Sunday, 22 February 2015

I'm doing myself a crime
I'm running away all the time
Even though I cross the line
I pretend like I don't care


I tell myself a bunch of lies
Put a blindfold over my eyes
& turn a deaf ear to all the cries
I pretend that I don't care


I'm shrouded in darkness inside
I'm in a dilemma, I can't decide
To all reason, goodbye, I bide,
I pretend that I don't care


I refuse to look on straight
Of what I'll see, I'm so afraid
Despite what is told and said,
I pretend that I don't care


My senses have all gone numb
Poisoned, silenced, & finally dumb
From the moment I chose to succumb
& pretend that  I don't care


My footsteps lead to my doom
Amid the chaos I can't find room
I somehow need to pick up a broom


And stop pretending that I don't care

Friday, 13 February 2015

"Why did you go without saying goodbye??"

I'd only really started talking to her that day. Everyone else had been fussing about her and making such a big deal, since she was only eleven years old - the youngest in the place. And she was the star - she had a confident little ego about her and she enjoyed the attention. Yeah, I remember a time when I was like that. I used to be so sure of what I want and what I know and never really backed away from a discussion. Then the teenage years came in.
I thought, as I looked at her from afar, how she's got enough attention already and that I don't need to go and stare.
But what actually annoyed me was how everyone were treating her the way one would when they went to a zoo or a circus. They watch and cheer and laugh and have a good time. And then they go home when the show is over. No one would really take something he saw in a circus too seriously now, would they?
I saw her trying to fit in the circle of big people around her like an equal, and admired her for it.
She came up to me when I was folding some paper into origami, and asked me to teach her how to do it. It wasn't easy, and she ended up asking me to send it to her email - what, this kid has an EMAIL?? - and I got to talk to her a bit.
Later, when she went to talk to someone else, I got up to leave. But just as I was almost outside, I heard someone following me and calling my name. I turned around and saw it was her. "Oh, hey" I said. "Why did you go without saying goodbye??" She said when she reached me. I was speechless for a moment. But what I felt inside made it clear to me that I was really moved. I gave her a hug, thanked her, and promised it wouldn't happen again. I went home with a smile that day.

A week or two later, I had to give them a visit to finish some things with her sister, who was an organizer. When I arrived, the girl ran up to me and escorted me proudly inside. "Come in, this is our house" And then she ran off. Once I settled in their room upstairs, she appeared agin, cradling a large cat in her arms. "This is my baby" She told me. I was amazed. She then told me about the animals her and her brother kept saving off the streets.

Then she ran off again and brought me some chocolate, which I think was a gift to her family. I felt a little guilty, thinking of how something like that was a rarely found delicacy in Sudan, yet she wanted to share it with me anyway. She offered it so heartly I simply could not refuse. I tried accepting everything she had to offer, trying to consider both appreciating what she did, and at the same time trying not to look uncivilized in the eyes of her elder sister.

On the day of the event, she came wearing a beautiful little dress, but her hair was a mess. It looked she'd washed it before she came and simply twisted it in a knot. I was wondering how come no one in her family noticed, when she came up to me. "I wanted you to do my hair for me, just like you did the other day". I was horrified. I remembered how on that "other day" we were hanging out after we were done our practice for the day, and she was holding a hairbrush trying to groom her tangled hair. I offered to help, though it didn't exactly turn out good at all. I had no little sister to practice on, after all. But here she was, one the actual day of the event, with an undone hair and a hairbrush. I had no idea what to do. I ended up doing a simple obviously-not-fit-for-the-occasion hairdo for her, and she happily ran off.

