I volunteered in a camp for displaced people from El-Fasher. This is what I saw | Notice

I was around 13 when the conflict in Darfur began in 2003. As a teenager, reading and listening to the news before the advent of social media, I did not fully understand the historical or political context, but I understood that action was necessary. A need to end a humanitarian crisis. It was one of the events that ultimately led me to become a doctor and work in areas of conflict and natural disasters.

During the first two weeks of December, I volunteered with an NGO providing medical care in an internally displaced persons (IDP) camp in al-Dabba, in the northern state of Sudan. In a way, I have returned to the beginning, to the place that first inspired me to act.

During the two weeks we spent in al-Dabba, the camp population increased from 2,000 to more than 10,000 people. It sometimes felt like there would never be enough resources to welcome all the new arrivals. Not enough food and water. Not enough medicine. Not enough latrines.

Instead, what I witnessed time and time again was the courage, generosity, and selflessness of the Sudanese people: from the displaced people themselves to the local staff of the NGO I was volunteering with.

These are the stories of some of those I met during a day at camp.

People like Fatima*, 15 years old. It took him 21 days to reach al-Dabba. She fled El Fasher as the Rapid Support Forces, a militia currently fighting the Sudanese army, advanced toward her hometown.

She was 10 weeks pregnant with her first child. She had to be transferred to the hospital for a fetal ultrasound. I asked him kindly if the child’s father would accompany him to the hospital. She looked away. Her mother whispered to me that she had been raped. I took Fatima’s hand in mine and sat with her in silence, her tears rolling down my sleeves.

Then I met Aisha, mother of five children. She had lost her husband during the long and arduous journey from el-Fasher to al-Dabba. Her hemoglobin level was extremely low and I told her I would have to transfer her to the nearest hospital for a blood transfusion. She couldn’t bear to leave her children because they had recurring nightmares and didn’t sleep well at night after losing their father.

We spent the better part of an hour trying to resolve issues with her and decided that the kids would stay with their grandmother while Aisha was transferred to the hospital.

And then there was Khadija. It had taken him four weeks to reach al-Dabba. In the chaos of her escape from El Fasher, she saw her husband being shot in the back. As heartbreaking as it was to leave without giving him a proper burial, she continued with her three young children, fleeing on foot.

On the way, there was little to eat and little drinking water. Her youngest child died of severe diarrhea and malnutrition. She managed to find the strength to scrape together enough money to hitch a ride in a vehicle with her two remaining children for part of the journey.

But tragedy struck again. They ended up in a car accident. Her second child died from her injuries. Khadija arrived in al-Dabba with her eldest son, the only surviving child.

When I met her in our medical tent, Khadija was 36 weeks pregnant with her fourth child. She had a urinary tract infection, so I gave her a course of antibiotics. She thanked me profusely by kissing me on both cheeks. His gratitude made me feel even more embarrassed that I had so little to offer someone who had endured so much. I told her she would be in my prayers.

Suddenly she leaned over and asked my name. I told her my name and she repeated it, letting it roll gently off her tongue. Then she pointed to her pregnant belly and said, “This is what I will name my child.” » I felt overwhelmed by what she was giving me when so much had already been taken away from her.

At one point I needed to take a break for midday prayers, so I headed to Aunt Najwa’s thatched house. She had been in the displaced persons camp for over a year. His prayer rug was one of his few possessions. But she offered it for free to anyone who needed it. His house felt like a safe haven. She insisted that I drink tea. When I politely declined, she offered me cooked beans and lentils. His generosity left me humbled.

Just like the courage of my translator, Ahmed. He was a local staff member of the NGO where I volunteered. When the war began in 2023, Ahmed took his parents and siblings to Egypt, made sure they were safe, and then returned to Sudan to continue serving his people. I’ve heard stories like this over and over again.

The local team in Sudan has made countless sacrifices to remain in the country and serve its people despite countless threats to their own security. When I think of my own father’s concern and concern as he dropped me off at the airport before my flight to Sudan, I can only imagine how Ahmed’s parents feel knowing that their son remains by choice in a war zone while they live in relative safety.

Sudan is experiencing the largest humanitarian crisis in the world. Yet it has received less than 35 percent of its global financing needs. A third of the population was displaced. One in two people is hungry. Many parts of the country are experiencing famine, and millions of people are at risk of starvation.

I don’t know where the solutions are. But I know that we, as an international community, have failed Sudan and its people time and time again.

We can do better. We must do better.

Fatima, Khadija, Aisha, Aunt Najwa and Ahmed deserve better.

The Sudanese people deserve much better.

*All names have been changed to protect their identities.

The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.