Trigger Warning: This article contains some sensitive topics around war, violence and displacement.

In March 2023, just a day after my birthday, I left Birmingham to visit my family in Sudan for Easter. I wanted to spend Ramadan and Eid with them, enjoying home-cooked meals and reconnecting. Everything felt normal. The streets were bustling with families preparing for the holy month. There was no sign of the storm that was about to come. 

I was scheduled to fly back to Birmingham on April 15. That day, I woke up at 2 PM, planning to pack my bags and head to the airport for my 6 PM flight. But when I checked my email, I saw a message from the airline: Your flight has been cancelled. I thought it was a minor operational issue —something that could be resolved by booking another flight 

Then, I went downstairs and saw the tension in my parents’ faces. My father told me that fighting had erupted between the Sudanese Armed Forces and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF).We were used to political instability, protests, and unrest—Sudan had seen military coups and crackdowns before. Since the fighting was concentrated around military installations, it felt like yet another power struggle, not something that would spiral into full-scale war.

But then, tensions escalated and the news came in that the airport had been attacked. Planes were burning on the runway. Airlines like Saudia Airlines  and Qatar Airways had their planes destroyed. The reality hit. There was suddenly no way out. 

The War Begins 

Within hours, the streets of Khartoum emptied. As businesses shut down we rushed to buy supplies— water drums, long-lasting food, and extra electricity credits. We assumed the fighting would last for a few days. We were wrong. 

Gunfire started to ring out across the city, at first distant, then closer. At night, the sky would light up with tracer rounds. To stay safe, we adopted security measures— parking the car inside, keeping  the lights off, and sleeping on the highest floor to avoid stray bullets. 

Living in a Warzone 

For two weeks, shops and restaurants stayed closed, and the streets grew eerily quiet. The roads became too dangerous to travel, and my father had to disguise himself whenever he went out to get supplies, sneaking to the nearest open shop when it was safe. By the second day, food and water were running low for many families.

Electricity was unreliable, so we rationed power carefully for only the essentials. Phone and internet services began to fail, making it harder to reach the outside world. The city we had known all our lives was unrecognizable, its familiar rhythms replaced by an unsettling stillness. With each passing day, the sense of isolation grew, and we all wondered how much longer we could hold on. It felt like the world outside had disappeared entirely.

The Bombing and Escalation 

Eid was approaching. My mother had bought us beautiful clothes from Pakistan before the war. We  tried to create some sense of normalcy, even though we could hear the chaos outside. 

Then, on the night before Eid, as I went downstairs to grab something from the kitchen suddenly, the  entire house shook violently. The windows rattled, dust fell from the ceiling, and then—silence. 

I ran upstairs. My family was already gathering in the safest part of the house. We sat together in the  dark, listening. Thirty minutes later, another explosion hit. Then another. Five major blasts occurred within the hour. And as the house trembled,  the realisation set in—we had to leave. 

Preparing to Escape 

Two days after Eid, the internet was completely cut off. Embassies had started evacuating their  citizens. But for civilians like us, escape was complicated. The roads were unsafe. Armed groups controlled different parts of the city, and checkpoints were unpredictable. Some people were  stopped and robbed. Others were never seen again. 

On April 22, at 10 PM, helicopters landed in our compound. They carried foreign officials being evacuated under a temporary ceasefire. Watching them leave made it clear—we had to find a way out. 

The next morning, my father attended a meeting at the Pakistani embassy. When he came back, he  told us to pack. We packed only the essentials—some clothes, food, and important documents.  We had no idea where we were going or how long we’d be gone, but the most painful part was locking the house, not knowing if we’d ever return. 

The Journey to Port Sudan 

We boarded a bus with 20 other people, heading toward Port Sudan. The journey was supposed to  take 12 hours, but roadblocks and security checks turned it into 20. At every checkpoint, we held our breath. Armed men boarded the bus, checked IDs, and sometimes searched passengers. In one instance, an RSF soldier lingered near us, his gaze cold and calculating. He finally stepped back, letting us pass. 

Food was scarce; we survived on crisps and biscuits. Sleep was impossible. Every sound made us  flinch.  Finally, after a gruelling journey, we arrived in Port Sudan. But another problem awaited us. 

Stranded in Port Sudan 

The embassy had arranged accommodation, but corruption got in the way. Officials had sold the reserved flats to organizations for profit. We had nowhere to stay. As our bus driver, exhausted from the trip, was preparing to leave, we had no choice but to rely on my father’s connections. By some miracle, a family friend offered us shelter. 

For three days, we woke up before dawn, hoping we would be on the next evacuation list. Every morning, we packed, ready to leave. Every evening, we unpacked, realising we were not on the list. 

Then, one night, when we had almost given up hope, the call came. A ship was leaving for Saudi Arabia at 3 AM. 

The Final Escape 

At 1 AM, we rushed to the port. Security checks were thorough. We were placed onto a small boat,  which took us to a massive Saudi navy ship. Inside, hundreds of people sat on the floor, packed tightly. There were no chairs. No space to move. 

Women were sent into the lower deck—tiny, suffocating cabins filled with bunk beds. But I refused to go,instead I lay outside, feeling the freezing wind on my face, too exhausted to care. 

After ten hours at sea, we arrived in Jeddah. The moment we stepped off the ship, the contrast was surreal. Life continued as if nothing had happened, People walked past us, unaware of what we had  just endured. 

The Journey to Pakistan 

We stayed in Saudi Arabia for a day before a packed chartered flight took us to Pakistan. Some sat on luggage, others on the floor. The six-hour journey felt endless. When we landed, we were called “special evacuees.” There was no time to process the trauma—we had to move on.

From the moment we arrived, we were treated differently. COVID-tested, checked for diseases, our baggage sprayed with antiseptic. A separate immigration counter awaited us, reinforcing that we weren’t regular travelers but evacuees, marked by crisis.

The evacuation was over, but we weren’t free. Systems still categorized us as “special.” Yet, there was no pause, no reflection—only the expectation to move forward.

The Weight of Survival 

War doesn’t end when you escape. It stays with you—the way your body tenses at sudden noises, the way your mind replays the moments when everything could have gone wrong. My childhood home, my city, my people—I doubt they will ever be the same. I lived in a gated compound, shielded from much of the destruction. I didn’t see everything firsthand; I only heard. Protected by high-level security, surrounded by high-profile officials, my experience was different from many others. But that doesn’t mean I was untouched by the war.

I am not here to speak for all. I am here to share what I saw, what I lived through. Because stories matter. And because history must be remembered.

For more Comment articles:

How Justified is the Backlash Against Squid Game’s Casting? 

The 4B Movement and its “Men Strikes” 

Do Patriachal Structures Continue to Undermine Women’s Autonomy?