Memories of My Uncles… Mandela Is in Our Hearts

By: Abdulaziz Ali Omer

I write to you from inside the Othman Al-Badawi Library, a building whose windows are adorned with two facing doves, a symbol of peace, standing at the front of the Gedaref Theatre. Peace, after all, begins in the heart of a woman and in the smile of a child. And from between the shelves of books and the echoes of the stage, memories of the past flow into my mind, carrying with them the voices of my uncles who instilled in us the values of mercy, courage, and humility.

In my childhood, I vividly remember a yellow taxi stopping in front of our house during a funeral visit. My mother, wiping her tears as she recalled my late father, said: “That is your uncle, Yousif Al-Haj… a kind and gentle man.” The car drove away, leaving on the dirt road a trace like a flash of Scandinavian snow melting in the warmth of reunion and the longing of memories.

My encounters with Uncle Yousif Al-Haj were rare and brief, yet they left a deep imprint on my heart. Once, I saw him appear on Sudanese television, speaking about the struggles of migrants in Europe, particularly the Muslim community. I did not know the full details of his work, except for an introduction that described him as a cultural officer at the Scandinavian Waqf. Some friends told me he had visited Sudan as part of a Danish delegation following the crisis of the offensive cartoons against the Prophet ﷺ.

Earlier this year, after I had reassured myself about my grandmother’s health, I met him at home. He welcomed me with open arms, his smile radiating contentment, inner peace, and a renewed vitality filled with optimism. My aunt Arafat sat beside him, offering me a cup of hot tea as we exchanged warm conversation, where opinions mingled and diverged.

But Yousif was not the only one who shaped the contours of my childhood and memories. The house of my uncle Al-Ameen Al-Haj was our constant summer refuge, a haven brimming with warmth and comfort. There, I can still picture the old photos on the walls, and hear my grandmother Sitil’s laughter urging us insistently: “Drink your tea… it’s nothing but hot water.”

Al-Ameen was an athlete, a banker, and a politician who carried the concerns of the East. Through the Beja Congress and the Eastern Front, he defended the rights of minorities, until he was likened to South Africa’s Mandela. The comparison was no metaphor; he truly lived Mandela’s spirit in his struggle and patience. That is why his passing was a heavy blow that weighed on our hearts.

I once accompanied him to a development workshop, where I witnessed his great humility as he joked with a sick worker and then sat down to eat with his employees, laughing as one of them. He instilled in me a passion for storytelling and narrative writing before I ever set foot in journalism. Even in our last meeting, he continued to face illness with a smile, saying: “A person dies only on the day decreed for him; everything else, he can endure.”

But fate did not grant him much time. Dengue fever suddenly snatched him away, and soon after, we also bid farewell to my uncle Yassin. Al-Ameen and Yassin were like the confluence of the White and Blue Niles—bound together by work and loyalty, and in the end, united by their departure, leaving in us a wound that does not heal.

Yousif, with his cultural bridges in Europe; Al-Ameen, with his political struggle in the East; and Yassin, with his dedication to the institutions of his homeland… three uncles who painted a canvas of values we inherited: mercy, humility, courage, and hope. Their memory remains alive, inspiring us to endure and to hold fast to the light they left behind.

May God have mercy on them all, forgive them, expand their graves, and make their resting place a garden from the gardens of Paradise.