When the whole thing was over, and it was time to leave, I found her amidst the mess. It was time to say goodbye, although I never wanted to say goodbye. I was a college student and she was still in elementary. I had no more business to take me to their house again, not to mention the 8-year gap between us. And it's not like 11 year olds would have her own phones. We live in completely different worlds. And there I was, trying to digest it all as I looked at my young friend. As I hugged her, I wished I could find a way to relate how much I appreciated it all - how much she did for me. She taught me how friendship was simply caring, sharing and trusting. You do not care where they study or how much money their parents make. You don't care whether they traveled the whole world or was stuck in a 1 km square area your whole life. Not if they were your friends.



I never saw Zainab again..
But I could never forget her.

The End

Saturday, 14 December 2013

A boy with glasses

It was many years ago, and I was still allowed to go to the playground without being frowned at for being too old. It must have been twelve years. Maybe that's why I don't remember it so clearly.
I was on a swing, and my sister and other friend were occupied somewhere some way off. On the swing next to mine there was a boy around my age. He had hair that stood on its end in little spikes and he wore glasses.
I remember saying hi, in a self conscious way. He said hi back. And we talked. I couldn't remember about what exactly, but I do remember how serious and grown-up that conversation was, for the girl I was then. He was a nerd, and I think I was too, for I read huge books and reading too much later made me wear glasses myself. I was pretty impressed on how another kid was interested in serious things also. And I wanted to have many others. I liked the idea of having a friend like that. But then, as I said goodbye and walked away from the swings, I saw my sister ad her friend huddled together. They were watching us. And as I came closer, they started teasing me, that I was "talking to a boy". And that made me really embarrassed, and quickly snip back to my silly little self. I was rude to the boy after that, just to prove them wrong. And I never had a conversation like that with him again.
Some years after that, on that same playground, while I wanted to cross the bridge in the kids' castle, I found him blocking my way, going in the opposite direction. I rudely told him to move aside, since I was older than him, and he retorted that he was a man and "a man was worth two ladies" I didn't know what to say to that, I replied mockingly that he was wrong, and was furious at him after that, trying to to round up the other girls in the playground to back me up. But nothing happened.
Four years ago, while hanging out with my friend on our street, he showed up, and stopped on his way to the local club to say hi to my younger brother and his friends. One of my brother's friends was saying a few bad words, and my friend, apparently, had been replying with some extremely rude hand signs. As I walked up to them and told the boys to stop, the guy with glasses, now a guy taller than I am, with muscular arms, told me that my friend was using even ruder sign language. I told him that I didn't know what they meant anyway,and when he struggled to find the words, and finally said he could hint what they meant, I refused, saying that I didn't really want to know.
And that was that. I headed back to our house, and after that, aside from occasional glimpses I never spoke to him.

Two days ago, I heard my family murmuring in our house as I was getting ready to go to college. I hear something like, someone's passed away.
And later, as I was heading out I asked my mother who'd died. And she says, someone's son. She said he was as old as my younger brother. And I slowly comprehend who she was referring to. I couldn't remember his name for a while, as an unclear image of a guy with hair standing on its end, wearing glasses forms in my mind. I tell my mother simply that he's a bit older than my brother, but also younger than me. I express how terrible it must be for his parents, and utter a prayer under my breath. And I go out.
He was studying in a university abroad. They said he went to sleep that night and just never woke up.

There's nothing on my mind. No real feeling stirs in me. No pity, no grief. But simply, a bit of disbelieve. I go on with my life, as if it's someone I don't know or never spoke to. Nothing changes.
I never knew that guy who died. I just remember there was a kid with glasses that I spoke to on the swings when I was little, with the same name.

Saturday, 26 October 2013

In my head



How many words were said
How many paths I’d tread?
Yet it was all in my head..
Despite the tears that were shed
Despite the prayers that were read
It was all in my head
The dream that I fed
My hopes were its bread
And it was all in my head

Monday, 15 July 2013

Nine

Nine figures but one spelling a name on his card.
As nine steps was all it takes, to cross his shabby yard.


