Women

‍

‍

‍

‍

It would be difficult to sum up Aysha Musa Ahmad Idris, known as Aysha al-Falatiyyah, because her memory is revived in the minds of the Sudanese whenever their circumstances change, for better or for worse. Today, at a time when Sudan is being torn apart by violent fighting, Al-Falatiyyah’ssongs take on new meanings, ones that may not have crossed our minds if we had not been hurtling into the abyss. For example, Al-Falatiyyah’s ‘simsimal-Gadarif‘, now brings back memories of a diminishing way of life.

According to the researcher, Ustaz Muawia Yasin, Aysha Musa was born in Kassala although the precise year is unknown, and died in February 1974 in Omdurman. Al-Falatiyya was brought up in a household surrounded by religious and scientific knowledge. Her father, Haj Musa Ahmad, was a scholar of the Koran who taught students at the khalwa. Several researchers have mentioned that Aysha would sneak into houses where wedding occasions were being held to eavesdrop on the popular songs at the time which she would promptly learn by heart and later preform in front of her girlfriends. In a touching observation, Ustaza Khalidah al-Jinayd pointed out how Aysha’s little friends were her number one fans¹. This observation makes us think of the things we lose without realising; the foolish, unofficial dates that become invalidated when success, in its capitalist sense, is recorded by history.  

‍

In 1936 Al-Falatiyyah’s talent encountered that of the great musician Ismail Abd-al-Muin in Cairo when she recorded the first ten records all of which were composed Abd-al-Muin, however, many of her songs were lost save some which were salvaged by the poet Muhammad Awad-al-Karim al-Qurashiincluding ‘khadari al-ma badari’, ‘habaytu ma habani’, and ‘al-zuhurwal wardi’, one of Al-Falatiyyah’s earlier songs, later performed by the musician Uthman al-Shafi. Abd-al-Muin was an important part of AyshaAl-Falatiyyah’s life as he once again collaborated with her in 1941 and together they produced five more songs². It appears that Abd-al-Muin, whose work was inspired by his close relationship with his family’s womenfolk and female neighbours, found the perfect partner in Aysha, in his pursuit of creating art grounded in culture. His stepmother’s mother, Sayda Fatima Fur, a midwife at the time of the Sultan Ali Dinar, taught him the song ‘ya umgargiday’ in Maqam Zanjaran, along the tetrachords of Maqam Hijaz, and his ‘kandarumandaru’ was taken from Um al-Fugara Haboba Zaytuna who he spent time with as a child of seven as she sat weaving baskets in Mangala in southern Sudan³. According to the researcher Awad Babikir, Abd-al-Muin acquired his sayrah [traditional wedding song] rhythm from the sayrah singers Sharifah bit Bilal, Najaf,Qatat al-Khushum and Bit al-Agab. Meanwhile, the tum-tum rhythm he took from Rabha Khojali, who in turn had taken it from the signing of lorry attendants⁴.

Aysha al-Falatiyyah adopted the rhythm of the tum-tum in her early songs which is why her earlier production was free and joyous, filled with earthy undertones. Her later pieces, possibly due to market forces, took on a masculine rhetoric that has influenced female poets to this day, singing to rhythms and verse that negotiate modernity from a position of hesitation.Aysha was restless, and together with the poet Mahmud al-Tingari her work ranged from the early eloquence of ‘anni malum sadhu awtaru’ and the aspirations of a growing middle class in ‘alhan al-rabi’ and other neat compositions.  

