Hanan Al-Tayeb
Khartoum, July 21, 2025
(Al-Alq Center for Press Services)
Sarah (14) lost both her legs under the rubble of her home, destroyed in an airstrike amid the war between the army and the Rapid Support Forces. She was displaced without legs to ill-equipped shelters. Schools shut their doors to her—not because she was incapable, but because the prevailing system did not acknowledge her existence. Her family tried to help her adjust, but the shelter had no accessible bathrooms, no paved paths for her crutches, and no staff who understood the silent language of her eyes—her only way to ask for help without crying out. “Since the day of my injury,” she said, “I have not slept on a bed, I am no longer a student, and I no longer play.”
Omar has been blind since childhood. The war did not harm his body, but it destroyed the safety net he relied on for years—his siblings, neighbors, and the mosque where he used to pray. After displacement, he found himself in a tent without support, without audio books, and without even a voice to read him the news. The broadcasts went silent, as if the world had chosen to mute itself along with him.
In some shelters, displaced people with disabilities are forced to share a single wheelchair, while others move around with broomsticks or improvised wooden supports. These scenes reveal how they are excluded from humanitarian response priorities, as though different bodies do not deserve even the simplest tools of human dignity.
Between Sarah and Omar’s stories, systemic cruelty intertwines with social discrimination. Both have become prisoners of a system that neither recognizes their needs nor provides adequate care or rehabilitation.
Amid these stories, official acknowledgment is absent, as are national policies, international conventions that guarantee the rights of persons with disabilities, and humanitarian emergency plans.
In the absence of psychosocial and community support, persons with disabilities become living symbols of how dignity can be quietly extinguished. In the ashes of Sudan’s escalating war, countless painful stories testify to the suffering of persons with disabilities amid the bloody conflict, where pain is bound to the loss of hope and the absence of support.
“Where are my legs, Mom?”
“Where are my legs, Mom?” whispered eight-year-old Youssef as he awoke from a brief coma in a room at Al-Nau Hospital in Omdurman. A shell had struck while he was playing with his sister in front of their home. Youssef survived with amputated limbs, but his sister said her last goodbye that day.
Today, Youssef lives in a temporary shelter without electricity or medicine, carrying the scars of war on his body. All he knows of childhood is early pain and a dream still deferred—returning to life with two prosthetic limbs.
Throughout this journey of pain and resilience, voices echo from the corridors of displacement, stories of survival that rarely reach major media outlets, yet carry unbearable anguish.
“They lifted me like a piece of furniture”
Mutawakil Atta Al-Haj, displaced from East Nile, tells his story at the Association of Persons with Disabilities in River Nile State: “I had no choice. I fled with my family in search of safety, but the reality was harsher than I imagined—no services, no authority responsible for people with disabilities during displacement.
“I left a rugged mountainous area looking for a more accommodating environment, only to face few job opportunities and mounting hardships.”
Khalid Mohamed Khair Othman, a former journalist and real estate office owner from Bahri, found himself suddenly in the heart of an unforgiving battle:
“Displacement wasn’t a choice but an imposed destiny. Travel became a burden that deepened my physical and psychological suffering.
“I was displaced twice—first to Northern State, then to River Nile State. I traveled in an open cargo truck with another vehicle on top of it; they lifted me as if I were a piece of furniture. The pain wasn’t just physical or mental—it was humiliating.
“Along the way, we faced harsh security checkpoints. The concept of disability had no place in the soldiers’ minds; they looked at me with suspicion, as if I were a threat. No one asked, ‘Do you need help?’—they only asked, ‘What’s your relation to the warring parties?’
“When I finally arrived in River Nile State, the suffering didn’t end—there were no special evacuation mechanisms for people with disabilities, no initiatives to provide suitable employment. I currently live at the Association of Persons with Disabilities, receiving minimal aid from the Red Crescent and some charities, barely enough to feed those in need.
“Many sleep on the ground under the open sky, prey to disease with no chance of treatment. How long must people with disabilities pay double the price in every crisis?”
Nowhere to go—and tragedy along the way
Omar Hassan recounts, in a voice heavy with sorrow, his forced journey from Khartoum to Sennar State’s Singa city, fleeing intense bombardment:
“After the Rapid Support Forces entered Singa, my family and I were forced to flee again—this time with no clear destination—amid panic and disarray. We walked long distances on foot with my five children, enduring the added pain of my eight-year-old son’s intellectual disability. The journey took endless hours amid children’s screams, shelling, and lack of food and water.
“In one village, we found a donkey cart to carry us. But my disabled child couldn’t survive the ordeal; he died during the exhausting trip.”