Born with Nine lives, he thought his place was up there in the sky
And getting there, he always said, is always worth a try


He'd stood and declared, at the age of nine
From today, someday, all the world would be mine


In Nine years, he'd already conquered all his fears,
And ever since, he never knew the taste of his own tears


A warrior of nine battles, starting from himself
And ending with winning over death's rattles


It would be the same even if he never went past the age of 29
 He'd still declare, I have a dream, one day the world would be mine

Thursday, 11 July 2013

Glimpses from my grandfather’s house: Eyes

* I wake up and see them staring at me. They leer, and follow me persistently as I get up and move away from the window, covering it with the curtains. Their owners call at me, asking for “mosa3ada”. Come on, little girl, give me something. Anything.


* They have always been lined heavily with black kohl. They overflow with fiery warmth, and they’ve always looked at me with tenderness. Every morning they were hovering over the old blue-green sideboard, as the ringed hands arranged assorted cups and made delicious tea.


* Two eyes reflect the beam from my flashlight in the dark. One is a clear bright yellow, the other a gruesome bulging purple mass. I descend the metal stairs and they follow me. I hear a meow, telling me to wait for them as I move away with the light, leaving them behind.


* Many pairs look at me, frozen behind the glass. One is twinkling with humor. Their owner is much changed now, but their twinkle has never dimmed. Another hasn’t been here for a long time. They are smiling, next to the ones that came and took them away. There are three pairs in this frame, a graduate flanked by her mother and father. All are glowing with pride. This pair is looking calmly at their photographer. I have only known them through the glass.


* I don’t have to look at them to know they’re around – they’ve always been around, even when they’re not really there. When I do look at them, I see my own looking back at me.


* Running around, laughing at the dark, then came a loud WHAM, a sharp pain in my head and two cries. As we moved to a room that had working lights, one of the pair of eyes was starting to swell, blackening.


* My gaze never really lingered on those before, but they’ve been brought sharply into focus after the death of my grandmother. Perhaps they were eclipsed by their fiery companions. Now they are blank, and their iris encircled by grey. They meet mine and no light flares in recognition. I gaze at them all the time now, but too late.

Allah ydeek al3afia ya jiddo
.

October 27, 2012

Saturday, 29 June 2013

Release

Fluttering softly like a butterfly
That turns to paper snips
Floating slowly down


Silently,


Silence. Not a sound, not a breath,
Nothing moves.


Then she starts,


spinning on the tip of a toe
Sailing, soaring,
Arms reaching up high
Facing the sky,
Eyes closed, breathing in the stillness


I'm here, I live, I love
I'm here, I live, I dare
I'm here, I live, I see
I'm here, I live,
and I stop


The swishing comes to a rest
Brushing her ankles,
It's life


sudden pauses,
a second chance,
Or maybe a dozen.

stop..
And silently trudge away
From where the snips still lay

Wednesday, 19 June 2013

It's alright

It's alright,
Though lonely and friendless you may seem
You are one showered with blessing my dear
It's alright,
Time might be changing, days might be dark
But don't forget there always shines a constant light
It's alright,
And though it may be you've had quite a loss
Do not forget to see what you have now, and had not
It's alright,
Life isn't so bad, if your faith shines so bright
And don't forget to have someone who tells you,
It's alright
It's alright

Thursday, 6 June 2013

What can I do?

What can I do, oh, what can I do?
I'm only human, aren't you too?


I'm not superhuman. Believe it, it's true!
What can I do, oh, what can I do?
 

Life's reality. Don't think it's a dream!
And things are not as easy as you make them seem!
 

There will be times when you won't know what to do.
There will be times when it seems you can't make it through
 

And when there are times when you can't make it through
All you can do is sit and ask: what can I do?
 

What can I do, oh, what can I do?
And you're in the lowest spirit you're getting to
 

What can I do, oh, what can I do?
Can anybody out there just tell me what to do?

Tuesday, 1 January 2013

Tact



No one is taught to be nice to others,
No one is taught to share
All we know is never let anyone y7gr bek anywhere

All we know is don't let anyone else push you,
No one says be polite, say "how do you do?"

