At 6 am, I saw two skinny men working anxiously to set up a medium-sized cardboard table. I was waiting for the milk vendor I had spotted days ago roaming the streets alone, indifferent to the morning explosions, accompanied only by his donkey and a small cart.
I sat down looking at the energetic young men. Once they finished setting up the table, they quickly brought two containers, emptied their contents, and proceeded to arrange their meager merchandise. As the sounds of the fighter jet echoed through the sky, I thought to myself, “These two vendors must be new to the area.”
It was perhaps the 10th or 13th day of fighting. Although days have all become the same, certain events are etched into my memory, especially those that unfolded in the early morning – which were small but noticeable occurances.
A small group of homeless people had just woken up and proceeded to wash their faces using cold water from a cooler, dragging the cardboard they had slept on next to that same cooler with their feet. They slept on the streets, unbothered by the falling missiles, the nighttime gangs, or the fighter jets.
Once their faces were washed, they brought out nylon bags, pouring glue into them, and started inhaling the substance to escape from the surrounding events. For these people, the presence or absence of war means little to them as they battle countless wars every day.
Detachment from war
Another morning, I found one of the two young men sitting alone in front of his makeshift grocery store. The tomatoes, lettuce, potatoes, and green onions were still wet and arranged neatly on the table, while the eggplant was withered and dying.
Later that same afternoon, a missile exploded near our home, scattering shrapnel everywhere. Many insisted that it had hit the roof of one of the neighbouring houses.
The young vegetable vendor told me the story in great detail, starting from the moment the plane took off to when the anti-aircraft missiles were launched. He sees everything.
“Yes, it fell on that house,” he said, pointing to a two-story building not far from where we were sitting. He spoke dispassionately and I found his detachment intriguing. In the distance, I could see people going in and out of the targeted house.
Have people grown accustomed to the situation? I don’t think so. But where is this indifference coming from? Is it fear or surrender?
I sat down with the young man for some time. When no customers came, I asked him, “Why do you stay here amidst the ongoing war instead of returning to your village?”
I knew his village in Al Jazirah, an hour and a half away from the capital Khartoum. Al Jazirah State is safe, and most Khartoum residents have already fled to his village and neighbouring villages.
He simply replied, “I cannot afford to sit idle with no work. I have orphans to take care of and a sick mother to tend to.”