His story reflects the absence of emergency plans that prioritize the needs of persons with disabilities during crises and even before wars erupt.
Children with autism: terror, deprivation, and loss
Rahila, mother of a child with autism (H.M.), recounts a journey that began with hope and ended in tragedy. After years in Saudi Arabia, the family returned to Sudan seeking stability. Her son had joined Al-Iklil Center for Intellectual Education in Omdurman, where he showed signs of progress and integration. But war struck, shattering their dream.
“H.M. couldn’t understand checkpoints or crossing points. He screamed inside the car, refused food and sleep, and wouldn’t use bathrooms in relatives’ homes. His behavior reflected an invisible inner torment.
“The tragedy didn’t end with displacement. He suffered a severe fever that doctors in Shendi failed to treat. Later transferred to Merowe, he was diagnosed with brain fluid requiring surgery. Despite medical efforts, the pain persisted until he passed away after a year of relentless suffering.
“His death embodied the harsh reality faced by displaced children with disabilities—a desperate call to protect this marginalized group and guarantee their right to safety and dignity.”
Another mother, of a child (M.N.A.) with severe autism and mild intellectual disability, recalls:
“The war forced us from Al-Amda neighborhood in Omdurman to nearby Thawrat areas, then on a grueling journey to Shendi, Gedaref, Port Sudan, Kassala, and finally Asmara in Eritrea, all to secure travel documents.
“My daughter often cried and screamed, repeatedly saying, ‘Let’s go home,’ and calling relatives’ names in a bid to hold on to a sense of safety. Many people misunderstood her behavior, and I found myself constantly apologizing and explaining her condition.
“In Saudi Arabia, our challenges continued. Without legal residency, we couldn’t enroll her in any educational institution. Her father struggled to find stable work, and our dream of settling down became a daily battle requiring real support.”
Tragedy on the road
According to eyewitnesses, on the Port Sudan–Atbara road, a tragic traffic accident orphaned a 10-year-old autistic boy (M.L.M.). His parents were killed, leaving him unable to communicate. He spent days in a hospital before relatives in Atbara claimed him. Caring for him proved challenging; after being passed between families, compassionate donors helped relocate him to Egypt under the care of his aunt, his mother’s only sibling and a university student.
Displacement without end
Zuhal Mohamed Hussein, with a physical disability, recounts fleeing Khartoum in a rickshaw to Soba Bridge in East Nile, then taking a bus to Gezira State despite a herniated disc, carrying a cane and prosthetic limb amid crowds of fleeing people.
After a 13-hour journey, she reached a village near Al-Hasahisa, where she stayed for two months. She developed glaucoma due to high blood pressure.
In Kassala, the Physical Disability Union and the Women with Disabilities Association established a center for displaced persons with disabilities, but it lacked the barest essentials.
Zuhal says the distance between classrooms and bathrooms exceeded 500 meters, exhausting her prosthetic limb and causing painful sores. She slept on the ground with scarce water and minimal assistance.
Her health and mental state worsened due to the lack of mobility aids such as canes, wheelchairs, and hearing devices, alongside insufficient medication for chronic diseases. She ended her displacement by becoming a refugee.
“In Uganda’s refugee camp, life didn’t improve as I’d hoped. I found myself living under tarpaulins without basic stability. Aid was monopolized by a select few, and the surrounding mountains and heavy rains made movement almost impossible.”
“Forgotten and abandoned”
Many persons with disabilities express feeling entirely overlooked by authorities and humanitarian agencies, especially amid fierce fighting in Khartoum and Rapid Support Forces–controlled areas.
In Gezira State, many were forced to flee on open trucks and unsuitable cargo vehicles. They feel they have become “forgotten people,” victims of not only death but also discrimination and exclusion, bearing doubled burdens and devastating neglect.
A cry against death
In El-Fasher, western Sudan, the “Safe Corridors and Friendly Shelters” initiative issued an urgent humanitarian appeal to save persons with disabilities trapped in the escalating war.
The initiative described the situation as “catastrophic,” pointing to paralyzed children unable to move, blind women lost amid gunfire, and mobility-impaired individuals trapped under rubble without medicine or care.
It called for immediate evacuation to safe areas and urgent medical and psychological assistance, as well as shelters ensuring a minimum of human dignity.
Numbers that fail to tell the story
Dr. Fatima Mohamed Osman Maki, a psychiatrist and director of Al-Iklil Center for Psychological Training and Capacity Building in Omdurman, notes that Sudan’s last comprehensive census in 2008 recorded a population of about 37 million before South Sudan’s secession, with persons with disabilities comprising 5%. She stresses that this figure fails to reflect the current reality, especially with no updated statistics and worsening conditions.
