Al-Gadarif State has become, like many other states across Sudan, a destination for displaced people fleeing the violence that engulfed Khartoum, Al-Jazirah, and Sinnar and, more recently, the Darfur and Kordofan regions. Their homes have been replaced by temporary shelters fashioned from straw and plastic sheeting in a network of displacement camps. One of these is Abu an-Naja (D) Camp, which falls under the Central Al-Gadarif Rural Locality, about nine kilometres west of Al-Gadarif city.
The camp was built by the Danish Refugee Council (DRC) and is administratively affiliated with the Central Al-Gadarif Rural Locality. It is divided into two sections separated by a fence: the Permanent Camp and the Reception Centre. Although both facilities were constructed at the same time, the Permanent Camp was inaugurated first, on 27 September 2025.
Its first residents were transferred from Umm Shujairat Camp, located 37 kilometres west of Al-Gadarif city. Four days later, another group arrived from the Inland Port Camp inside the city. At that point, the camp accommodated 294 households comprising 1,899 people: 259 households from Khartoum State, 15 from Al-Fashir, and 20 from Nyala.
The Reception Centre opened on 22 December 2025, receiving displaced families from Heglig, Babanusa, ad-Dalang, and smaller numbers from Al-Fashir and Kadugli.
“The displaced arrived from those areas in successive waves,” Ali Yahya, director of Abu an-Naja Camp, told Atar. “They continued to arrive one group after another, forcing us to transfer some families to camps in the Al-Sarraf and Abbayo areas, as well as Abu an-Naja (A) and Abu an-Naja (B), which together received 378 households. At present, the Reception Centre hosts 274 households comprising 1,644 people.”
Yahya said the camp has basic health and sanitation services. The Kuwaiti Patients Helping Fund Society operates the camp’s health clinic, while communal latrines have been installed throughout the site. Despite the chronic water shortages affecting Al-Gadarif State, water remains available in the camp. The Permanent Camp is divided into four sectors, all supplied through a piped network drawing water from wells in the nearby village of Abu an-Naja. The Reception Centre is served by large storage tanks filled from the same wells.
Explaining how the camp is organised, Yahya said, “To facilitate service delivery and the work of humanitarian organisations, we established four committees made up of displaced residents themselves, one for each sector of the Permanent Camp. Each committee consists of two men and one woman, whose role is to coordinate between camp residents and the organisations providing assistance. The Reception Centre does not yet have committees; for now, I supervise it personally.”
Adapting to Hardship
People here have become like family. Besides the generous people who come to support us, we also look after one another.
Abdel-Azim Othman, displaced resident of Abu an-Naja Camp
As I walked through the Permanent Camp at Abu an-Naja (D), the scent of incense drifted from one of the displaced families’ kurnuks—traditional straw huts—on the camp’s eastern edge. There, Maymouna Mohamed was stepping out of her tiny kitchen after preparing lunch for her children.
Maymouna arrived in Al-Gadarif from Khartoum three years ago. She first lived in Umm Shujairat Camp before being relocated here. She now lives alone with her four children, having lost all trace of her husband during the war. To this day, she does not know whether he is alive or dead.
Sitting outside her shelter, she began her story: “Before the war, I worked in the market, earning just enough to get by each day. My father and mother had both passed away, and so had my brothers. I only have two sisters left, but I’m the only one who made it to Al-Gadarif. One of my sisters went to Egypt with her husband, while the other settled in Atbara with hers.
“The journey here was long and exhausting. We left on the seventh day of Eid al-Adha during the first year of the war. We travelled north to the Nile, then continued through Haiya and Kassala until we finally reached Al-Gadarif.”
Maymouna said she and her children initially settled in Umm Shujairat Camp, which she considers superior to Abu an-Naja in terms of both services and security. Everyone entering the camp was required to verify their identity, and an ambulance was available to transport patients to hospital—facilities she said are lacking here.
Today, her greatest concern is her children’s future. Unlike some other families in the camp, she cannot afford to send them to the nearby school.
“I only have one hand to rely on,” she said, using a Sudanese expression to describe having to shoulder every responsibility alone.
She had hoped her children would continue their education while she was in Umm Shujairat. “UNICEF had already begun building kindergartens and a primary school there. I thought they would build a school here as well, but that never happened.”
