Since gaining independence in 1956, Sudan has remained trapped in a perpetual cycle of crises. Civilian and military governments have taken turns ruling, yet none have succeeded in establishing a stable political system capable of accommodating the country’s geographic, ethnic, and political diversity. Brief periods of democratic governance, following popular uprisings and revolutions in 1964, 1985, and 2019, have consistently given way to military takeovers, either through direct coups or through alliances with complicit political forces. This vicious cycle has not only reproduced failure in building a modern state but has also turned Sudan into a recurring theatre for armed conflict.
What distinguishes the Sudanese case is that the roots of its crises do not lie solely in Khartoum, nor are they simply the result of elite power struggles. Rather, they extend to the structural imbalance between centre and periphery, and to a persistent failure to incorporate rural and marginalized regions into a unified national project. From the early wars in the South to the Darfur tragedy, and now to the current conflict between the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), it is the countryside that has borne the brunt of violence, while the capital has continued to represent the locus of political and economic decision-making.
Placed in a broader regional context, Sudan’s trajectory intersects with the experiences of several other states. Somalia’s central government collapsed in 1991, becoming a paradigm of institutional disintegration and militia fragmentation. Ethiopia, too, has in recent years faced profound challenges following the Tigray War and its accompanying ethnic polarization, which now threatens the cohesion of its federal structure. In Chad, Mohamed Idriss Déby inherited a fragile regime after his father’s assassination in 2021, one held together by a precarious tribal balance and external support. The Democratic Republic of Congo stands as an example of a vast, resource-rich country unable to assert full sovereignty, largely due to chronic conflict in its peripheries and repeated regional interventions.
These comparisons demonstrate that Sudan’s predicament is not an outlier; rather, it is part of a wider pattern across the Horn of Africa and Central and West Africa, where identity conflicts intertwine with resource competition and foreign meddling. Yet Sudan remains unique in the repeated attempts at democratic transition, and the repeated failures thereof. Popular uprisings have revealed the Sudanese people’s capacity for mobilization and the toppling of authoritarian regimes. However, each time this momentum has been derailed by weak political parties, military interference, and the absence of a comprehensive state-building vision.
Against this complex backdrop, the war that erupted on April 15, 2023 between the SAF and the RSF took both observers and Sudanese citizens by surprise, not only for dismantling what remained of state institutions but for turning Khartoum itself into a battlefield, while opening the floodgates for regional and international intervention. Now, more than two years into the conflict, an end is nowhere in sight. In such circumstances, engaging with comparative experts like Dr Roland Marchal becomes essential to better understand the roots of the crisis and envision possible trajectories for Sudan’s uncertain future.
Dr Roland Marchal, a political science professor at Sciences Po Paris, has devoted the bulk of his academic career to studying conflict and civil war in sub-Saharan Africa, particularly their relationship with state formation. He is a leading voice advocating for the development of a sociology specific to armed movements. Marchal co-founded the East Africa Observatory, a research programme coordinated by the Centre d’Études et de Documentation Économiques, Juridiques et Sociales (CEDEJ) in Khartoum, in partnership with the Centre de Recherches Internationales (CERI). In this conversation, he offers a comparative analysis that sheds light on analytical blind spots and the critical lessons Sudan might draw from regional experiences, and considers what lies ahead for a country navigating a path of deep uncertainty.
Here below is the Atar interview with Dr Marchal.
1. As an expert in Sudanese and regional affairs, were you surprised by the outbreak of war in Sudan on April 15, 2023? Did it feel like a moment that could have been avoided?
Yes, the war certainly took me by surprise, because I believe there are always alternatives that can prevent the descent into violence. On that day, the general sense was that the crisis remained under control. Prior meetings had signaled some positive developments, and both Sudanese citizens and the international community had reason to hope that tensions were subsiding and that the transitional period could proceed. It’s true that the October 2021 coup indicated a crisis, but it was not expected to escalate into open warfare. As for the justification involving the integration of the RSF into the regular army, it was hardly sufficient grounds for a war to erupt.
What truly shocked observers was that the fighting continued, not just for days or weeks, but for months, and now years. The dominant assumption had been that this was merely a leadership dispute and that the presence of both factions in Khartoum would force a swift cessation of hostilities. That assumption proved false. In addition, narratives began to emerge suggesting that certain Islamist elements, both inside and outside the military, played a role in igniting the initial clashes in Merowe and Khartoum. But these claims are the domain of future historians: it is their task to collect testimonies, verify the credibility of these accounts, and determine whether they reflect historical truth or are merely a new storyline constructed to rationalise the conflict.