A UNICEF report indicated that children with disabilities made up more than 15% of the population, with at least one million children affected by various disabilities in 2016.
Before the war, UN estimates in 2023 put Sudan’s population at over 45 million, meaning approximately 7 million people live with disabilities—a “frighteningly high” figure, according to Dr. Fatima.
She confirms that their situation has worsened dramatically during the war, with killings, displacement, and deteriorating health due to the lack of essential services. Persons with disabilities are absent from relief plans, denied medicine, rehabilitation, education, and access to aid, facing neglect and abuse that make them among the most vulnerable groups.
Al-Iklil Center reports that disabled children are particularly vulnerable to epidemics sweeping through displacement camps, causing high mortality rates and severe health deterioration.
“Safe Corridors”: A grassroots cry
Mona Qasim explains that the “Safe Corridors” initiative emerged from within affected communities due to the absence of official response to the needs of persons with disabilities in the war.
“They cannot survive on their own due to mobility barriers and lack of accessible means,” she said.
“Some were unable to flee during fighting; others were accused of collaborating with the army or deemed burdens on society, heightening the danger they face.
“The initiative, led by persons with disabilities themselves, raised funds to hire buses to evacuate families to Wad Madani. Thirteen families were evacuated through group and individual transport according to the type of disability, while funds were transferred to isolated cases to help them reach shelters.”
Bullying, harassment, and abuse
Qasim emphasized that persons with disabilities face bullying and harassment, calling for urgent protection measures. She questioned the lack of implementation of Article 11 of the Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities, which requires ensuring their safety during armed conflicts—a commitment yet to be fulfilled.
Human rights activist Mohamed Al-Fadel Abdelhafiz urged authorities and humanitarian agencies to address their needs, noting that many could not leave conflict zones or access essential services, exposing them to severe violations and risks, especially in Darfur and Gezira.
He added that the actual number of persons with disabilities exceeds official figures, with some estimates exceeding 1.4 million—a likely undercount due to the absence of accurate data. Abdelhafiz stressed the urgent need for plans ensuring access to basic services and relocation to safe areas.
A rising wave of amputations
Dr. Asala Salah revealed that Al-Nau Hospital in Omdurman receives three to six amputation cases daily amid indiscriminate bombardments killing civilians, including children, women, and men.
“The tragedy doesn’t end with physical injuries,” she said. “The lack of rehabilitation and medical care exposes new amputees to severe complications, plunging them into an unforeseen grim reality.”
An appeal to the international community
The escalating crisis demands urgent medical aid, including treatments and prosthetics, and the launch of rehabilitation and reintegration programs. Calls to stop indiscriminate attacks on civilians to prevent new disabilities remain moral imperatives.
Medical sources report overcrowded shelters, especially with disabled children who developed diseases due to displacement and poor healthcare. They live in conditions that fail to meet the minimum standards of dignity.
Since the war began in April 2023, Dongola Center has recorded over 500 amputations, receiving 80% of cases nationwide after other centers shut down. Monthly cases have surged from 30 to 150–180, revealing a dangerous escalation in injuries.
Reports also note 46,000 cases of diabetes in Northern State, 14,000 of whom visited the center, adding another non-war-related amputation risk.
Shutdown of prosthetics centers
Medical sources further note that prosthetics production centers have closed due to the shutdown of Red Cross warehouses in Bahri and soaring prices of basic materials, such as adhesive “Neukerine,” rising from 100 to 3,000 Sudanese pounds. Official statistics are absent, but civilians and soldiers facing amputations number in the thousands.
Dr. Abdelqader Abu, secretary-general of the National Council for Child Welfare, reported that more than 10,000 children lost vital limbs to shelling—a humanitarian catastrophe underscoring the war’s toll on children in conflict zones.
Rehabilitation gap
An orthopedic surgeon, who preferred anonymity, said:
“We perform amputations to save lives, but we lack rehabilitation tools. It’s like throwing them into the sea and asking them to swim.”
The reality shows no rehabilitation centers, no psychological support programs, and not even a database documenting the catastrophe’s scope. Most survivors leave hospitals without any reintegration plan.
The Sudanese Media Forum and its member institutions publish this report, prepared by Al-Alq Center for Press Services, to shed light on persons with disabilities amid war—facing the loss of essential services and health and psychological care, leading to the deaths of some, including children, and subjecting them to abuses in a conflict that demands more tailored care programs.
