families have five or six children; there are many unaccompanied minors; malnutrition and anaemia are common; the learning spaces lack materials; and girls face particular risks at night when visiting the camp’s few shared latrines. 

Many children are deeply traumatized. Some saw their parents die before their eyes. Others walked barefoot through the desert, stepping over bodies to escape. Their dreams are haunted by images of violence. 

Yet the smiles on their faces at our centers — even for a few hours each day — offer a glimmer of hope for Sudan’s future. If we can nurture these children now and give them a sense of normalcy after so much hardship, all is not lost. One day, they will return. 

When I first arrived in Chad, I was desolate. Like millions of others who fled, I had no role in starting this conflict. I felt my future had been stolen. I hope one day my country will know peace again, and that I can realize my dream of becoming a surgeon, a job no woman in my city has ever done. Until then, I will continue to heal the next generation. In doing so, I am healing myself. When I hear their stories, I forget, for a moment, what happened to me.