2. Considering similar conflicts, such as in Somalia, were there early indicators that this war would be prolonged? From the manner in which the war began and the way it has been led, is it possible to infer that a resolution is not imminent?
Indeed, the derailment of the transitional process following the October 2021 coup was a clear sign of trouble, but that coup itself stemmed from earlier failures. At this point, a serious conversation is necessary: What exactly happened between August 2019 and October 2021? Did the transitional period represent a genuine opportunity for state reconstruction, or was it a dead-end from the start?
The roots of the crisis do not revolve solely around figures like Hemedti or al-Burhan, but lie in the broader history of the Sudanese state.” “The roots of the crisis do not revolve solely around figures like Hemedti or al-Burhan, but lie in the broader history of the Sudanese state.
Many interpret the coup as a last-ditch effort by the SAF and RSF to prevent the establishment of a democratic regime. However, I find that interpretation somewhat hasty. It requires deeper thought. The roots of the crisis are long-standing. They do not revolve solely around figures like Hemedti or al-Burhan, but rather lie in the broader history of the Sudanese state, particularly in its failure to integrate rural areas into the centralised structure and to redress the policy imbalances that have plagued the country since independence.
We must revisit pivotal moments, such as Jaafar Nimeiry’s era in 1971, when a group of modernising administrators attempted to reshape the rules of engagement with rural Sudan, only to fail. After each failure, the necessary questions were never asked: Why did we fail? Despite clear objectives of modernisation, openness, and public inclusion, success remained elusive. The same dynamic unfolded during the Darfur crisis in 1987, just prior to the 1989 coup. In the 2000s, the secession of the South and a mounting economic crisis dominated the scene, while citizens continued to cling to the illusion of spontaneous change, an illusion long cultivated by the al-Bashir regime. But waiting alone does not produce transformation.
This brings us to a question of real academic significance: how did the protests of late 2018 evolve into one of Sudan’s most politically conscious movements, calling explicitly for regime change? Was this a natural development, or were there actors who helped reframe economic grievances into political demands? It is a central question, reflecting a shift in the pattern of mobilisation. The movement began in mid-sized towns, migrated to the capital, and then became concentrated in Khartoum at the expense of other regions, a recurring pattern in Sudanese history, albeit with some exceptions.
In my view, this underscores a fundamental misstep by the transitional government: its neglect of rural areas in favour of urban centres, especially Khartoum. From a survivalist perspective, one might argue that protecting the capital is tantamount to protecting the state, as seen in Somalia and the Democratic Republic of Congo. However, a successful transition requires meaningful inclusion of the different Sudan regions and serious engagement with their challenges. Rural populations are an integral part of the state, they paid a heavy price under the al-Bashir regime, yet the new administration offered them little in return. Simply banning the National Congress Party and assuming that the entire population stood behind the new government was a grave error.
I am not suggesting that today’s war is a rural uprising against urban centres, but had there been a sincere effort to connect with those communities, the trajectory of the conflict between the army and the RSF might have unfolded very differently.
3. During the 2019 transition, the strategic vision of the new political order remained unclear. There was a general sense of confusion. In such moments, it is useful to look at the experiences of other nations. Why have some political transitions succeeded while others failed from the onset?
When comparing Sudan’s political shifts in 1964, 1985, and 2019, stark differences emerge, particularly regarding the strength of traditional parties. Even the Communist Party, which may not qualify as “traditional” in the conventional sense, played a pivotal role at those earlier junctures. In contrast, by 2019, the political forces within the transitional government found themselves in a kind of mutual containment, an insular. I believe one of the key issues was the fact that, and it is easy to talk about this in hindsight, the political forces were not prepared to manage the transition collectively, a collective paralysis that they themselves were not fully aware of. Their actual public support was nebulous, both in their own understanding and in the eyes of the people.
Take, for example, a citizen in Al-Fashir who might reasonably ask: “Who are these leaders, and why should I trust them?” Even in Khartoum, many of the civilian figures were returnees from the diaspora, known less for their ideas than for family legacies dating back to the 1980s. Ordinary people often had no clear sense of what they represented or where they stood politically—were they communists, independents, or simply advancing foreign agendas?
If you are unprepared to assume responsibility before the people, the military will do it for you.
Time should have been dedicated to clarifying this for the public, to ensuring that the fog of uncertainty was brief and transitional. But that did not happen, in large part due to the Juba Peace Agreement and other prolonged distractions.
