Finding purpose while displaced: A testimony from Sudan

At first I thought the gunfire would pass quickly. I rushed to stock up on food supplies and water, enough for six days. But the streets became battlegrounds. All I could do was try to keep my family safe.

Despite the chaos, I continued to work. Electricity and Internet access were sporadic, but I kept my phone charged to send daily updates to the OCHA Head of Office. It gave me purpose amid the uncertainty.

Eventually it became too dangerous to stay.

On the thirty-ninth day, we fled. Our family of 10 began a harrowing journey with no clear destination, only the desperate need to escape. We left behind more than just walls and belongings; we left behind a life built with love and hope.

Our journey took us first to Nyala in South Darfur, then to Kosti in White Nile State. From there, we crossed the border into neighbouring South Sudan and eventually reached Uganda, a country I had heard offered stability and a good education system for children. The journey took 23 days by road. My children had no passports, and there were no refugee camps for Sudanese nationals at the time.

To my relief, migration authorities in both countries were kind and supportive. In Kampala, we rented a house and received asylum status within three days. The moment I held our refugee cards, I exhaled deeply and thought “We’ve made it.”

I enrolled my children in school and began working online, finally finding a sense of stability.

Here I was, an aid worker now a refugee, needing the same support I once provided to others. 

Months later, I faced a difficult decision: Do I stay with my family or return to Darfur and continue the work I had done for years? I chose to return.

Leaving my family behind was incredibly hard, but their safety was paramount. 

I returned to Zalingei with a renewed sense of duty to serve those still trapped in the hardship I had endured. I was also the sole breadwinner for my family and needed to ensure they could survive in Uganda.

When I arrived in Zalingei, I barely recognized it. Buildings were scarred with bullet holes. 

I found another family sheltering inside our house – a doctor and his family whose own home had been destroyed. I let them stay, setting aside a small section for myself and a colleague. The house had been looted; windows were gone and our belongings had vanished. I had hoped to find my children’s school certificates, photos, any documents left behind. But they were gone.

Everyone was armed, even children as young as 15. People were tense, traumatized and always bracing for the next wave of violence.

I didn’t stay long in Zalingei. Soon I was called to El Geneina in West Darfur, a town devastated by violence, and whose people desperately needed humanitarian support.

El Geneina’s streets were strewn with the wreckage of burned-out military vehicles. Armed men patrolled in pickup trucks mounted with machine guns.

The humanitarian needs were immense. People lacked food, shelter, household essentials, healthcare, clean water and protection. But we never had enough resources for them.

It’s heartbreaking to witness the suffering caused by the recent donor funding cuts. Many organizations have been forced to scale back their operations, leaving countless people without help.

Still, we did all we could. Between 2023 and 2025, we reached more than 800,000 displaced people with critical assistance. I also went on to work with OCHA colleagues in Chad to coordinate cross-border humanitarian convoys into Darfur. These convoys were lifelines, delivering food, medicine and supplies to communities cut off by conflict.

Today I remain in Sudan; my family is still in Uganda. I visit them once a year, but the separation is painful.

Sudan is one of the world’s largest and most complex humanitarian crises. More than 30.4 million people – over half the population – urgently need humanitarian assistance, yet the 2025 Sudan Humanitarian Needs and Response Plan is severely underfunded, with only 13.3 per cent of the required resources received so far.