by Iman Saleh
KHARTOUM, May 8 (Xinhua) -- For nearly 17 months, the people of El Fasher, capital of Sudan's North Darfur State, lived under a deadly siege. Relentless attacks claimed lives and drove thousands into hunger, fear, and displacement. The tragedy reached its peak with a military assault that reduced much of the city to rubble.
Yet through it all, volunteers of the Sudanese Red Crescent Society (SRCS) stood on the front lines, risking their lives to help civilians trapped in the war.
My name is Iman Saleh. I am 34 years old. For years, I volunteered with the SRCS in El Fasher -- the city where I was born and raised, before the war changed its face and stole every sense of safety.
I stayed in El Fasher with my colleagues throughout the siege and bombardment, until the city fell to the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces in October 2025. By then, survival itself had become a daily struggle.
I never imagined the streets I knew would one day be filled with fear, smoke, and rubble, or that humanitarian work would become a constant race against death. After the siege tightened in May 2024, every part of life became an emergency. We lived between sirens, shelling, and endless cries for help.
Every morning, I put on the SRCS emblem, carried a small first-aid bag, and tried to believe we could still save some trace of humanity amid the devastation.
At first, we treated the wounded and moved the sick from dangerous neighborhoods to the few health centers still operating. But over time, El Fasher ceased to be a normal city. Homes were bombed, water was cut off for days, and people fell asleep to the sound of artillery.
I will never forget the day we responded to a drone strike. The houses had been almost completely destroyed. Dust covered the area like thick fog. A mother was screaming for her only child, who was trapped beneath the rubble.
We searched through shattered stone and burned wood until we heard a faint sound. I knelt down and began clearing debris with my bare hands -- because we had no proper rescue equipment. After long minutes, the face of a small boy appeared beneath the collapsed roof, covered in dust and blood. His eyes held a fear no child should ever know.
I held his hand and told him, "Don't be afraid ... we'll get you out."
The boy, about 6 years old, trembled silently while his mother cried nearby.
When we finally pulled him free, he clung tightly to my hand, as if afraid the rubble might swallow him again. At that moment, I realized survival is not only about saving a body. It is also about saving a soul from fear.
During the war, we often worked under fire. One night, shells struck near a crowded market. The streets descended into chaos, filled with blood and screams. We had only simple stretchers and a few bandages, yet dozens of people were wounded. I pressed my hand against the wound of a young man bleeding heavily while another volunteer tried to revive an unconscious child.
In moments like those, people do not think about fear. They think only about keeping the wounded alive for a few more minutes. Sometimes we carried the injured on foot because ambulances could not reach them.
I saw volunteers collapse from exhaustion. I saw mothers place their children in our hands as though we were their last hope.
We also searched for missing people.
I remember a little girl we found crying near a shelter center. The only thing she knew was her mother's first name. She stayed with us for two days, sleeping while clutching a small piece of cloth she said belonged to her mother.
After searching shelters and hospitals, we finally found her mother. The girl ran toward her in tears. Her mother fell to her knees and embraced her as though she had regained the whole world. We all cried, because war turns reunions like that into miracles.
While I was trying to save others, my own family was living through the same tragedy. Our home was hit by shelling. My sister lost one of her sons in the fighting.
After the city fell in October 2025, staying became impossible. I fled with my family and thousands of other civilians toward the town of Tawila. Leaving El Fasher felt like leaving behind an entire part of my life.
We walked for days through fear, hunger, and thirst. The roads were filled with displaced people carrying whatever remained of their lives on their backs.
Later, after another exhausting journey, I arrived in the city of Al-Dabba in northern Sudan. When I gave my name to the volunteer registering displaced families, I felt as though I was signing away an entire city, not simply leaving a home behind.
That was when I realized I was no longer only the volunteer running through El Fasher to save others. I had become one of those searching for shelter and a new beginning.
Even though I was displaced myself and living in a shelter tent, I joined the local branch of the SRCS and returned to work. Today, I help provide first aid, psychological support, and assistance in reuniting separated families.
Sometimes, when I look at the children here, I see the children of El Fasher. And when I hear mothers crying, I remember the long nights we spent under bombardment.
Today, on World Red Cross and Red Crescent Day, I think of all the volunteers who risked their lives -- to treat the wounded, calm frightened children, or reunite mothers with their children.
The war has taught me that humanitarian work is not simply a duty. It is a daily attempt to protect what remains of our humanity. I have lost my city, and many people I loved. But I still believe compassion is stronger than war, and that those who reach out to save others are the last light in this long darkness.
From inside my small tent in Al-Dabba, I still dream of returning to El Fasher one day -- not to remember the war, but to see the city rise again: a city for life instead of fear, and for hope instead of ashes. ■