Navigating dual realties: Studying at Oxford amidst Sudan’s war

Marwa M A Elbasheer (DPhil Population Health, 2020) writes

‘What is the value of man without a homeland, without a flag, without an address? What is the value of man?’
Mahmoud Darwish

I still remember the day I woke up to a call from my sister in Sudan, ‘A fight has erupted between the army and the rapid support forces; they might cut the telecommunication, so don’t worry, we are fine’, she said. It was the moment at which my world changed forever.

Over the following weeks, I watched the news and constantly checked on my family, friends, and colleagues whom I left in Sudan while battling with my fear of silence, unanswered calls, phone ringing and the fact that each call I had with my loved ones might be the last. In the beginning, I listened to the news reporting the level of destruction and counting civilian casualties and then stopped; it was too much to bear. It is hard to explain in wartime that every life matters; those killed are not just numbers; they were lives full of untold stories of love, pain, joy and dreams that have gone forever. They are loved souls of someone still alive and have to endure the agony of loss and being. Talking to my family while hearing the sounds of gunfire and bombing stripped life from everything except the fact that it is too short and death is its most authentic face.

One aspect of being from a country at war is that you start to question your very existence, identity and worth. I heard the stories of my friends and thousands of desperate Sudanese nationals who were forced to flee their country and how they were treated at the borders of neighbouring countries. Then, my visa to the United Arab Emirates got cancelled because the government banned the entry of Sudanese nationals one week before my travel to see my family, who had to leave everything behind to save their lives. At the time, I came to realise that now, my passport defines my worth, how people will treat me and when my human rights could be easily and justifiably denied. Every Sudanese national becomes a potential refugee, a burden, and that is how you will be treated. I felt homeless without being one.

The painful truth is that life goes on. I wake up every day, and I am here in Oxford doing my DPhil studies and feeling trapped between two realities that do not belong to each other. The reality of my life in Oxford, where people enjoy simple things and have casual conversations about the weather, what they will do during weekends, their exams and where they will submit their next paper. It was surreal having these conversations with my friends and colleagues while my whole world was crumbling. My country, everything I cherish and hold dear, has been attacked and destroyed. I shifted my career and came here to Oxford with one dream: one day, I will be able to implement large-scale population studies in my country, hoping that it may help create a better life for my people. Now, I have to accept the possibility that it might not be possible during my lifetime and pray it does not become a reality.

As the war enters its sixth month, I am still in Oxford doing my DPhil, grateful that my family and friends are alive and have a roof over their heads and thankful for the tremendous support from my network. Most importantly, I am grateful for the short moments I encounter during my long walks where I feel at peace, and Oxford feels home! It is during these brief moments that life becomes bearable and may be full of hope!