Three years on: ‘We are still here, still resisting, still finding ways to live’

Elsadig Elnour, Islamic Relief’s Country Director in Sudan, reflects on how the long-running conflict has transformed every aspect of daily life – and what his team has accomplished against impossible odds.

It’s hard to believe it’s been 3 years. Sometimes I catch myself remembering what life looked like before the conflict, and it feels like a different lifetime.

Back then, everyday life was ordinary in the best sense. Families woke up, went to work, children went to school. Streets were alive – vendors calling prices, the smell of fresh bread drifting through the air, music spilling from cars. Markets crowded, noisy, full of bargaining, and the sound of the call to prayers. It wasn’t perfect, but it was stable, familiar, social.

When silence replaces life

Now, the silence hits me hardest. Streets that once had so much life are empty or dangerous. Many of us fled our homes, leaving behind everything – not just possessions, but memories.

We live in constant fear that we might be forced to flee again. Even when you find a new place, it’s fragile: landlords raise rents, electricity cuts out for days, prices climb beyond reach. Then there’s the worry about relatives in other cities that are unreachable because of fighting or blackouts.

The hardest part isn’t the material loss – it’s the uncertainty. At the beginning of the conflict, we told ourselves it would last weeks. But as months turned into years, the unsettled feeling grew heavier. Every new day brings another test. It feels like steering a ship without a compass, with people depending on you to keep it afloat.

Leading while living the crisis

Three years in, the humanitarian situation is devastating.

I have seen families who once lived in their own homes now surviving in displacement camps, entirely dependent on aid. You can see the helplessness in their eyes, as if they don’t recognise who they are anymore, but there is always a flicker of hope when someone shows up with food, medicine, or even just a listening ear.

Working with my team during this crisis has been one of the hardest things and the most rewarding thing I have ever done. Many of our staff are themselves displaced, yet they show up every day to serve communities facing the same struggles. Some have lost family members. Others don’t know if their homes still stand. But they come to work anyway.

We have had to adapt rapidly. We have relocated our main office multiple times. We have worked through prolonged power cuts, communication blackouts lasting weeks and supply chain collapses. We had to navigate the most difficult bureaucratic situations in a country with a collapsed system. We have mourned colleagues lost to violence – amazing people who gave their lives trying to help others.

We have also reached more than 2 million people in 2025 across 7 states – emergency food, clean water, medical care, cash assistance that lets families make their own choices. We have backed community-led takaaya kitchens that have become lifelines. We have equipped health facilities that would otherwise have closed. We have distributed dignity kits to displaced women and provided psychosocial support to traumatised children.

Leading means carrying responsibility while fighting your own doubts. Yet we keep going because giving up isn’t an option.

What the headlines miss

The headlines barely scratch the surface. They talk about battles and ceasefires – but not the daily grind of instability and hunger.

More than 30 million people – two-thirds of Sudan’s population – now need humanitarian assistance. Over 80% of health facilities are non-functional. Famine has been declared in multiple regions. Infrastructure is destroyed, schools are closed, healthcare is broken, livelihoods are slipping away.

And beneath all this, the social fabric is tearing apart; communities that once stood together are fractured, trust is eroding, bonds are unravelling.

Resilience shines through

Yet resilience shines through. I have seen neighbours share what little they have, communities opening takaaya (community kitchens), young people starting businesses surrounded by chaos, families rebuilding routines in displacement.

There is a stubborn refusal to let despair win. Hope comes in small acts of resistance – a mother cooking for her children despite shortages, a teacher holding lessons under a tree, a community organising to clean a street. Our local staff, themselves displaced and grieving, choosing to serve others before securing their own safety.

Still here, still fighting

So, 3 years on, what does it feel like? It feels heavy, yes. It feels uncertain. But it also feels like we are still here, still resisting, still finding ways to live. The war has taken so much, but it hasn’t taken away our humanity, our ability to care, or our determination to survive.

If you are reading this from afar, I want you to know: Sudan is not just a screaming headline.

Sudan is families, markets, laughter, and resilience. It i is loss, but it’s also stubborn hope. It’s humanitarian workers who refuse to abandon their communities even when they are living the same crisis. And as long as we keep telling these stories, maybe the world will see us not only as victims of war but as people who continue to fight for life, dignity, and a future.

Islamic Relief has been working in Sudan since 1984 and has reached more than 2 million people with lifesaving aid since the conflict began three years ago. While we continue to call for action in Sudan, help Islamic Relief to continue supporting people in desperate need in of aid. Donate to our Sudan Emergency Appeal today.