A deep look at how conflict in Sudan is reshaping identity, perception, and the very meaning of survival

By: Dr. abdelnasser Selum Hamed

War is not merely a struggle over power or territory. It is a force that reshapes what it means to be human—often quietly, and often before it is even recognized. It does not only destroy lives; it reorganizes them, redefining the relationship between security, belonging, and survival. Its deepest impact is not always found in ruins, but in the subtle transformation of how people think, feel, and endure.

Since the outbreak of conflict in 2023, war in Sudan has ceased to be a conventional military confrontation between rival factions. It has evolved into a complex, multi-layered phenomenon that penetrates the structure of society and the human condition itself. Operating across military, economic, psychological, and symbolic domains, it functions as a form of coercive social engineering—reshaping behavior, reordering priorities, and imposing a new logic of existence governed by survival rather than stability.

Yet war does not create these transformations from nothing—it reveals them. What we are witnessing is a moment of structural intensification, where long-standing vulnerabilities are accelerated and exposed. The collapse unfolding today is not simply a rupture, but the visible expression of deeper fractures that preceded it. In this sense, war is not only an event; it is also a diagnosis.

This becomes clearer when viewed in historical perspective. The Darfur conflict (2003–2010), while devastating, remained geographically contained, displacing approximately 2.5 to 3 million people. The current war, by contrast, has expanded across much of the country, producing more than 8 to 10 million internally displaced persons, alongside 2 to 3 million refugees. This shift from a localized crisis to a nationwide rupture marks a profound transformation: the crisis is no longer at the margins—it has moved to the center.

Although Darfur was more lethal in terms of immediate fatalities—estimated between 200,000 and 300,000—the present war reveals a more diffuse and expansive structure of death. Official figures indicate tens of thousands of direct casualties. However, broader estimates—taking into account deaths caused by hunger, the collapse of healthcare systems, and the breakdown of essential services—suggest that the total toll may exceed 250,000. This is not simply a discrepancy in data; it reflects a transformation in the nature of war itself, where death extends beyond the battlefield into the conditions of everyday life.

This shift is equally visible in the geography of destruction. Unlike earlier conflicts that primarily devastated rural regions, the current war has engulfed major urban centers, including the capital, Khartoum. In many areas, families were forced to leave within hours—often without belongings, plans, or any clear destination. Some left carrying only what they could hold in their hands. What collapses here is not only infrastructure—electricity, water, healthcare—but the organized civic space that sustains modern life. When cities fall, the frameworks of normal existence fall with them.

In such an environment, the relationship between the individual and society undergoes a profound transformation. As institutions weaken and certainty erodes, what emerges is not simply a vacuum of authority, but an exposure of sovereignty—revealing the limits of its prior reach. This condition echoes the insights of Thomas Hobbes, who described a world in which the absence of effective authority reduces life to a struggle for survival. Yet the Sudanese case suggests something deeper: the crisis lies not only in the sudden absence of the state, but in the long-standing fragility of its presence.

This transformation extends into the psychological core of human experience. Under prolonged insecurity, individuals enter a state of chronic toxic stress, where the nervous system remains in continuous alert. In such conditions, cognition itself begins to shift. Long-term planning gives way to immediate decision-making, often in ways that prioritize survival over everything else. The future, once something to build toward, becomes uncertain—sometimes unimaginable.

At the same time, the experience of time itself is altered. What emerges is a kind of temporal collapse: the future no longer functions as a stable horizon of possibility, but as an uncertain abstraction. The present expands, becoming urgent and overwhelming. Continuity is no longer defined by stability, but by endurance.

Forced displacement stands as one of the clearest manifestations of this transformation. With more than 10 million internally displaced people—over a quarter of the population—social life is profoundly disrupted. Yet this disruption does not produce a complete void. Instead, it generates a rapid reconfiguration of social networks, as individuals reorganize relationships according to the imperatives of survival.

Here, the sociological insights of Émile Durkheim become particularly relevant. Social cohesion, he argued, is sustained not only by institutions, but by networks of interdependence. In times of war, these networks do not disappear—they contract. They become more immediate, more localized, and more fragile.

