Photography by Mohamed Issa

The final hours of my journey through Kassala State were nothing short of dramatic. Protests erupted after the death of a young man in one of Sudan’s sovereign institutions in September, leading to road blockages by locals.

Unable to leave my residence, I waited for calm to return, but the unrest intensified. As citizens clashed with security forces, shops shut down. By afternoon, gunshots echoed near the hotel where I stayed.

To avoid the risk of further escalation, I left for Al-Qadarif early the next morning. The three-hour journey, covering 220 kilometres, was fraught with tension but also a faint hope for safety.  

Al-Qadarif: A borderland bearing heavy burdens
 

Unlike Kassala, Al-Qadarif, given its proximity to the Ethiopian border, bears the brunt of hosting vast numbers of displaced people and refugees.

Despite its tranquil residents, the state faced heightened security tensions when Sudanese authorities closed the Gallabat border crossing.

The Amhara-based Fano militia had seized the Ethiopian side of the crossing, halting border trade and travel procedures.  

Renowned for its fertile lands, Al-Qadarif is Sudan’s agricultural heartland. Its bustling markets sell bananas, oranges, and other fruits.

However, due to widespread poverty, the city’s burgeoning population of locals, displaced persons, and refugees experience minimal economic activity.

A 6pm curfew adds to the urgency of daily life, with residents scrambling by 5pm to complete errands in a scene reminiscent of Ramadan iftar preparations.
  

The conditions in Al-Qadarif’s displacement camps are more dire than those in Kassala, exacerbated by the sheer numbers and the prolonged journeys of those fleeing violence.

I spent eight days in these camps, documenting the despair of men, women, and children awaiting either humanitarian aid or the end of war to reclaim their lives.  

Al-Qadarif hosts over a million displaced persons, scattered across 73 schools in the city and numerous private homes in the surrounding areas.

This community-based integration strains host families already grappling with skyrocketing prices and inflation.

The city itself accommodates displaced people in camps like the Central Bus Station Camp, Al-Houri Camp, and the Religious Institute Camp.  

Humanitarian data from the ground
 

In early July, the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) reported that since 24 June 2024, approximately 136,000 people had fled various areas in Sennar State due to clashes between the Sudanese Armed Forces and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF).

This adds to the pre-existing 286,000 displaced individuals in Sennar’s localities, many of whom had already been uprooted from Khartoum or Gezira.  

OCHA reports indicate that displaced persons from Sennar, Singa, and other areas sought refuge in Al-Qadarif, Kassala, the Red Sea, and the River Nile states. Some, displaced multiple times, face compounded trauma and instability.  

Tragedies within the camps
 

The sight at the Central Bus Station Camp is heart-wrenching. Women hang their meagre belongings on makeshift fences while others wash old clothes on the ground. Children wander aimlessly, their innocence starkly juxtaposed with their surroundings.  

The camp’s skeletal concrete structure shelters thousands but lacks basic amenities like bedding, privacy, and reliable access to food and water.  

One poignant story comes from Amina Al-Toum, a woman in her 30s but visibly aged by hardship. “My six-year-old daughter has a vocal cord condition. I used to buy her medication regularly, but since fleeing Sennar after the RSF invaded, I’ve lost everything. Without her medication, she’s lost her ability to speak,” she recounts.  

Others, like 55-year-old Aisha Suleiman, describe enduring the biting cold with only sacks for bedding. “We’ve been here for three months, eating lentils twice a day. I can’t afford my blood pressure medication,” she laments.  

The toll of disease and overcrowding
 

At the Haj Hassan Religious Institute Camp, conditions are chaotic. “We endure rain, sun, and the cold without adequate shelter,” says Abshir Babiker, a high school teacher.

Diseases like cholera, malaria, and waterborne illnesses spread rapidly, worsened by limited medical supplies and sanitation facilities.  

Diseases proliferate in Al-Houri Camp, which is surrounded by stagnant water and dense greenery. Women line up for basic supplies like sanitary pads, while others plead for clean drinking water, which costs 1,000 Sudanese pounds (about $0.50) per jerrycan.  

Randa Hassan, a mother of six, describes her ordeal: “We walked for nine days to escape the RSF, carrying my children and elderly mother. They stole everything we had, even threatening to kill us.”  

Humanitarian efforts fall short
 

Humanitarian Aid Commissioner for Al-Qadarif Abdulkafil Al-Adnani acknowledges the enormity of the crisis.

"The international community prioritizes Ukraine and Gaza, leaving Sudan underfunded. While we’ve received some aid from organizations like King Salman Humanitarian Aid Center and the World Food Program, it barely covers the massive need," he explains.  

Healthcare services have been stretched thin. Dr. Ahmed Al-Amin, director of Al-Qadarif’s Health Ministry, highlights efforts to expand dialysis and cancer treatment facilities but admits that resources are insufficient, and life-saving medications are often out of reach.  

A nation uprooted
 

Displacement extends far beyond eastern Sudan. Safe havens across the northern, central, and western regions also host large numbers of refugees.

The International Organization for Migration (IOM) estimates that there are over 14.5 million displaced individuals, 11.3 million of whom are internally displaced and over 3.2 million seeking refuge in neighbouring countries.  

Despite these grim realities, the Sudanese cling to hope. Their resilience shines through their longing for peace, stability, and return home, even amid the slow-moving tragedy of displacement camps.