In her previous camp, Maymouna earned a living selling zalabiya (doughnuts) and tea. After moving to Abu an-Naja, however, illness left her unable to work, forcing her to rely on the sporadic assistance provided by humanitarian organisations.
Even so, she draws strength from the relationships she has built within the camp. “Wherever we Sudanese go, we come together and look after one another.”
“I left Khartoum for my hometown of Sinja in Sinnar State,” said Abdel-Azim Othman, another displaced resident who previously lived in Jabal Awlia, south of Khartoum. “But we weren’t safe there either. The RSF reached Sinja, so we had to flee once again through Ad-Dinder before eventually settling here in Al-Gadarif after a gruelling journey with my wife and our five children.”
He continued, “Our first night here was spent in the mosque at Souq al-Shaabi. Afterwards, we went to the Inland Port Camp, where we were told to register our names with Military Intelligence.”
Before the war, Abdel-Azim worked as a handcart driver in Jabal Awlia market. After fleeing to Sinja, he returned briefly to farming, which he had abandoned years earlier. But when he arrived at the Inland Port Camp, he was unable to find work.
“From time to time, we received assistance from the government and humanitarian organisations. Then an opportunity came to return voluntarily to Khartoum, so my family and I went back. But we found the house in a terrible state. Everything had been stolen—even the roof was gone.
“It wasn’t even our house; we had been renting it. The landlord had no intention of repairing it, and I couldn’t afford the repairs myself. On top of that, transport had become incredibly expensive. Ten thousand Sudanese pounds a day wasn’t enough even to cover transport costs.
“So we decided to return to the Inland Port Camp. At the end of 2025, we were relocated to Abu an-Naja Camp. That’s when I decided to work on nearby agricultural schemes to support my family. Thank God, I’ve managed to enroll my children in the school in the neighbouring village of Abu an-Naja.”
Speaking about life inside the camp, Abdel-Azim said, “People here have become like family. Besides the generous people who come to support us, we also look after one another. We check on who’s struggling the most, and if someone is in real need, we collect money among ourselves to help.”
We’ve all experienced displacement ourselves. We know how bitter it is. That’s why we feel each other’s pain.
Abdel-Ghaffar Nurein, displaced resident and member of the camp committee
Atar also spoke with Abdel-Ghaffar Nurein, another displaced resident from Khartoum and a member of one of the camp’s committees.
“I was displaced in August 2023,” he said. “I came to Al-Gadarif with my children, my sister, and her children. We were first housed at the Inland Port Camp before being transferred here.”
A blacksmith by trade, Abdel-Ghaffar has been unable to find work in his profession.
“I don’t have enough capital to open a workshop, so I started working—and I’m still working—on nearby farms during the rainy season. It was my first experience in agriculture, but I’ve become used to it. There was simply no other option.”
He explained that the camp director asked residents to establish committees to facilitate the distribution of aid.
“We held elections, and I became a member of one of those committees.”
What has impressed him most about life in Abu an-Naja, however, is the solidarity among its residents. When newly displaced families arrived at the Reception Centre, those who had already been living in the camp came out to welcome them. Some carried mattresses, while others brought water and food.
For Abdel-Ghaffar, the reason is simple: “We’ve all experienced displacement ourselves. We know how bitter it is. That’s why we feel each other’s pain.
Forced Flight
The aid we receive simply isn’t enough.
Umm Jumaa Haroun, displaced resident from Heglig
In December 2025, the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) seized the border town of Heglig, located about 50 kilometres east of Abyei on the frontier with South Sudan, after the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) withdrew from the headquarters of the 90th Brigade into South Sudanese territory. The takeover displaced large numbers of Heglig’s residents, forcing them into an uncertain future.
Umm Jumaa Haroun, who was displaced from Heglig, recounted her story as she filled bags with roasted watermelon seeds to sell. She said that, unlike many other parts of Sudan, Heglig had initially been spared the fighting.
“But later, drone strikes began hitting us from time to time. I remember the day I had to leave. I was working on my farm, watering my sesame and watermelon crops, when someone from the village came to tell me that the RSF was approaching and that everyone was preparing to flee.
“I rushed home to pack our belongings. I have eight children, so we took only what we could carry and left my husband behind because he serves in the SAF. We boarded a military truck provided by the SAF, which took us into South Sudan. From there, we travelled in another vehicle to Rabak and eventually reached this camp, the Reception Centre.