One of the key moments in Al-Falatiyyah’s life was her involvement in negotiations of Sudanese nationalism and the creation of a unifying sentiment through her songs that entertained the Sudanese public in most parts of Sudan over the airwaves of Omdurman Radio. Embodied in these songs, that entered homes and captured people’s imagination, were features of the mystical part that is necessary in the process of imagining the community as one united entity, a process that is necessarily difficult and violent. Political scientist Benedict Anderson remarked that the imagined community was only created when it was possible for all the people of Europe to read the daily newspaper at the same time thus creating a unifying, spiritual language through this material ritual. Al-Falatiyyah’s share in unearthing this conscience is greater than that contributed by many who described themselves as part of the ‘nationalist movement’. For while the affandiyyah [educated elites] were busy denouncing culture on the pages of magazines, berating their relatives for, what they termed, their retrograde customs and traditions, Al-Falatiyyah took the side of the people and through culture negotiated their injustices through music and a strong will. Muawia Yasin explains that Al-Falatiyyah’s father had, for a long time, been angered by his daughter’s association with the singing milieu. He was in Al-Halawin where, Jadiya Musa, Aysha’s sister, remembers they heard her voice for the first time being played on a record. Her father’s anger completed subsided when he returned to Omdurman and found out how famous his daughter had become and he gave her his blessings⁵.

‍

Aysha became part of nationalist history by going on musical tours supporting the war effort of the Sudan Defence Forces who were obliged, as part of the armies under the British Crown, to fight against the Axis powers on the eastern and western front during World War II. Omitted from the history of the victors of this war was recognition of the sacrifices made by the colonies. Indian, Sudanese, Senegalese, Moroccan, Nigerian, Ghanaian and Caribbean forces fought on the side of France and Britain while the colonies financed the war effort as they were considered part of the economies of the two empires at the time. However, a small portion of this rich history is preserved in the songs of Aysha al-Falatiyyah such as when she sung for the soldiers of the SudanDefence Force in Khashm al-Girba and the border town of Karen, calling for their safe return. Aysha called Hitler and Mussolini, who never seemingly recovered afterwards,  riyalanbarraniyan [foreign Riyal] or useless currency.  

Nevertheless, Sudan’s women’s movement did not do justice to Ayash al-Falatiyyah and did not make her into a feminist icon. Al-Falatiyyah had in fact achieved the movement’s ambitions even before it was created. From the mid-1930s ‘Ashosh’ undertook professional trips and received pay for her work and, as her art matured, she continued to travel freely between the Sudanese towns performing at occasions and travelling to other countries representing Sudan at artistic events. She further took part in establishing the society of Sudanese artists, an organisation defending the interests of artists and negotiating the protection of their wages and their material and moral rights in the same way as a union would. Al-Falatiyyah, who could be clearly heard and seen in the public sphere, was an artistic icon and a dear part of our nationalist memory, how then has she been ignored by this movement?

(1) Interview with Khaldah al-Jinayd, Blue Nile TV (YouTube)

(2) Personal interview with the researcher Ustaz MuawiaYasin

(3) Interview with Ismail Abd-al-Muin, Sudan TV channel

(4) Interview with Ustaz Awad Babikir, Sudan TV (YouTube)

(5) Translation by Muawia Yasin of the section on Aysahal-Falatiyyah in the first edition of the publication ‘A History of Song andMusic in Sudan’

‍

It would be difficult to sum up Aysha Musa Ahmad Idris, known as Aysha al-Falatiyyah, because her memory is revived in the minds of the Sudanese whenever their circumstances change, for better or for worse. Today, at a time when Sudan is being torn apart by violent fighting, Al-Falatiyyah’ssongs take on new meanings, ones that may not have crossed our minds if we had not been hurtling into the abyss. For example, Al-Falatiyyah’s ‘simsimal-Gadarif‘, now brings back memories of a diminishing way of life.

According to the researcher, Ustaz Muawia Yasin, Aysha Musa was born in Kassala although the precise year is unknown, and died in February 1974 in Omdurman. Al-Falatiyya was brought up in a household surrounded by religious and scientific knowledge. Her father, Haj Musa Ahmad, was a scholar of the Koran who taught students at the khalwa. Several researchers have mentioned that Aysha would sneak into houses where wedding occasions were being held to eavesdrop on the popular songs at the time which she would promptly learn by heart and later preform in front of her girlfriends. In a touching observation, Ustaza Khalidah al-Jinayd pointed out how Aysha’s little friends were her number one fans¹. This observation makes us think of the things we lose without realising; the foolish, unofficial dates that become invalidated when success, in its capitalist sense, is recorded by history.  