No one tells you to smile, when you meet someone's gaze,
All we hear is, if someone hits you, better leave them dazed

See, all we know is, other people are mean, it's a fact,
No one says go make friends, no one teaches tact.

Tuesday, 18 December 2012

Lost in the stars


I wish for a night: no clouds,
wind or light, no buildings built high.

I wish for silence,
so I can lie back to observe the sky.

Lose my thoughts, searching
through the stars far above,

Reading the heaven's
starry map is something I'll always love.

Walk this road

Come,
Let's walk this road, one step a time
and build a world where dreams can live,
Where thoughts align, and words can rhyme
and all as well as take, will give.

Come,
I'll teach your eyes to see,
and you can teach my feet to walk,
I'll make you gaze at every tree,
and only of wondrous things we'll talk.

We'd soar like birds, so light and free;
our thoughts will take us there,
And see the world, both you and me,
All that we have we'll share.

Come,
Let your eyes climb those mountains,
let them gaze up the sky,
And wonder will be a youth's fountain,
that keeps us standing high.

Come,
Let me show you the world I see;
where light and dark both dwell,
Where no one is alive as we,
in each moment a treasure to tell.

Let me show you my world,
and you can show me yours,
Let us seek for all the problems,
some new unlocked doors.

Let's walk this road, one step at a time,
let your eyes perceive all beauty here lives,
On all they rest, with wonder they'll shine,
Then lower, and ask His mercy to forgive.

Monday, 29 October 2012

My own thing

 I want to write my own thing… only I don’t know what it is. There’s too little that I know and too much that I don’t. I’m not a writer. Two of my sisters are, though. You know, I really wish that I had that thing in them that enables them to make small incidents quite interesting and fun to read. It’s the angle they look from, I guess. Along with that a few things can help too, like having a beautiful style of writing and an interesting thing to write about. I believe that every person should write down their personal experiences and pass it down for other individuals to read. But, unfortunately, not everyone can write. Some choose the wrong things to write about. Some just can’t express themselves. Yet people should write, no matter what. You’ll find fascinating things in one’s journal. No one can do everything personally in life, so they might be able to live it through reading others’ experiences about it and take the morale without any damage. I think you’ll agree with me on this point.
I just remembered something. Writing is actually a way people express themselves through. Though not everyone can write, everyone has some ability which represents them to some extent. Some of us can draw, and some paint. Others can write poetry. Many people do crafts. Others sing. But the trick about singing is putting your own mark in a not-always-yours song.
Imagination is in almost everyone. Yet imagination can vary remarkably between people. No matter what each can imagine-That is to say, whether it’s made up or real-life-based imagination- it plays a role in your personality.
What personality is, I’m not exactly sure. But I guess I have a few clues to help. Each person’s got a different personality and it would be a great waste if somebody tried to erase their own. Your personality is your style, the way you live, the way you see life and things you see in life. For instance, there is a difference between me and the two sisters of mine whom I mentioned earlier. Though each of us writes in English, there’s a difference in what we write about, the way we write it and the way we see what is written. So I can conclude that your personality is what is different in you from other people. Yes, people are similar to some extent, yet each is different in some way or another.
By the way, congratulate me because I just discovered what is it that can’t make me write my own thing. It’s because I try to write like my sisters do. They see things through the day, some things trigger them to write and they have the ability of excellent story-telling (Which I lack; people get bored when I start telling a story) so they can come up with a masterpiece from an actual incident no more than an hour long. So what is it that I can write?
It turns out that I have a philosopher’s look at life. Because, as you probably noticed by now, though I can’t tell a story, I can extract a theory or morale from it and put in words.
So, thanks to God and, after Him, to you (whoever you are that I’m writing to) I guess I finally found what I can write about. I really hope I can meet you again through my future writings and, hopefully, masterpieces. And I really hope they’re going to be better. Until then, God be with you.

