change. To them, the nations of Africa have always been pawns in their twisted game of chess. Our lives are no more than collateral, a means to their evil end.
But we aren’ t hopeless. We can’ t be. Hope is our only lifeline, gifted to us by our martyrs whose souls live on, and with them is the reminder that we must not give up. We must hold on, despite how naive it often feels. It is hope that keeps us afloat and pushes us ahead. I see it in the eyes of my parents. My parents, whose world began to crumble apart on April 15th 2023. Whenever they speak of you, their words are burdened with grief, sorrow drains their faces and eats away at them. But there is a glimmer in their eyes, one of hope. Hope that one day, you will return and we will rebuild you. Hope that their adolescent memories are recoverable from your ruins and that you will become the place they called home again. Hope is why my mum stores her old, well-maintained clothes so that she may one day give them to your children in need. It is hope that carries them, and it is hope that carries me, that wills me, to write to you, to write for you. From the deepest depths of my soul, I sincerely hope, that one day we will reunite, and you will once again embrace me with your warmth. Your warmth that I hope my future children will have the blessing of knowing. My dearest Sudan, may we meet in times of peace and joy.
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