Unpreparedness and Challenges: Reporting on Sudan's Conflict From Within

Having reported on conflicts globally for more than twenty years, nothing can truly prepare you for the experience of covering a war within your own country. Witnessing familiar locations being occupied and destroyed, and facing a profound sense of helplessness.

However, this summer, my team and I embarked on a mission to document Sudan's conflict and expose the hidden orchestrators who bear ultimate responsibility for the unspeakable atrocities that have plagued this war.

Two distinct voices contended for dominance within my mind. The first voice, that of the journalist, incessantly queried, jotted down details, and conversed about the evidence presented. Collaborating with my team, we confronted the immense logistical and editorial obstacles associated with shooting an investigative documentary in a war-torn nation.

Meanwhile, the second voice, which I suppressed while engrossed in work, resembled a cacophony, relentlessly cycling in my thoughts, serving as a constant reminder that I could never fully escape the reality that this place was my home, and this endeavor carried personal implications.

You, a nation, with an ignited revolutionary spirit, are embraced by the diverse melodies that accompany these words. Sudans esteemed music masters have skillfully interpreted them, evoking joy, melancholy, and even a sense of martial pride. Yet, for countless Sudanese, these words hold immediate familiarity as the poetic verses of Mahjoub Sharif, the voice of the people.

Even at this moment, his words reverberate within me and I am immediately taken back to when I was just five years old. It was the first time I witnessed my mother shedding tears in our London kitchen, as she duplicated tapes on our double cassette deck, with one spool playing the songs while the other recorded. Afterwards, we would pass on the original tape to the next person in line within our close-knit community of exiles.

Sudanese women who fled the conflict in Geneina in Sudan's Darfur region, line up to receive rice portions from Red Cross volunteers in Ourang on the outskirts of Adre, Chad.

Zohra Bensemra/Reuters

The Sharifs' tapes weren't the only ones that my father and she eagerly awaited. They also had love songs from their youth, traditional tribal music for my father who came from a village, and the latest songs that were becoming popular at Sudanese weddings and parties. This music was a nostalgic reminder of home, which they had to leave despite their deep love for the country.

I received a stern warning against ever tinkering with the tapes in the cassette deck, particularly the ones containing Sharif's songs. Unbeknownst to me, those tapes were considered contraband, obtained at great peril to his life, as his words held the same threat as the protests they ignited. Nevertheless, from a young age, I grasped the perilous power of words.

As journalists, my parents were compelled to leave their homeland, resulting in their exile. However, due to my efforts and those of my team in investigating the RSFs collaboration with Russia, I faced charges from pro-RSF authorities. For an entire year, it was too risky for me to return to my country.

Nevertheless, when the war erupted earlier this year, there was no other place I longed to be but home.

I am a product of exile, as my parents sought to practice journalism in a country that suppressed basic freedoms. Amidst our constant relocation between Khartoum, Cairo, Jeddah, and London, my parents established a newspaper initially based in Sudan during a period of relative stability between military dictatorships. Eventually, the publication shifted to Cairo and then back to Sudan in 2000, lured by the false promise of democratization by the then-dictator Omar al-Bashir.

Today, I have surpassed the age my mother was when we found ourselves in that kitchen in London. In recent years, I have taken on the role of observer and reporter, closely monitoring the aftermath of Bashir's overthrow and the ongoing turmoil in my homeland of Sudan.

This is the first time I have seen my country through my parents' perspective. In 2019, I was amazed as I witnessed people flooding the streets and bravely facing gunfire to challenge Bashir's rule, and I was moved to tears as the very soldiers who were once under Bashir's influence regained power.

What this experience has made me realize is that my identity as a journalist is deeply rooted in my parents' ideals and aspirations. They have instilled in me the belief that everyone, including those who don't reside in Western capitals, should have the right to envision a better future. Every individual deserves a nation where the power lies with its people, not with authoritarian rulers and military forces. Every person should have the freedom to express themselves and have their voices heard.

That is the basis for my work and the investigations we conduct.

In April, when conflict erupted between the Sudanese military and the leadership of the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces, who were previously involved in a genocide in Sudan's western Darfur region, our team and I immediately intervened.

The Lead / Sudan conflict / Nima Elbagir / Jake Tapper_00030428.png

During our live broadcast, I hardly had any breaks as I was constantly on air. Apart from delivering reports, I also found time to message my siblings who are scattered across the globe, discussing strategies to convince our parents to vacate their residence.

Then came the exciting news. CNNs US documentary strand "The Whole Story" expressed interest in commissioning a one-hour episode on Sudan. It exceeded our expectations, leaving both the team and me elated. As we began to strategize, I found solace in my familiar role as a journalist, relying on my experience.

Who is responsible for this? Who is providing support and sustaining the ongoing fight? How can we capture the attention of the world? These are the typical questions we ask when embarking on any investigation. However, the significance of these inquiries hit differently for me, as Sudan is my home. When the very act of seeking answers has consequences for the people I hold dear, and when those answers raise doubts about my family's potential to ever return home again, the dynamics completely shift.

In a traditional wooden structure near the Chad-Sudan border, the team and I spent hours working under a raffia mat roof. We constantly adjusted ourselves to accommodate the steady stream of interviewees who sat in front of our cameras. In just one session, nearly two dozen individuals courageously shared their testimonies of what they had witnessed and the hardships they had faced in Darfur, just across the border.

After nearly three weeks of crossing Sudan and months of prior investigation, we reached this place. We were examining how Emirati support, Russia's provision of aid through its Wagner proxy militia, and their interference in the region had contributed to this war.

This was the moment we finally had the opportunity to hear directly from the victims themselves. I sat on the ground, attentively listening to witness testimonies. Young girls shared their experiences of holding their younger brothers as their lives slowly slipped away, while others spoke of the horrifying realities of rape, humiliation, and enslavement. They described the immense depth of the losses suffered by the people affected. As I listened, anger consumed me.

My journalist self was no longer a place I could hide.

Nima Elbagir on a UN-chartered flight to report on Sudan's conflict.

Alex Platt/CNN

Even now, when I'm back home in London, I struggle to control my anger. Their stories replay in my mind, over and over again. I've never been ashamed of shedding tears, but for a long time, they wouldn't come.

Forty years after witnessing my parents singing, crying, and laughing to smuggled Sudanese songs, I now find myself searching Spotify for Sudanese playlists. And I'm not alone, as I stumble upon new ones almost every day: love songs, catchy tunes about girls hurrying barefoot to answer the door to potential suitors. Songs that compare a beloved's smile to a string of pearls, gracefully matching the beauty mark on her cheek.

Listening to the music of Sharif and Mohammed Mekki Ibrahim, the captivating vocals of Mohammed Wardi and Abdelgadir Salim, is the only time I am able to shed tears. These songs serve as a poignant reminder of their significance to my parents, to the generations before them, and to the present generation fighting for freedom. They remind me that as a collective, we have faced similar circumstances in the past and triumphed. Despite the current atmosphere of horror and violence, it is heartening to witness the unwavering belief in change among countless Sudanese individuals.

We still talk about democracy as a right. As an inevitability.