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The women recreating Sudan’s national memory
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.
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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