‍

In 1936 Al-Falatiyyah’s talent encountered that of the great musician Ismail Abd-al-Muin in Cairo when she recorded the first ten records all of which were composed Abd-al-Muin, however, many of her songs were lost save some which were salvaged by the poet Muhammad Awad-al-Karim al-Qurashiincluding ‘khadari al-ma badari’, ‘habaytu ma habani’, and ‘al-zuhurwal wardi’, one of Al-Falatiyyah’s earlier songs, later performed by the musician Uthman al-Shafi. Abd-al-Muin was an important part of AyshaAl-Falatiyyah’s life as he once again collaborated with her in 1941 and together they produced five more songs². It appears that Abd-al-Muin, whose work was inspired by his close relationship with his family’s womenfolk and female neighbours, found the perfect partner in Aysha, in his pursuit of creating art grounded in culture. His stepmother’s mother, Sayda Fatima Fur, a midwife at the time of the Sultan Ali Dinar, taught him the song ‘ya umgargiday’ in Maqam Zanjaran, along the tetrachords of Maqam Hijaz, and his ‘kandarumandaru’ was taken from Um al-Fugara Haboba Zaytuna who he spent time with as a child of seven as she sat weaving baskets in Mangala in southern Sudan³. According to the researcher Awad Babikir, Abd-al-Muin acquired his sayrah [traditional wedding song] rhythm from the sayrah singers Sharifah bit Bilal, Najaf,Qatat al-Khushum and Bit al-Agab. Meanwhile, the tum-tum rhythm he took from Rabha Khojali, who in turn had taken it from the signing of lorry attendants⁴.

Aysha al-Falatiyyah adopted the rhythm of the tum-tum in her early songs which is why her earlier production was free and joyous, filled with earthy undertones. Her later pieces, possibly due to market forces, took on a masculine rhetoric that has influenced female poets to this day, singing to rhythms and verse that negotiate modernity from a position of hesitation.Aysha was restless, and together with the poet Mahmud al-Tingari her work ranged from the early eloquence of ‘anni malum sadhu awtaru’ and the aspirations of a growing middle class in ‘alhan al-rabi’ and other neat compositions.  

One of the key moments in Al-Falatiyyah’s life was her involvement in negotiations of Sudanese nationalism and the creation of a unifying sentiment through her songs that entertained the Sudanese public in most parts of Sudan over the airwaves of Omdurman Radio. Embodied in these songs, that entered homes and captured people’s imagination, were features of the mystical part that is necessary in the process of imagining the community as one united entity, a process that is necessarily difficult and violent. Political scientist Benedict Anderson remarked that the imagined community was only created when it was possible for all the people of Europe to read the daily newspaper at the same time thus creating a unifying, spiritual language through this material ritual. Al-Falatiyyah’s share in unearthing this conscience is greater than that contributed by many who described themselves as part of the ‘nationalist movement’. For while the affandiyyah [educated elites] were busy denouncing culture on the pages of magazines, berating their relatives for, what they termed, their retrograde customs and traditions, Al-Falatiyyah took the side of the people and through culture negotiated their injustices through music and a strong will. Muawia Yasin explains that Al-Falatiyyah’s father had, for a long time, been angered by his daughter’s association with the singing milieu. He was in Al-Halawin where, Jadiya Musa, Aysha’s sister, remembers they heard her voice for the first time being played on a record. Her father’s anger completed subsided when he returned to Omdurman and found out how famous his daughter had become and he gave her his blessings⁵.

