When can I return? I don't know. But I dream that someday I will, not merely as a survivor, but as someone who can help bring life back to the place I once loved.

by Ahmed Al-Nour

TAWILA, Sudan, Nov. 1 (Xinhua) -- My name is Ahmed Al-Nour, and I'm 38 years old. I'm writing from a small tent on the outskirts of Tawila, a town about 70 km southwest of El Fasher.

It took me three days on foot to reach this place after El Fasher fell to Sudan's paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF) on Oct. 26, following more than 500 days of siege amid their war with the Sudanese Armed Forces.

Here in Tawila, I spend the day helping at a makeshift first-aid point -- doing what I can for others, just as I did when I worked as a paramedic in El Fasher before I left. After reaching relatively safer Tawila, I could not stop thinking about what I endured in El Fasher and the agonizing flight that followed the RSF's takeover -- experiences that continue to haunt me.

I worked at El Fasher's main hospital before moving to a small health center during the siege. In the hospital, patients had to lie on the floor because all the beds were gone. We washed and reused bandages, treated wounds with exhausted hands, and used spoons to ration medicine so a little more could be saved for others.

My daily work included both treating wounds and comforting patients. Most often, I would whisper into their ears, "You will be fine," even though I knew that words alone could not ease their pain.

At night, we slept with the rumble of artillery in the background. With each shelling, the sky lit up as if the city itself were burning.

Then came Oct. 26. Explosions drew near like the footsteps of an angry giant as the RSF militants launched an assault. Thick smoke swallowed neighborhoods one after another.

Outside my medical center, people ran in every direction -- their cries mixed with prayers as bullets flew. Death and destruction roamed the streets without mercy. Civilian bodies lay on the streets, and homes that once sheltered families were turned into ashes.

"The road to Tawila is still open. Leave now, and you might survive!" a colleague urged me. I sneaked out at night with neighbors, some of whom were women carrying children. I took only a small bag of first-aid supplies and a half-filled bottle of water, hoping it would be enough for the long journey to Tawila.

For three days, we walked along rugged paths winding through mountains and valleys, under the scorching sun and amid clouds of dust that stung our noses. By day, we hid from armed groups preying on travelers. By night, we had to keep on moving under the moonlight, with only barking dogs and our own heavy footsteps breaking the eerie silence.

Along the road, I saw abandoned homes, bodies wrapped in thin cloth, dead animals, and stagnant pools of dust-colored water. After hours of walking, an elderly man collapsed from exhaustion by the roadside. I sat beside him, wiped his brow, and bandaged his wound with a piece of my shirt. Slowly, he managed to recover.

The three days of walking felt like three long years. When we finally reached Tawila, the sun was setting. Before us stretched a sea of tents. My fellow travelers' faces showed exhaustion, their eyes filled with tears, while the children who had walked with us scrambled for water upon arrival.

As I settled into a gray canvas tent at nightfall, I couldn't help thinking about El Fasher -- my city, where I had my first home -- which once pulsed with life, bustling markets, and the laughter of children.

I closed my eyes and thought of its streets, the scent of rain-soaked earth, and the ordinary life I once had before the Sudanese Civil War broke out in April 2023.

While the RSF's takeover of El Fasher made headlines around the world, I was consumed by sorrow and loss. To me, the city was not just a name in the news -- it was real, dear, and now gone.

When can I return? I don't know. But I dream that someday I will, not merely as a survivor, but as someone who can help bring life back to the place I once loved.