From this, I believe the civilian leadership must draw a hard but essential lesson: if you are unprepared to assume responsibility before the people, the military will do it for you. I say this as a civilian myself, knowing full well it may earn me enemies. But it must be said: the civilian actors spent more time criticizing their military counterparts than acknowledging that their own presence in power was made possible by those same military actors.
Declaring oneself a civilian in favour of democracy is one thing. But being part of a transitional government dominated by the military and RSF is something else entirely. If civilians wanted to remove these forces from the political equation, they needed to treat them both as colleagues in the same boat and as political adversaries, not insult them publicly or take an arrogant, antagonistic stance. That posture contributed directly to the collapse of the partnership, and the October 2021 coup was a natural consequence of that failure. The lack of political discipline among some civilians was a clear sign that genuine leadership was absent, and that the ship was heading into troubled waters.
4. Looking at the composition of power in 2019, the state was supported by several arms: the army, the RSF, the intelligence services, and the National Congress Party. Was an alliance with the army ever truly compatible with building a democratic order?
It is always easy to blame civilians, but more useful, I think, is to compel them to reflect on their own mistakes, not to exonerate the military or defend the RSF. I firmly believe Sudan deserves a civilian, democratic system. But that doesn’t mean all civilian politicians were right.
Personally, I viewed the army’s role as important as an institution, but not as an effective military force. And the war has since confirmed that: the regular army is incapable of waging a serious war without relying on militias. Its capabilities lie mainly in artillery, intelligence-gathering, and manipulating tribal dynamics by arming certain groups against others, which is exactly what happened. These tactics point to a deeper, structural dilemma rooted in Sudan’s state-building history.
For decades, successive regimes have relied on arming local proxies instead of building a unified national army. The pattern stretches from the British colonial period to the militias raised in the South, Darfur, and Kordofan to counter the SPLA, and later to the Janjaweed and the RSF. This cycle entrenches violence by placing entire communities in the crosshairs. How could such a strategy still be tolerated after 2019?
What angered me in particular was the absence of civilian actors in discussions around army-RSF integration. In any functioning state, the military is a national institution whose future is debated by political forces, not left to the generals under the excuse that it’s a “technical issue.” That was a dangerous abdication of responsibility.
Civilian actors were absent from the security sector reform workshops altogether, as if the military were not part of the society they claimed to represent. Historically, political parties have had a presence within the army itself: whether the Communist Party in 1969 or the Islamists in 1989. After 2019, civilian forces were entirely absent, leaving critical decisions to unfold in isolation.
This, to me, is one of the clearest signs of civilian weakness: their near-total disengagement from this vital issue. Instead, they busied themselves with secondary matters, negotiating with donors, managing debt relief while ignoring the central question of the military’s structure and role. No political transition can succeed without addressing the shape and scope of the armed forces.
5. Civilian leaders often argue they inherited a deeply complex legacy from the former regime. Do you find that to be a convincing excuse?
I don’t deny they inherited a heavy burden. But that alone does not justify their failure. They had an opportunity to drive meaningful change, but they lacked historical insight and institutional knowledge. They had no prior experience in shaping a national military institution, and as a result, they were unable to confront the core issues.
Over time, the complexity only deepened, and sound decision-making became even harder. One of their major errors was over-relying on the international community, especially the West, believing that Western allies would guide them safely through the transition.
Reform doesn’t mean just listening to the outside world. It means formulating a national project and executing it. What was lacking was political courage.
Indeed, the British, Americans, and others participated in the security sector reform workshops. But they achieved nothing tangible, largely because Sudanese leadership lacked a coherent vision or actionable plan to emerge from the crisis.
I don’t want to join the chorus of blaming the West or the Gulf states, even though there are legitimate reasons for doing so. The central issue remains a Sudanese one. As a Sudanese political actor, one must ask: What is my responsibility? What is my ambition? Reform doesn’t mean just listening to the outside world. It means formulating a national project and executing it. Experts can be consulted, donors will pay the bills. But more than technical expertise is needed: what’s required is political courage. And that was precisely what the civilian leadership lacked.
It was deeply frustrating, because Sudan wasn’t confronting a novel crisis. It was a familiar one. I was in Khartoum in 1989 during the coup. Back then, the debates among intellectuals and with Sadiq al-Mahdi revolved around whether it was a military coup or an Islamist one. There were compelling arguments on both sides, but the need for clarity was urgent.
In 2019, we were not facing that type of ambiguity. The issue of how to reform the army and its entanglement in the economy was well known, not just to international donors, but to Sudanese journalists and the general public. Everyone was talking about Islamic banks; numerous publications existed, in Arabic and English, detailing how the military had restructured itself under the old regime. The RSF was also hardly an unknown entity, its role in Yemen and Libya had been widely reported in the international press.