August 7, 2010



I have a dream,,

I have a dream;
To plant a pretty flower, and teach people beauty.
To treat people right, and teach them how to be kind.
To learn about life, to make me alive and teach others to live too.
To have beautiful thoughts, and spread them all around.
To learn to find what's beautiful in every thing, in every place, in every person.
Build, never destroy. Plant, never uproot.
Except for all the bad things.
Live life. Love life. Be a flower. Smile. :)


I wish...



I wish.........
I can be a flower
I am in a place where all is dry and sad
and dreams just evaporate in the air
I want to be that drop of life
and bring back a life to share
I want to have thoughts of gold
like a light, they'd glow
and warm me up inside
they'd shine, like the sun
telling all the buried seeds to grow
it's all right, life is here
just waiting for you



Sunday, 28 October 2012

My first ever demonstration! :D


Yeah, believe it or not, I, Hala Gaafar went on a demonstration. Moreover, I'd organized it! :D
It was just three people: Me, Lina Yousif and Hadeel Ibrahim. I think I was in my fifth grade or something.We'd decided to run a demonstration against the pollution of the environment, although SQU was really the last place you'd expect to see littered.So we went. Carrying a sign that said something like "النظافة من الايمان" or something, and shouting enthusiastically: "النظافـــة من الايمــان، و القذارة من الشيطان، لا تدخّنوا، Don't smoke"
It's hilarious, now that I think about it XD we'd marched through three streets, seven, nine and ten, getting mocked gleefully by Amani, Israa and Lina's sister Amal - and afterwards we headed towards the staff club and the local shop. Of course we made sure to set a good example by cleaning the area about the (already clean) place, and as we marched back towards our own street, tried (and failed) to make sure a discarded, still full bag of crisps was not entirely wasted.
We stood for a few more minutes, me still yelling out and waving our single sign standing on a railing until I was tired. And that was that. We simply departed, went home for a good night's sleep and woke up, and completely forgot about it.
Those were the good times! ^_^


