ART

THE CREATIONS OF OUR TALENTED REVOLUTIONARIES…

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Poetry

A Poem by Dinan Alasad
In the perfect world my shoulders aren’t tense.
I don’t wake up with my jaw clenched.
I never miss any of my brothers’ birthdays and every day is sunny.
Except when I want it to rain because I like the smell.
But all is well.

All is well.

In the perfect world there is no time. We never rush. We never race.
Events occur in sequences and everyone moves at their own pace.

In the perfect world my friends never feel bad things. My best friend is never hurt.
Everyone is complete and every plan we make works. And we only speak velvet words.

In the perfect world my people have joy we didn’t have to shed any blood to feel.
We never have to resist to exist.
We never lose our voices asking for freedom, justice or peace. We just are. It just is.

In the perfect world I only write about the smell of oud oil. The sound of oud strings.
The way the boy with skin like sandalwood sings.
I write about my friends laughing and being in love,
wearing that smile you wear when you go home to loving and being loved.
In the perfect world I am sometimes a river, other days a fountain.
I am always water because I never need to be a mountain.

A poem by Sara Hassan, @itssara
Let me take you back to 1956
Where we felt the victory in our fingertips
It coursed through our veins then into our souls
And flowed into the Nile, where our stories were told.

We met at the waters, where the colours combined
And we sat by the river where we sang and we smiled
We embraced the cards that the new system dealt
Because all we knew was how fulfilling it felt.

We’d dip our feet in and laugh when it tingled
But we eventually grew out of the joy that it kindled
And we borrowed a truck from the neighbour outside
To be at one with the sand and the sky

So for hours we drove to Al Damazin
And on the way passing Wad Madani
We climbed out the truck and laid on the sand
Where we stared at the stars and admired our land

For Sudan truly was a sight for sore eyes
And perhaps the blue of the sky is making me feel wise
But the Sahara we lived on was so beautifully grand
That they too sat and admired our land.

After the tranquility of lying in between
We were finally at one with our motherland’s green
At the top of Jabaal Gargad was the view
Of the Tabaldi trees lined up in a queue

They whispered a song and took it in turns
And said the song was about a lesson to be learned
I was lost on the way, indeed my mind wondered far
But the trees led my eyes to the reservoir

It was then that I noticed my friend held a smile
Yes he, too, thought back to the Nile
And it was in that moment, a woman and a man
Realised their endless love for Sudan.

I’ll bring your attention back to today
Where the colours seem to constantly turn into grey
The yellow and green were shot in the past
Despite our belief that it truly would last.

Perhaps it was me who kept seeing the blue
The Sahara’s sky and the tree’s story, too
It so strongly reminded me of the Nile in Khartoum
Where the blue now protects our martyrs’ tomb.

I often think of this story of mine
But telling it today sent shivers down my spine
What was I missing, why wasn’t it complete?
What did I really see on those Khartoum streets?

During my journey admiring Sudan,
I rarely came across a South Sudanese man
In fact, all my meetings were with Northerners like me
Never with a Darfuri or a Junubi

I think of the lesson that the trees tried to say
What were they truly trying to portray?
It had to be more than the river’s beauty
And suddenly, so suddenly, it dawned on me.

With questions to ask, I visited the Nile
And saw the martyrs below the river shine
And I was transported back to 1956
Where death was creeping up Darfur’s fingertips.

Deep in the river lies the blood of the South
Who were shot in the heart, the eyes and the mouth
Yes, Sudan is much bigger than the cards I was dealt
Only now I realise how Darfur felt

Looking back in hindsight, it appears to me
That Khartoum indeed held a blue beauty
But the Nile tingled our feet when we looked at it and smiled
Because below was the blood of a Darfuri child.

Photography & Artwork Gallery

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Music