‍

Aysha became part of nationalist history by going on musical tours supporting the war effort of the Sudan Defence Forces who were obliged, as part of the armies under the British Crown, to fight against the Axis powers on the eastern and western front during World War II. Omitted from the history of the victors of this war was recognition of the sacrifices made by the colonies. Indian, Sudanese, Senegalese, Moroccan, Nigerian, Ghanaian and Caribbean forces fought on the side of France and Britain while the colonies financed the war effort as they were considered part of the economies of the two empires at the time. However, a small portion of this rich history is preserved in the songs of Aysha al-Falatiyyah such as when she sung for the soldiers of the SudanDefence Force in Khashm al-Girba and the border town of Karen, calling for their safe return. Aysha called Hitler and Mussolini, who never seemingly recovered afterwards,  riyalanbarraniyan [foreign Riyal] or useless currency.  

Nevertheless, Sudan’s women’s movement did not do justice to Ayash al-Falatiyyah and did not make her into a feminist icon. Al-Falatiyyah had in fact achieved the movement’s ambitions even before it was created. From the mid-1930s ‘Ashosh’ undertook professional trips and received pay for her work and, as her art matured, she continued to travel freely between the Sudanese towns performing at occasions and travelling to other countries representing Sudan at artistic events. She further took part in establishing the society of Sudanese artists, an organisation defending the interests of artists and negotiating the protection of their wages and their material and moral rights in the same way as a union would. Al-Falatiyyah, who could be clearly heard and seen in the public sphere, was an artistic icon and a dear part of our nationalist memory, how then has she been ignored by this movement?

(1) Interview with Khaldah al-Jinayd, Blue Nile TV (YouTube)

(2) Personal interview with the researcher Ustaz MuawiaYasin

(3) Interview with Ismail Abd-al-Muin, Sudan TV channel

(4) Interview with Ustaz Awad Babikir, Sudan TV (YouTube)

(5) Translation by Muawia Yasin of the section on Aysahal-Falatiyyah in the first edition of the publication ‘A History of Song andMusic in Sudan’

‍

We are used to reading about past events and famous personalities in books or seeing their stories unfold on a screen in documentaries or even through oral recitations told by our elders. However, our history may also be recorded in so many other ways including some very unusual ones. One such way is through linking these events or people to items in our surroundings, a practice of ‘naming’, which is very common in Sudan. These range from new car models, (Egyptian superstar) Laila Elwi to describe the ample and generously curved Toyota four-wheel drive to the Da’ish bus stop near the private university where students were allegedly recruited to join the extremist group. The names are political, cultural and social loaded with references that are understood by the society.

In Sudan, this tradition of naming extends to items of clothing, in this case, to the traditional women’s garment known as the tob, asari-like length of material that is wrapped around a woman’s body as an outer layer. Through the names of tobs, you can get a sense of some of the important events and personalities in Sudan’s modern history. From the obvious printing of faces or logos on the various tob fabrics, to more figurative representations of foods or associations, the names of these tobs are a clever and often humorous.

‍

How are the names created and who thinks of them? Like today’s social media, it may be possible to trace the origin of a post that has gone viral but most likely a certain observation or description will capture the attention of users who will develop it and begin sharing and spreading it.The key here is that people can relate to it. In a similar vein, the names of tobs, once a marketing ploy by traders seeking to create a fashion trend and thus sell more, may also receive their names because of clever associations with their namesakes; iyun Zaroug, eyes of the former prime minister famed for his beautiful eyes is a tob with shiny circular discs and Al-Khartoumbilayal a night scene of the capital with sparkling dots resembling the twinkling lights of the capital. Women themselves also have the prerogative to name tobs, youm al mar’ah, women’s day or Nada al-Gal’ah after the tob worn by the famous singer. Names may also be given to tobs because they resemble a phenomenon that has captured the public imagination such as tob Abual-Gunfud, a tob covered in circular tassels named after rumours of the discovery of medicinal uses of hedgehogs.