يوم النتيجة: مشهد من الجامعة


أيّام الشّهر تمرّ مرّ السّحاب.. انتهت الامتحانات منذ أسبوعين و اليوم جاء الطّلّاب لحضور نتيجة نهاية العام. الوقت هو العصر، و المكان أمام إدارة الكلّيّة حيث ستُعلّق النّتائج مكتظٌّ بالطّلّاب المتوتّرين. مرّت ساعة... ساعةٌ أخرى... و كلما مرّت الدّقائق قلّ الكلام و تصاعدت حدّة التّوتّر حتّى أصبح الصّمت هو المهيمن، و المشهد هو لشبابٍ في وضعيّاتٍ مختلفة توقّفوا عن مجرّد محاولة فعل أي شيء سوى الجلوس و الانتظار... كلّ حركة داخل المبنى تبعث نفضةً في الفوج فتلتفت مئات الرّؤوس ثمّ لا تلبث أن تعود للنّظر في الأرض ثانيةً. يكاد يكون بالإمكان سماع الأفكار الّتي تزنّ الآن في الرؤوس في هذه الدّقائق الثّقيلة..
فتاةٌ تقضم أظافرها و عيناها تحدّق في اللّا شيء.. "ماذا لو رسبتُ في أكثر من مادّة؟ إن لم أنجح في مادّة وظائف الأعضاء فأنا قطعاً لن أستطيع أن أنجح في امتحان الملحق... هل..؟" و لا تجرؤ في التّفكير في ما بعد ذلك فتنتابها رعشة خفيفة ثمّ تتلفّت باحثةً عن شيءٍ يلفت انتباهها لينقذها من التّفكير في هذا الكابوس..شابٌّ يتّكئ على الحائط المقابل لمبنى الإدارة. لا يُظهر منظره الهادئ القلق الّذي ينتابه. في الحالة الطّبيعيّة فإن الشّباب لا يقلقون بشأن النّتائج كما البنات و لكنّ كلّ اللّا مبالاة تنهار أمام سطوة الموقف الرّهيب.. " تُرى هل يستقصدني استاذ فلان بعدما طردني من محاضرته تلك؟ هل يفعل بي كما فُعل بزميلنا فلان فلبث في ذات المستوى لثلاث سنوات؟ لا أستبعدُ أن يفعل ذلك، ذلك الرّجل الحاقد.. سنرى إن تجرّأ أن..." و تنعقد حواجبه و هو يتصوّر ماذا سيفعل بالأستاذ الّذي يجرؤ أن يضع له التّقييم "راسب"..حركةٌ أخرى من داخل مبنى الإدارة تقطع حبال أفكار الجميع، و مرّةً أخرى يلتفت الجميع بحركةٍ تلقائيّة ناحية الباب.. أحدهم قادم، صوت خطوات.. و انحبست الأنفاس. كان الخارج يحمل أوراقاً بين يديه و وراءه الشّاب المسؤول من قاعات الكلّيّة يحمل دبابيس ضغط. بدا الأخير مترقّباً هو الآخر، إذ كان يعلم أنّه في أيّ لحظة ستنقض عليهما مئات الكتل المنفعلة و الّتي لن تفرّق بين الأسود و الأبيض في حالتها هذه. مئات الأعين تراقبهما و هما يتجاوزان اللّوح المخصّص لإعلانات السّنة الأولى، ثمّ الثّانية، و كذلك الثّالثة.. و يتوقّفان تحت اللّافتة "المستوى الرّابع". بأسرع ما يمكن قاما بتثبيت النّتائج و هدير الأقدام الكثيرة يعلو من خلفهم. في النّهاية كان الإثنان يصارعان التيّار العظيم الّذي كان كلّ هدفه الوصول للوحة الإعلانات، و بعد عدّة دقائق تركا الجمع المتزايد وراءهما و وقفا يلتقطان أنفاسهما، و تظهر على وجههما تعابير الإمتعاض لعلمهما أنّ هناك أربعة نتائج أخرى يجب أن تُعلّق وسط صراعٍ لا يُتوقّع أن يكون أقلّ من هذا. دلفا ثانيةً داخل مبنى الإدارة.. و لكن ماذا عن الطّلّاب؟إنّ لحظة تعليق النّتيجة من اللّحظات القليلة على الأرض الّتي تنمحي فيها كلّ المبادئ (مثل السّيدات أوّلاً) و الأدب و الذّوق و كلّ الأفكار كذلك.. لكلٍ امرءٍ يومئذٍ شأنٌ يغنيه، فلا توجد أفكارٌ كـ "هذه الّتي تصارعها فتاةٌ" و لا "فلانٌ هذا جاء قبلي" و لا تلتفت للصّيحات المذعورة الّتي تسمعها وراءك سواءً بـ"اقرأ لي نتيجتي معك" أو كانت تعابير أصحابها عن مشاعرهم بعد رؤية نتائجهم.. و يصبح العالم بأكمله هو فقط أنت و ذلك الورق المعلّق و الّذي عليه نتيجتك.. مصيرك.أمّا الطّلّاب المساكين و الّذين كانوا لا زالوا ينتظرون تعليق نتيجتهم فقد كانوا يعانون الأمرّين، فقد أطبق الجمع تماماً على النّتيجة و لم يكد يُرى شيءٌ وسط الكتلة الكبيرة المتحرّكة.... و فجأة.. صرخةٍ عالية. و تركّزت أبصار من خارج الدّائرة على الشّاب الّذي كان يتقافز و يصارع في ذات الوقت للخروج من ذلك الجنون.. يصرخ و وجهه كلّه يتنفّس الصّعداء، و قفز وسط الأذرع الكثيرة الّتي تلقّفته و رفعته للحظاتٍ قبل أن يتذكّر أصحابها نتائجهم هم الآخرون فيخلّون سبيله.نصف ساعة مرّت، و رغم أنّ الزّحام حول اللّوحة لم يخفّ بعد، خرج (المعلّقان) ثانيةً من أعماق الإدارة يحملان نتائج مستوىً آخر. هذه المرّة كانت الأعصاب مشدودةً أكثر من قبل بالطّبع، فهناك علاقةٌ طرديّة بين طول الإنتظار و حدّة التّوتّر.. أضف إلى ذلك المناظر الّتي اختبروها، و الّتي تنوّعت بين البكاء الهستيري و الانهيارات العصبيّة و الزّغاريد و الصّراخ بشتّى أنواعه.. و كان الطّلّاب أشدّ انقضاضاً من سابقيهم على اللّوح.. طلّاب المستوى الثّالث.تبعت ذلك نتائج المستوى الخامس.. فالثّاني... و بقي المستوى الأوّل. بالطّبع كلّ من يستمع أو يقرأ (ممن لم يكونوا مع الحضور)سيستنكرون تأخّر تعليق نتائج هؤلاء رفقاً بهم و بأعصابهم المسكينة.. و لكن من يدري؟ ربّما كان من الأفضل لهم ألّا يروا نتائجهم مبكّراً، إنّهم لا يدرون كيف سيشعرون (بتحسّنٍ..؟ أم سيشعرون بماهو الأسوأ؟) بعد رؤيتها..؟