Perhaps the most profound transformation, however, occurs at the level of perception. As violence becomes repetitive, it undergoes a process of normalization. It is no longer experienced as an exceptional rupture, but as a recurring condition. People do not stop feeling—but feeling itself changes.

In this transformation, digital platforms play a decisive role. It is estimated that between 60% and 70% of Sudanese users on platforms such as Facebook and WhatsApp are exposed daily to war-related content, with roughly 30% to 40% of that content involving hate speech, incitement, or misinformation.

This constant exposure does more than inform. It reshapes perception. Through repetition, rumors harden into social truths, and reality fragments into competing narratives. The conflict thus extends into what can be understood as narrative warfare, where the struggle is not only over territory, but over meaning—over how reality itself is understood.

At the center of this transformation lies the emergence of a new moral language. Accusations of betrayal, exclusion, and delegitimization redefine the boundaries of belonging. Difference is no longer negotiated—it is condemned. The “other” is not simply disagreed with, but morally displaced.

Here, the work of Michel Foucault offers a critical lens. Power operates not only through force, but through the production of discourse—by shaping what is considered true, acceptable, and legitimate. When the other is redefined as a threat, violence against them becomes not only possible, but justifiable.

War, in this sense, does not merely dismantle society—it reconstructs its moral and perceptual boundaries. It changes not only what happens, but how what happens is understood.

If war reshapes how people perceive the world, it ultimately reshapes the world they are forced to live in. Its deepest transformation is not only psychological, but structural—reorganizing economy, society, and the conditions under which the future becomes imaginable.

One of the clearest expressions of this is the emergence of a war economy. This is not simply an economy disrupted by conflict; it is an economy reorganized around it. Formal systems weaken, informal networks expand, and access to resources becomes increasingly unequal. In many cases, survival itself becomes transactional.

Over time, this becomes a system—one that produces its own logic and inequalities. Survival becomes the most valuable currency—and the most unevenly distributed. This dynamic reflects what scholars describe as “structural violence,” where harm is produced not only through direct force, but through the collapse of systems that sustain life.

Economic collapse deepens this reality. With poverty affecting a majority of the population and more than 20 million people facing acute food insecurity, daily life is increasingly organized around scarcity. In several regions, famine conditions are already present or at imminent risk. For many, daily decisions are reduced to immediate choices—what to eat, where to go, and how to remain safe.

This reshapes not only behavior, but values. Access—to food, to protection, to mobility—begins to define status more than education or professional achievement. The ability to navigate uncertainty replaces the ability to plan for the future.

At the same time, large-scale displacement and migration are transforming the country’s demographic structure. Urban centers are emptied, others overwhelmed, and skilled professionals continue to leave. What is lost is not only labor, but institutional memory—the knowledge required to sustain systems. This creates a feedback loop: collapse drives emigration, and emigration accelerates collapse.

Perhaps the most consequential transformation lies in education. With approximately 17 million children out of school, Sudan is experiencing one of the largest disruptions to education globally. This is not simply a lost generation—it is a generation being formed under entirely different conditions.

In this context, identity itself shifts. As the state weakens, individuals turn toward immediate forms of belonging—tribe, locality, or networks of protection. Identity becomes less about belief and more about function—defined by who can provide safety.

And yet, even within fragmentation, cohesion persists. Informal networks, mutual aid, and community solidarity emerge as survival mechanisms. Society does not collapse uniformly—it reorganizes unevenly.

The critical question is no longer how war transforms the present, but how it shapes the future.

Several trajectories are already in motion. In one, fragmentation becomes permanent, and war structures outlive the war itself. In another, collapse creates conditions for renewal and a new social contract. A third lies in prolonged instability, where war persists as background reality.

Across all scenarios, one fact remains: the human being emerging from this war will not be the same as the one who entered it.

War does not only destroy lives—it quietly redefines what it means to be human.

And any future that fails to recognize this transformation will not only misunderstand the past—it will misbuild the future.