‍

And while these fashions and their associations to daily life may be superseded by newer designs and fashions, the fact that they were once named at a certain time, will remain a form of informal Sudanese archive. Will the war and rupture that it has created disrupt this tradition of naming tobs or will it continue to be used? A recent Tik-Tok advert by a tob vendor includes a tob called Al-Quwat al-Musalaha, the Armed Forces, a sign possibly of the names of tobs to come and their association with this tragic event in Sudan’s history.  

‍

We are used to reading about past events and famous personalities in books or seeing their stories unfold on a screen in documentaries or even through oral recitations told by our elders. However, our history may also be recorded in so many other ways including some very unusual ones. One such way is through linking these events or people to items in our surroundings, a practice of ‘naming’, which is very common in Sudan. These range from new car models, (Egyptian superstar) Laila Elwi to describe the ample and generously curved Toyota four-wheel drive to the Da’ish bus stop near the private university where students were allegedly recruited to join the extremist group. The names are political, cultural and social loaded with references that are understood by the society.

In Sudan, this tradition of naming extends to items of clothing, in this case, to the traditional women’s garment known as the tob, asari-like length of material that is wrapped around a woman’s body as an outer layer. Through the names of tobs, you can get a sense of some of the important events and personalities in Sudan’s modern history. From the obvious printing of faces or logos on the various tob fabrics, to more figurative representations of foods or associations, the names of these tobs are a clever and often humorous.

‍

How are the names created and who thinks of them? Like today’s social media, it may be possible to trace the origin of a post that has gone viral but most likely a certain observation or description will capture the attention of users who will develop it and begin sharing and spreading it.The key here is that people can relate to it. In a similar vein, the names of tobs, once a marketing ploy by traders seeking to create a fashion trend and thus sell more, may also receive their names because of clever associations with their namesakes; iyun Zaroug, eyes of the former prime minister famed for his beautiful eyes is a tob with shiny circular discs and Al-Khartoumbilayal a night scene of the capital with sparkling dots resembling the twinkling lights of the capital. Women themselves also have the prerogative to name tobs, youm al mar’ah, women’s day or Nada al-Gal’ah after the tob worn by the famous singer. Names may also be given to tobs because they resemble a phenomenon that has captured the public imagination such as tob Abual-Gunfud, a tob covered in circular tassels named after rumours of the discovery of medicinal uses of hedgehogs.

‍

And while these fashions and their associations to daily life may be superseded by newer designs and fashions, the fact that they were once named at a certain time, will remain a form of informal Sudanese archive. Will the war and rupture that it has created disrupt this tradition of naming tobs or will it continue to be used? A recent Tik-Tok advert by a tob vendor includes a tob called Al-Quwat al-Musalaha, the Armed Forces, a sign possibly of the names of tobs to come and their association with this tragic event in Sudan’s history.  

‍

At first glance, the image of the traditional Sudanese woman, burning her incense and telling her stories, may seem like just a memory of a past life. But in fact, this is still the lived and deeply rooted reality of Sudanese women today. They have remained steadfast amidst the ruins of an era in which governments collapse and state institutions disintegrate. With a dignified composure, these women continue to be the most faithful guardians of the nation’s memory and cultural heritage.

‍

Women’s role as guardians has deep historical roots. Archaeological research has indicated that a Nubian woman was the leader of the first-known state in the civilisation of Kerma and that women in ancient Meroe participated in carrying heavy loads and in communal labour, examples revealing the historical foundations of women’s functions in the economy and society. However, despite Sudanese women’s longstanding participation in their communities, this position has not been reflected in official archives or museums set up following the creation of the modern state in the early 20th century. Women usually only appeared as folkloric symbols at wedding festivities or seasonal events, while their actual role as knowledge and culture-bearers remained hidden and absent from official records.

