I never imagined that I would become a refugee. It was a truly strange feeling—a blend of pain and bitterness. Millions of us search for safety, and now I have found it. Far removed from the cursed war, and my heart remain with those still engulfed in its hell. I arrived in Kampala and embraced a new community, carrying with me a host of anxieties. Searching for work, and having to go to the refugee camp each month, carrying my card to receive my food.
The Sudanese refugees have become a large community in this state of asylum. I have discovered a new opportunity in a different atmosphere—to capture moments that express passion, narrate the reality of life, and commemorate special instants. I hope that peace, serenity, and prosperity will return to my homeland.
A small, quiet room that has become my sanctuary, my prison, and my new beginning. The emptiness of the space mirrors the echoes left by the home I knew once, while the solitude reflects the loneliness of starting over in an unfamiliar place. It holds the weight of loss, but also the quiet strength, it takes to rebuild a life from fragments. This room, though small and bare, carries my memories, my hopes, and my resilience. It is a testament to the journey of displacement—a journey marked by absence, adaptation, and the resilience of the human spirit.
In the quiet solitude of displacement, I step into a dream—a hesitant journey into the uncharted depths of my soul. From the illusion of home in Cairo to numbing effects of the fast life of Nairobi, and now the pulsating sense of Kampala, I’ve wandered, each city a temporary haven, each step marking a part of this seemingly unending journey.
Far from home and the echoes of childhood friendships lingers, I wander alone, clutching only fragments: a worn piece of cloth that carries whispers of memory and the persistent ache of being far from family. I never imagined that this pain, so raw and unyielding, would become the very thing I hold onto to keep moving forward. In this melancholy, there is a hidden salvation—a bittersweet reminder that even in exile, the interplay of loss and longing can reveal a fragile kind of beauty.
I've been a refugee for 421 days now, I spent 274 of them in South Sudan. I am now in “Phase 2” of my refuge story. Kampala is closer to home and I don't know if it's about me surrounded by sudanese community here or is it the fact of creating new Ugandan friends. Or is it the beautiful environment that made me feel more comfortable, but what I'm certain about that it's still not home. I feel that I'm adapting and blending more here, but at the same time my heart and emotions are in Sudan. I'm between fitting in here and loosing the intimacy of a home that does not exist anymore. I can move on for a new life, or to keep strangling on the hope of going back while being lost in the present.
What I miss most is the warmth of my family, the sounds of their laughter, our gatherings, and our many blessings, much goodness, and much love. My experience of displacement and loneliness generated within me to a great fear of all things and the possibility of losing them, so I began to search constantly for them. Safety is being together.
Here in Kampala, I am trying to adapt to the different and new rhythm of life. I am learning the customs and trying to find my place amidst the hustle of the days. Yet, nostalgia creeps in during moments of solitude.
But despite everything, I was not alone. In my exile, I found sincere hearts—new friends who extended a helping hand and opened their doors to me. Little by little, I began to shape the features of a new life, laying its foundation with confidence, carrying the shadow of my past not as a shackle that holds me back, but as a light that guides me forward. I am here, living, adapting, and dreaming of a future that befits me.
For the first time in our lives, my sister and I are living alone taking care of her kids. In a city we never planned to call home, yet one that welcomed us, we are learning to exist beyond survival, to hold onto our memories without being defined by them, to create a new sense of belonging amid uncertainty.
My nephew (Mohammed, 5yrs) and niece (Zad, 3yrs) felt secure, not because they were told they were safe, but because those around them carried that feeling within them now.
Kampala is quiet and crowded streets are bursting with life. These contrasts do not make it unfamiliar; instead, they add layers of meaning, revealing different faces of the city with each passing day. Through the project, I learned so much—not just about photography, but about Kampala itself, as seen through the eyes of my fellow Sudanese photographers. Each of us brought our own lens, our own memories, our own search for meaning in this new place.
During the war if anything, my camera became my anchor, the one thing that helped me make sense of chaos. I photographed not just to document, but to understand—to capture fragments of a reality that often felt like it was slipping away because of the fast events rhythm. And now, in this new space, my lens continues to search for traces of safety, for moments of quiet coexistence, for glimpses of cities that unexpectedly become temporary homes.
These images are more than just scenes from a refuge. They are postcards from a moment of transition, messages to ourselves about new beginnings, about the fragility of home, and about safety when it becomes something shared.
When I first came to Kampala, it felt like I was caught between two worlds. Leaving Sudan behind was like losing a part of myself, while Uganda felt unfamiliar, with its routines, weather , and culture seeming out of reach. Even the everyday experience of transport felt foreign, highlighting how far I was from what I once called home. Over time, though, the lines between disconnect and connection began to blur. I found myself picking up Luganda phrases, sharing jokes with boda riders, and slowly weaving myself into the rhythm of the city. What once felt distant became familiar, and Kampala transformed from a place of exile to a second home, full of possibilities and connections I never expected.
I escaped the memories of the 2003 war to protect my son from a similar fate to the recent war. Uganda is our refuge now. We lived through the pain and work, the memories hurt us, but the hope remains to tell us that peace will inevitably come and we will return to our dear homeland Sudan, and our children's eyes are full of reassurance.
Marked by profound frustration, the experience of leaving everything behind—including a beloved father—posed a stark and challenging for my reality. Yet, these experiences have reinforced a steadfast dedication to advocating for those whose voices remain unheard.
A commitment to enhancing the quality of life for marginalized and underserved communities, particularly those in informal settlements and refugee camps, has been unwaveringly upheld. Their lives have been documented through writing and photography, not only to illuminate their hardships but also to showcase their resilience and survival strategies.
Father living in war zones thinks about the safety of his children, but when you find safety, you think about a better future for them.
I was not only lucky when I survived certain death several times, but when I lived to share the diary of my child as he grew moment by moment, making his way towards the future steadily, I did not have this opportunity before due to the constant preoccupation with work and sometimes geography, days that are a mixture between the bitterness of memories of what I lost in the war and the hope for the future of my son, whom I see in front of me, learning eagerly, as if he wants to learn.
What I lost in the war and hope for the future of my son, who I see in front of me eagerly learning as if he wants to tell me to stop worrying, father, we lost the past, but we have the present and the whole future, I have never felt far from my home because I see in my son the homeland that is rebuilding itself amidst the rubble again.
To my dear family and loved ones, It hasn't been easy facing life as a refugee alone in Kampala, but I am fortunate not to be entirely alone. Kampala has been a safe place, but it still lacks something—it lacks the spirit, just as my home in Sudan now lacks our laughter.
We are now gathered on the same continent, but geographical distances separate us. I want to tell you that darkness has not and will not swallow us, because our communication represents the light.
