This is not normal for people from Sudan. It’s not normal for anyone.
By Ola Labib
Ola Labib is a British Sudanese comedian, writer and actress.
This week marks three years of war in Sudan, but it feels like only yesterday that I was getting those first panicked messages from family and hearing reports of a blackout. Back then, amid the fear and uncertainty, I held onto hope that things would have stabilised by now. Three years on, that hope feels distant, and little seems to have changed.
When this war first broke out, many of my family members fled. Some found refuge in Egypt, others made their way to the camps in Gedaref. Devastatingly, some were killed; others, including my uncle, went missing. He still hasn’t been found.
Over the course of the last year, some of my family members have had to return to their village in the Gazira region of Sudan. It’s a bittersweet step forward - a return home, but to conditions marked by scarce electricity and a severe lack of basic resources.
Sudanese people are no strangers to war. For years, everyday life in Sudan has unfolded against the backdrop of conflict - from Darfur to Blue Nile, to the Nuba Mountains and beyond. This history has forged a deep resilience, but this should never be mistaken for acceptance. What’s happening in Sudan is not normal, and it should never feel that way.
All too often it feels like the world has grown desensitised to this suffering. Images of children in war zones are scrolled past in seconds, their reality easily ignored. Old, harmful views that poverty, and even violence, are somehow “normal” for us still exist. But this is not normal for people from Sudan. This is not normal for anyone.
It’s true that the scale of suffering in Sudan is almost unimaginable. Five million children have been driven from their homes. Seventeen million require humanitarian assistance. If children are not dying, they’re getting injured. If they’re not getting injured, they’re missing out on education. Deprivation is widespread, whether it’s physical, emotional or social. But behind every statistic, every example of extraordinary human suffering, is a child, with their own personality, hopes and dreams – and a right to grow up free from fear and violence.
Children in Sudan are also increasingly at risk of death or injury from explosive weapons. Through my recent work with Save the Children, I’ve learnt more about this horrifying shift. In Sudan, and around the world, the nature of warfare is changing. For decades, children in war zones were more likely to die from malnutrition, disease, or collapsing health systems than from bombs or bullets. But in 2023, over 1,200 children were killed or injured in Sudan, rising to over 1,700 in 2024 – a near 40% rise in just one year. The rules once designed to protect children are being ignored, and children are paying the price with injuries that will shape their lives forever.
To shine a light on this, I contributed to a new animated film which tells the story of two young brothers from Khartoum whose lives were changed forever after an explosion struck while they were playing football at home. Ali*, aged 13, had to have his leg amputated. His younger brother Nour*, only 9, suffered severe injuries that left him paralysed. Displaced from their home, their mother then embarked on a desperate journey across large swathes of Sudan, seeking treatment for her sons amid collapsing health systems and ongoing insecurity.
Stories like this are heartbreaking and far too common. This one resonates deeply with me. I lost my second cousin during the war; he was around the same age as the brothers. Not everyone has that personal connection, but that cannot define our capacity for empathy. Any child lost or injured to war is one too many. We must never just accept this reality.
I wish more people could see and understand the potential joy and warmth of Sudanese people. Whenever I’m able to return home, I’m struck by the deep sense of peace and community that defines village life. It’s woven into everyday moments, like whole families gathering to share Sudanese coffee, called Jabana, after lunch. Even now, the smell of roasting coffee beans carries me straight back to my childhood, sitting with my grandmother by the fire, feeling a simple, carefree sense of belonging.
Showing the full richness and potential for joy in Sudanese life is vital, because it reminds us that change is not only possible, but worth striving for. After three years of devastating conflict with little progress, the world’s attention inevitably begins to slip. Other crises emerge, and Sudan is pushed further from view. The silence can feel very heavy – like the world has forgotten. Like we’re being purposely ignored.
If you know someone from Sudan, check in on them. Just a simple, ‘How are you doing?’ can mean more than you realise. It’s a powerful reminder that we are still seen, that this matters, that Sudanese lives are still important.
Sudanese people, especially Sudanese children, want and deserve peace. The UK Government must act when the rules meant to protect Sudanese children are ignored and urgently pressure all warring parties - and their international backers - to end the violence, prioritise protecting children, and hold those who harm children accountable.
We cannot accept anything less.
*Names have been changed to protect identities.