‍

In contrast to official documentation which omitted women, oral traditions were able to preserve their position as vessels of culture and identity. Stories, songs, proverbs, and ritual practices were shared and performed in households and villages under the soft glow of lanterns. The UN’s cultural organisation UNESCO emphasises how important oral traditions are in passing down values and knowledge, and how safeguarding rituals such as the Jirtig, fosters social cohesion and strengthens community resilience, especially in times of fragmentation and collapse.

‍

The role of Sudanese women certainly cannot be captured in a single image. In rural areas, they preserved the rituals of henna and Jirtig, oversaw the harvest season and organised social events. While in the cities, women fought for political liberation; from revolutionary marches to civil society initiatives.

‍

These differences do not only reflect geographical locations, they are also influenced by class and cultural intersections within the feminist struggle itself. For instance, in Omdurman a woman might be an activist writing a political manifesto in the evening, while in the morning she will have prepared food at the neighbourhood Takiyya (communal kitchen) or overseen a traditional henna ceremony. She does not fit into a single mould but is a living tapestry where symbolic action intertwines with daily struggle.

‍

Sudan’s current feminist movement is not immune to these complexities. While women in the capital and other major cities may have spearheaded the movement, raising banners for freedom and political representation, those in the villages and on the margins continued to defend their food security and economic survival—their weapons being the tools of cooking, farming, and daily toil. These differing priorities do not diminish the nature of their struggle; rather, it demonstrates that Sudanese feminism does not follow a linear trajectory but is a map of interconnecting roles and concerns.

‍

Fatima Mohamed al-Hassan is one of Sudan’s most iconic women who founded the Women’s Museum in Darfur, Nyala in 1985. Fatima did not only collect artefacts relating to heritage which portrayed the diversity of tribes in the region and their traditions, she also organised cultural events, lectures and workshops in traditional crafts, and produced radio programmes on folklore for Radio Nyala. Through her work, Fatima was able to protect Sudanese heritage and plant its seeds in new generations, a woman’s voice of resistance amid the intractable conflict in Darfur.

‍

And now, as the war enters a lengthy stage of attrition and the basic functions of the state are neglected, a new, soft form of feminist resistance of a social and cultural nature is taking place. The clearest expression of this is in the neighbourhood Takaya (communal kitchens) set up in underprivileged districts, serving as centres of solidarity. These are run by women like Maysa Mohamed al-Amin who founded the initiative Sanadak Ya Watan, (Supporting Our Nation) as a Takiyya to feed the hungry. At its core, this is not a charitable act, but a strong expression of solidarity and the “building of a social network that resists social breakdown”, as Maysa herself describes it.

‍

Meanwhile, with the degradation of the country’s information infrastructure, in particular the loss of invaluable recordings from the Sudan TV archive, the looting of museums and burning of archives such as those at the National Museum of Antiquities, Sudanese youth in the diaspora have resorted to the digital realm to protect what remains of their heritage from erasure. Old Sudanese songs are shared on Instagram, Telegram, and TikTok together with explanations about their meanings and when and where they were made. Some people post recipes for Sudanese dishes while others tell stories. In this way, and with the use of novel tools, the landscape of Sudanese popular culture is being reshaped and reimagined. While they may all appear disconnected, altogether these efforts form part of a reactive trend that is safeguarding heritage at a moment of rupture and loss.

‍

Another one of these initiatives is one by Ma’ab Muawiya Suleiman Shumeis, known as ‘mozarila0’ on TikTok, who posts a range of heritage-related content in innovative and interactive formats. Ma’ab brings her audience together through live segments that include activities and heritage quizzes, making a point to represent different regions of Sudan—from north to south and east and west—in order to address regional and racial biases. As Ma’ab says “people have begun to come together and because younger generations are more tolerant and open to it, I look forward to genuine unity in the near future.”