Yet no clear civilian vision was articulated to address these realities. Ignorance here is not a valid excuse. I might be excused as a foreign observer, but politicians who aspire to rule their country? They have no such excuse. They had a duty to act, not to wait passively while events raced ahead of them.
From August 2019 to August 2021, how much time do you need to make a decision? Years? Decades? Centuries? Tell us, because when the time comes, we will not vote for you.
6. In contexts of post-conflict or post-civil war state-building, some nations have managed to transition into different models. Not necessarily free of corruption or perfectly democratic, but stable enough to begin progress and development. Yet the military's continued interference returns us to another critical question: In African states, or in post-British colonies more broadly. What is the decisive factor that transforms the military from a usurping force into a constructive political actor?
This is an essential question, and I want to clarify that my critique of the new political elite is not an indictment, but an invitation to deeper reflection.
What we are seeing today, not just in Africa, but also in Europe and the United States, is that democracy is no longer delivering its expected outcomes. We must recognize that democracy is not a stable end-state. It is a fragile, continuously contested process, even in nations celebrated for their democratic institutions. The question always remains: Who benefits, and who is left behind?
If we examine Mali, Niger, and Burkina Faso, we find that each of the three recent coups followed a different pattern. In Mali, the first coup had more of a civilian character. In Niger, the presidential guard seized power in a more traditional military fashion. But what’s striking is this: why did so many citizens support these coups, despite not necessarily aligning with the military or its politics? The answer is that democracy appeared to them expensive, convoluted, and ultimately unrewarding while military rule seemed quicker, simpler, and more predictable.
This brings us back to a sensitive question in Sudan: what about the National Congress Party’s popular base? You can ban the party, but what about its supporters? Will they be prohibited from expressing their views or forming new leadership? Ignoring that base endangers any democratic project.
Democracy is inherently difficult to build. And when it becomes too costly or abstract, people will opt for alternatives they perceive as more stable. That is why military actors frame their takeovers as rebuilding national sovereignty.
Sudan’s situation is further complicated by extensive foreign intervention in its war, but the lesson remains the same: if real political answers are not provided, the vacuum will be filled, by the military or by others. These are not easy questions. In any country in the world, including mine, these questions could be raised today and are extremely relevant. But they should be part of political discourse, public debate, NGO discussions, seminars, workshops, and so on. But they are not.
7. Recently, I met a man from Al-Fashir. He was from the Zaghawa tribe, fighting on the front lines to defend his city. He said the commander attacking them, from the RSF, was his cousin, same family, same tribe. Has the war fundamentally changed? Is it no longer just a showdown between two generals, as it seemed in 2023? How do you see things now, especially with no sign of a ceasefire or negotiations on the horizon?
The RSF, from its inception, relied heavily on army officers embedded within its ranks. And this remained true until just before the war began, despite the enormous resources poured in by Hemedti. But once fighting broke out, most of those officers returned to the army. This forced the RSF to wage a costly type of warfare: direct ground assaults, foot soldiers, street combat. This is an area where the RSF excels, unlike the army which is far less effective in that domain.
The RSF suffered heavy losses in manpower, while the army adopted a strategy of targeting RSF leaders with artillery and snipers. Over the past two and a half years, this has severely eroded the RSF’s command structure and made recruitment more difficult.
Today, what was once a quasi-military force has devolved into a loose coalition of armed groups. I say coalition, not confederation, because Hemedti still holds the monopoly on supplying weapons, ammunition, and fuel. That gives him some leverage over local and tribal leaders. But the centralized command is significantly weaker, and territorial control has become far more fragmented. This is clearly visible on the ground. Hemedti is known for his pragmatism and ability to make deals. But he is also as much a prisoner of his own forces as he is their leader.
On another front, the issue of humanitarian aid has emerged. The RSF has created its own permit system, rudimentary compared to the government’s, but even that is often ignored by local militias, forcing convoys and aid agencies into repeated and costly negotiations. The government side still has a more coherent command structure, but it too has allowed new militias to emerge in places like Wad Madani and Khartoum, further diluting its control.
The polarisation has reached a dangerous level. Researchers must work to untangle the narratives: what is true, and what is propaganda?
As a result, what began in Khartoum as a political war has, for over a year now, evolved into a tribal civil war. In Darfur, many Zaghawa feel they are being targeted by Arab groups, while the Arabs feel they are victims too. The polarisation has reached a dangerous level. Researchers must work to untangle the narratives: what is true, and what is propaganda?