We are one


         An Egyptian man sat next to me one morning on my way to college. It occurred to me that he might think himself better than the Sudanese people sitting around him, and in response of this idea a rush of thoughts ran quickly through my mind, making an imaginary conversation.
         What, you like your revolution so much? Think you’re a lot better than all the rest of us on earth? Oh no, don’t start with the rubbish all the Arabs make us Sudanese people hear. Don’t you know we’ve done a lot more than what you people ever did? And we’ve kept our silence, we don’t go boasting on every nook and cranny the way you do. Heard of Al-Mahdi? He stood up against the Turkish invaders leading the rest of his people in a way no other Arab in the rest of the Arabian world dared to do. We’ve made our own independence from the Anglo-Egyptian rule (Therefore freed from being a part of Egypt, thank god), we’ve had at least three truly democratic governments, all starting with its own revolution against dictatorship, and you people? This is the first time you’ve had one of those...  Then one thing, one random thought that popped into my head in the rush of flying things put it all to a stop.” You think our father Adam was Egyptian?” A pause followed, in which my mind’s engines froze, as the answer that extended far beyond “No” was beginning to form. In fact, Adam was not Egyptian, and he definitely wasn’t Sudanese either. The truth is; we’re all sons and daughters of Adam, aren’t we? That was clearly defined before we were this or that. We’re all human, we come from one father so that makes us brothers, doesn’t it? All the irritation melted away and then I thought of it no more.
Yes, we are one. It’s funny how often we forget that.

Pride

You know, I just thought that the problem with us Sudanese people is that we're all too damn proud. We're too proud to marry this girl or that man,we're too proud to admit we're bottom at everything. We're too proud to let go of some of our rights for the sake of peace. We're too proud to forgive. We're too proud to pay the kumsari his full sum of money, yet how dare he protest. We're too proud to admit we're wrong, and we're too proud to say we don't know. The reason we'd never hand over Omer El Bashir is not because we think he's innocent, but because we're too proud to hand over one of our own to some foreigners. Our college was closed for three months not because the police entered the college, beat up the students and arrested them, but because the students were too proud to let them get away with it, and the police were just too proud to apologize to some dumb students. The students then blamed the vice councilor because they were too proud to knock on his office door and discuss it with him. Yeah, we're Sudanese, we're not stupid or anything like that. The reason that's holding us back and causing us all those stupid problems we have is one single, extremely ugly word: PRIDE.