‍

Ma’ab also works on documenting songs, translating them from different languages into Arabic, and reviving aghani al-banat (girls’ songs), aghani al-sīra (traditional wedding songs), aghani al-haqiba (a genre that emerged in the early 20th century and became the poetic voice of urban Sudan), and even modern remixes. In doing so, she seeks to create a live, cultural unity within the digital space—one that reflects Sudanese diversity and opens the window wide for new generations to learn about their cultural past.

‍

Despite all these initiatives, questions arise over whether digital feminism in the diaspora can have a tangible impact on the harsh realities in Sudan and whether digital heritage can ever match the depth of embodied experience and oral tradition. These questions do not diminish the value of these efforts but instead they place them within their historical and intellectual context, highlighting how these initiatives contribute to documenting and safeguarding women’s memory and heritage. At a time of generational fragmentation and shifting mediums, these initiatives may be seen as an attempt to build a digital bridge between the past and present.

‍

Moreover, when the buttresses propping up the state have themselves collapsed and only memories are what remain of the homeland, it is the women at the heart of this scene who continue to guard what is left of the country’s identity and to preserve its heritage. In this context, women’s endeavours transcend cultural practice; they become acts of resistance and restoration. From lighting incense in their displacement camps to the whispering of a song by mother to her daughter in the midst of war and, of course, through documenting songs and stories of old on social media. This complex reality gives rise to a fundamental question: how can digital archiving initiatives be integrated into the work performed by women on the ground inside Sudan in order to build a more inclusive and impactful cultural movement for Sudan’s future?

‍

Cover picture taken by Isam Hafiz

At first glance, the image of the traditional Sudanese woman, burning her incense and telling her stories, may seem like just a memory of a past life. But in fact, this is still the lived and deeply rooted reality of Sudanese women today. They have remained steadfast amidst the ruins of an era in which governments collapse and state institutions disintegrate. With a dignified composure, these women continue to be the most faithful guardians of the nation’s memory and cultural heritage.

‍

Women’s role as guardians has deep historical roots. Archaeological research has indicated that a Nubian woman was the leader of the first-known state in the civilisation of Kerma and that women in ancient Meroe participated in carrying heavy loads and in communal labour, examples revealing the historical foundations of women’s functions in the economy and society. However, despite Sudanese women’s longstanding participation in their communities, this position has not been reflected in official archives or museums set up following the creation of the modern state in the early 20th century. Women usually only appeared as folkloric symbols at wedding festivities or seasonal events, while their actual role as knowledge and culture-bearers remained hidden and absent from official records.

‍

In contrast to official documentation which omitted women, oral traditions were able to preserve their position as vessels of culture and identity. Stories, songs, proverbs, and ritual practices were shared and performed in households and villages under the soft glow of lanterns. The UN’s cultural organisation UNESCO emphasises how important oral traditions are in passing down values and knowledge, and how safeguarding rituals such as the Jirtig, fosters social cohesion and strengthens community resilience, especially in times of fragmentation and collapse.

‍

The role of Sudanese women certainly cannot be captured in a single image. In rural areas, they preserved the rituals of henna and Jirtig, oversaw the harvest season and organised social events. While in the cities, women fought for political liberation; from revolutionary marches to civil society initiatives.

‍

These differences do not only reflect geographical locations, they are also influenced by class and cultural intersections within the feminist struggle itself. For instance, in Omdurman a woman might be an activist writing a political manifesto in the evening, while in the morning she will have prepared food at the neighbourhood Takiyya (communal kitchen) or overseen a traditional henna ceremony. She does not fit into a single mould but is a living tapestry where symbolic action intertwines with daily struggle.

‍

Sudan’s current feminist movement is not immune to these complexities. While women in the capital and other major cities may have spearheaded the movement, raising banners for freedom and political representation, those in the villages and on the margins continued to defend their food security and economic survival—their weapons being the tools of cooking, farming, and daily toil. These differing priorities do not diminish the nature of their struggle; rather, it demonstrates that Sudanese feminism does not follow a linear trajectory but is a map of interconnecting roles and concerns.