In this context, Chad must be watched closely. The Zaghawa there are following events in Darfur with deep concern, and any strong show of solidarity with their Sudanese kin could destabilize Chad, now or in the near future.
8. That brings us to Chad. When the war in Sudan began, many assumed Chad would naturally align with the Zaghawa, not with Arabs or the RSF. How do you assess the dynamics there, and what about the future of Mohamed Déby in power?
President Idriss Déby was killed in April 2021, and his son Mohamed Déby, known as Kaka, took over the transitional government and was later elected president in May 2024. Unlike his father who came to power in 1990 with strong support from Sudanese Zaghawa, Kaka has tried to rebalance Chad’s internal dynamics, focusing more on Chadian Zaghawa and on his mother’s ethnic group, the Gorani.
This strategy widened the gap between Darfur and Chad. Many Sudanese Zaghawa, who had settled in Chad since the 1990s and once held influence, now feel increasingly sidelined.
Kaka also received significant financial backing from the UAE, which he used to reassert control: buying the loyalty of key figures, and allowing others to go into exile with enough money to stay quiet. This helped reduce immediate internal tensions, but they remain just below the surface.
Some Zaghawa subgroups, like the Kobe, feel particularly alienated. In Chad, they are marginalised and viewed as “Sudanese,” while in Darfur, power dynamics now favour other factions. This dual exclusion breeds a sense of frustration that could erupt into crisis at any moment.
So far, UAE money, combined with Chad’s recent disengagement from its logistical support role for the RSF, has postponed any internal collapse. But the situation remains fragile. A single spark, from Darfur or from within Chad, could throw the political order into chaos. And such an event could very well threaten Kaka’s own hold on power.
9. There is a widespread belief that Islamists are the ones driving the war in Sudan. Do you believe they are capable of returning to power or playing a future political role? Are they a threat to democracy, and have they learned anything from their past?
The Islamists today are not a single, unified bloc. There is a wide spectrum. While Ali Karti and his faction are currently the most influential, it is a mistake to conflate the military with the Islamists. Al-Burhan is not an Islamist. Neither is Yasser al-Atta, nor even Shams al-Din Kabbashi, in the end, will choose his military identity over ideological allegiance.
Yes, Islamists still have influence inside the army. But some of them also joined protests against al-Bashir. This shows they are not a monolith. We need to distinguish between those who want to preserve their economic privileges, and those who still believe in an ideological political project.
I have heard some civilian forces argue that engaging with Islamists is dangerous because they are master manipulators. That may be true, but engagement does not necessarily mean negotiation.
Today, the UAE is pushing for a civilian transition without the army or RSF. Saudi Arabia won’t oppose it. Egypt is the only regional player firmly against that model, due to its own military regime and deep ties between its armed forces and Sudan’s. Qatar and Turkey, on the other hand, would likely accept such a transition, especially if it includes the return of some Islamist factions.
So the question is entirely Sudanese: what are the conditions under which some Islamists could be reintegrated into a national dialogue?
We should remember that al-Bashir’s regime in 2019 was not what it had been in 1999. Islamists have gone through multiple experiences, some remain authoritarian in their thinking, but many have shifted. Take Ibrahim Ghandour (Ex Foreign Minister), for example. He is not considered part of the hardline camp. I believe political movements are capable of learning and evolving. But the more important question is not about the Islamists. It is about whether civilian forces can confront their own internal divisions, and persuade the Sudanese people that they are capable of building a new system. This is where Hamdok failed: he began from a position of weakness.
10. If trust between political actors is broken, can a system be built on institutions rather than individuals? Do you think there’s a possibility now to redefine what “Islamist” means in the political dictionary or language? Because today, when people say “Islamists,” they mean a terrorist group trying to take back the country without involving others.
Right now, Islamists are widely seen as a force aiming to return to power alone, without sharing it. That contradicts the most crucial lesson from thirty years of authoritarianism: power must be shared, within a genuinely competitive system.
Look at Somalia. Despite the staggering cost of its civil war, there is still space for political organisation even for Salafi groups that once supported Al-Shabaab, such as the “I’tisam” movement. These groups are constantly reminded of their past and forced to confront their responsibilities.
The real question for Sudan’s political forces is this: Are you capable of doing the same? Are you strong enough to remind the Islamists of what they did and still include them under one common political framework?
In Eastern Europe, after the fall of communism, there was a clear principle: “Just because you were part of the old security state doesn’t mean you get to rule us again.” You had to prove that you had entered a new political era.
That is precisely what Sudan needs today: A state in which everyone can participate, but under new rules, rules built on institutions, not personal loyalties.
