Orbits: The Horrific Consequences of War

By: Muawad Mustafa Rashid

In the Sudanese war, it wasn’t just guns that wounded the nation. There were far more insidious and painful blows, delivered from where we least expected them—from a neighbor who had shared our water and salt, laughed with us in times of joy, and consoled us in times of sorrow.

Yet, in our hour of need, this neighbor transformed into a watchful eye, a tongue that betrayed, a hand that stole, and a heart devoid of mercy.

This war unequivocally revealed a deep-seated class hatred that had lain dormant beneath the ashes for years, a hatred fueled by inequalities, nurtured by rumors, and awakened by chaos. With the first breach of security, this hatred emerged naked, without shame or fear. In many cities and rural areas, the danger wasn’t just the militias that stormed homes, but also the neighbors who informed them: في “So-and-so’s house has gold… So-and-so’s family has left… This family is well-off… That one is wealthy…”

Neighborhoods became maps of betrayal, and some neighbors became informants, not only out of coercion, but sometimes out of greed, social revenge, or the false sense that this war was an opportunity to “settle scores.”

When the moral wall collapses

What happened wasn’t just the theft of property, but the collapse of the values ​​of neighborliness that had formed one of the pillars of Sudanese society throughout its history.

Neighborliness in Sudan wasn’t merely geographical proximity, but an unwritten moral contract: “Your neighbor comes before your house.”

But the war broke this contract for some.

We saw homes looted after their doors were opened with keys that had been entrusted to neighbors. We saw property sold in broad daylight, and shame passed before our eyes without anyone stopping it.

Some may try to justify it with hunger, fear, or chaos, but the bitter truth is that betrayal is a choice, not fate.

Hunger does not justify informing on others, fear does not justify betraying one’s neighbors, and poverty does not justify gloating.

Many persevered despite hunger and danger, protecting the homes of others, hiding their neighbors’ belongings, and refusing to be part of the destruction. These are the other face of Sudan, the face we must hold high.

The betrayal of a neighbor does not end with the end of the war. Its effects will remain for years in the lack of trust within neighborhoods, in the disintegration of the social fabric, in the look of suspicion that will dwell in eyes.

How can life return to normal when the neighbor knows he betrayed, and the betrayed knows who betrayed him?

How can we rebuild homes if hearts are still shattered?

This article is not written to make blind accusations, but to open a frank discussion:

How do we heal this moral rift?

Do we have the courage to acknowledge what happened within our communities?

How do we redefine neighborliness after the war?

Sudan will not be rebuilt with cement alone, but by rebuilding values.

The most difficult thing we need to repair today is not roads or bridges, but conscience.