‍

Fatima Mohamed al-Hassan is one of Sudan’s most iconic women who founded the Women’s Museum in Darfur, Nyala in 1985. Fatima did not only collect artefacts relating to heritage which portrayed the diversity of tribes in the region and their traditions, she also organised cultural events, lectures and workshops in traditional crafts, and produced radio programmes on folklore for Radio Nyala. Through her work, Fatima was able to protect Sudanese heritage and plant its seeds in new generations, a woman’s voice of resistance amid the intractable conflict in Darfur.

‍

And now, as the war enters a lengthy stage of attrition and the basic functions of the state are neglected, a new, soft form of feminist resistance of a social and cultural nature is taking place. The clearest expression of this is in the neighbourhood Takaya (communal kitchens) set up in underprivileged districts, serving as centres of solidarity. These are run by women like Maysa Mohamed al-Amin who founded the initiative Sanadak Ya Watan, (Supporting Our Nation) as a Takiyya to feed the hungry. At its core, this is not a charitable act, but a strong expression of solidarity and the “building of a social network that resists social breakdown”, as Maysa herself describes it.

‍

Meanwhile, with the degradation of the country’s information infrastructure, in particular the loss of invaluable recordings from the Sudan TV archive, the looting of museums and burning of archives such as those at the National Museum of Antiquities, Sudanese youth in the diaspora have resorted to the digital realm to protect what remains of their heritage from erasure. Old Sudanese songs are shared on Instagram, Telegram, and TikTok together with explanations about their meanings and when and where they were made. Some people post recipes for Sudanese dishes while others tell stories. In this way, and with the use of novel tools, the landscape of Sudanese popular culture is being reshaped and reimagined. While they may all appear disconnected, altogether these efforts form part of a reactive trend that is safeguarding heritage at a moment of rupture and loss.

‍

Another one of these initiatives is one by Ma’ab Muawiya Suleiman Shumeis, known as ‘mozarila0’ on TikTok, who posts a range of heritage-related content in innovative and interactive formats. Ma’ab brings her audience together through live segments that include activities and heritage quizzes, making a point to represent different regions of Sudan—from north to south and east and west—in order to address regional and racial biases. As Ma’ab says “people have begun to come together and because younger generations are more tolerant and open to it, I look forward to genuine unity in the near future.”

‍

Ma’ab also works on documenting songs, translating them from different languages into Arabic, and reviving aghani al-banat (girls’ songs), aghani al-sīra (traditional wedding songs), aghani al-haqiba (a genre that emerged in the early 20th century and became the poetic voice of urban Sudan), and even modern remixes. In doing so, she seeks to create a live, cultural unity within the digital space—one that reflects Sudanese diversity and opens the window wide for new generations to learn about their cultural past.

‍

Despite all these initiatives, questions arise over whether digital feminism in the diaspora can have a tangible impact on the harsh realities in Sudan and whether digital heritage can ever match the depth of embodied experience and oral tradition. These questions do not diminish the value of these efforts but instead they place them within their historical and intellectual context, highlighting how these initiatives contribute to documenting and safeguarding women’s memory and heritage. At a time of generational fragmentation and shifting mediums, these initiatives may be seen as an attempt to build a digital bridge between the past and present.

‍

Moreover, when the buttresses propping up the state have themselves collapsed and only memories are what remain of the homeland, it is the women at the heart of this scene who continue to guard what is left of the country’s identity and to preserve its heritage. In this context, women’s endeavours transcend cultural practice; they become acts of resistance and restoration. From lighting incense in their displacement camps to the whispering of a song by mother to her daughter in the midst of war and, of course, through documenting songs and stories of old on social media. This complex reality gives rise to a fundamental question: how can digital archiving initiatives be integrated into the work performed by women on the ground inside Sudan in order to build a more inclusive and impactful cultural movement for Sudan’s future?

‍

Cover picture taken by Isam Hafiz