“It was an exhausting and expensive journey. The truck was packed with people and loaded with luggage, and travelling with eight children made everything even harder. But, thank God, we arrived safely.”
She has now been in the camp for about six months.
“Since arriving, I’ve been making a living by selling roasted watermelon seeds and crisps inside the camp, and sometimes outside it as well, because the aid we receive simply isn’t enough. What makes life here a little easier is that I found the neighbours who fled with us. We share what little we have so that we can all get by.”
From across the camp, Aisha Al-Amin called out to ask Umm Jumaa how she was doing before complaining that the day’s bread ration was not enough for her children.
Like Umm Jumaa, Aisha was displaced from Heglig. She has six children, her husband serves in the SAF, and before the war she farmed full-time.
She told Atar about her journey: “We left about five months ago. It was a long and exhausting journey through South Sudan, then Rabak, before finally reaching here. We had to stop many times along the way to rest overnight.
“The biggest problem was that we left without blankets, so we were exposed to the sun throughout the journey. My children were already sick by the time we arrived at the camp.
“What I struggle with most now is food. We’re supposed to receive twenty loaves of bread at each distribution from the centre here, but sometimes I receive fewer than that. Today I was given only ten loaves, and that’s nowhere near enough for my children.”
She explained that she regularly receives an allocation of sorghum—ten malwas—from a distribution centre in Abu an-Naja village. At times, however, she is forced to sell part of it to buy charcoal, lentils, and other basic necessities.
Healthcare presents another challenge.
“My children are sick now. When you go to the clinic, they tell you there’s no medicine and that you have to go to the hospital—but we don’t have the money. All we can do is ask Allah to help us.”
A Journey Fraught with Danger
There’s no place like home. Allah willing, we’ll return one day.
Khalda Adam, displaced resident from Kadugli
Last February, the SAF broke the two-year siege of Kadugli from the north. The city had been encircled by the RSF, later joined by forces of the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement–North under Abdelaziz al-Hilu, forcing many residents to flee while drone strikes continued to target the area.
Ali Ibrahim, who was displaced from the countryside east of Kadugli, recalled his escape: “I left Kadugli about four months ago. Since the war began, the RSF entered our village four times. Their soldiers looted homes and stole everything they could, although they didn’t kill anyone.
“What finally forced us to leave was the intensifying drone attacks. I decided to flee with my wife and our three children. The journey took three weeks and was extremely difficult. We travelled through South Sudan and Rabak before reaching Al-Gadarif. It cost us nearly two million Sudanese pounds.
“I was especially worried about my wife because she was pregnant and close to her ninth month. Thank Allah, though, we arrived safely.”
Ali said his family still has no proper shelter—not even a kurnuk, the traditional straw hut. Their home consists only of a sheet of fabric stretched over wooden poles, even as the rainy season approaches.
Before the war, he worked as a market gardener.
“Now there’s no work. I survive on the money that relatives living far away manage to send me.”
Nearby, Khalda Adam collected her bread ration before carrying it back to her shelter, where her children gathered around her.
Originally from Kadugli, Khalda used to work in the city’s vegetable market. She described the journey that brought her here:
“It took us eight days, and it was full of danger. We passed through checkpoints controlled by the RSF. If they discovered we had come from South Kordofan, they wouldn’t let us through, so we lied about where we had come from.”
Life in the camp, she said, remains extremely difficult.
“There’s never enough food. Sometimes all we have is bread with sugar. My husband is in the SAF, and it’s difficult to stay in touch with him.”
The war has also left deep psychological scars on her family.
“Now we startle and panic at the sound of anything—even a stone hitting the ground, let alone gunfire.”
She ended with the hope shared by so many in the camp:
“There’s no place like home. Allah willing, we’ll return one day.”
As the sun rises each morning over Abu an-Naja (D) Camp, its residents hold on to the hope that they will one day return home and reclaim, if only in part, the lives they left behind. Yet one thing stands out to Atar’s correspondent here—and perhaps in every displacement camp: everyone agrees they have become one another’s social safety net.
After the initial shock of displacement, people begin almost immediately to rebuild some measure of order in their lives. They organise themselves, support one another, and forge new forms of community. Whatever turns the tide of the war may take, that spirit of solidarity endures.
