Bread First: War Meals in a “Safe” City

Sudan Events – Agencies

The northern part of Omdurman city (Karrari locality) has been relatively stable throughout the two years of war, aside from sporadic artillery exchanges between the army and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), particularly during the RSF’s occupation of large parts of the city. This continued until the army declared Khartoum state RSF-free on May 20. However, this classification of “relative stability” doesn’t necessarily reflect the daily realities of life for its residents. Life on the ground reveals a deepening food crisis, manifesting in everything from silent hunger to reduced meals—despite signs of community solidarity.

Over the past two years, the collapse of the economy and the breakdown of food supply chains have directly affected the tables of Omdurman, profoundly altering how food is accessed. In this bleak landscape, numbers and data alone are no longer sufficient to grasp the depth of the crisis—only personal stories can reveal the face of hunger and how it has reshaped people’s relationship with food and pride in the heart of Omdurman.

One such story is that of Omar, who was forced to leave the city—not in search of a better future, but for “a meal for his children.” He left Omdurman in July of last year after failing to provide his family’s daily sustenance. Struggling, he managed to relocate his pregnant wife and children to Kassala, where her family lives. He then returned to Omdurman to share a house with two friends, living off meager meals: breakfast was fava beans for 1,000 SDG and 8 pieces of bread for another 1,000, and dinner—on a good day—was fava bean fatta from the corner shop.
“I no longer hear of meat or fish; even eggs have become a luxury,” Omar says. Later, the lack of food pushed him to flee to Nairobi, where he started a small grocery shop with the help of friends. He sends his family a million Sudanese pounds monthly, but he knows it’s not enough.

“The main reason I left Omdurman was because I could no longer afford food—not even one meal for my children,” Omar says. “How can a man eat when the thought of his children going hungry is choking him?”

But not everyone had the option to leave. In the same city Omar fled, many—like Abdelhai—have stayed, adjusting to hunger one day at a time, relying on the solidarity of neighbors or market friends. Abdelhai, a young man from Umbadda who used to work as a taxi driver before RSF forces seized his car, says:
“I mostly eat at home. Two meals a day, sometimes more or less depending on what’s available. The last time I had a full, satisfying meal was during Eid al-Adha.”

He sums up the daily reality with one sentence: “Food comes before everything else—then safety.”
“In the market, you might be able to buy something simple like fatta or potato chips—if you have the money. When you don’t, you rely on people: neighbors, friends, the tea lady, the bakery seller, or even the ‘Miriya’ shop in the neighborhood. And when they need help, they come to us.

Like many Sudanese families, Abdelhai’s family has seen their priorities shift after the war. Meat and dairy have completely disappeared from the table, replaced by lentils as the daily staple amid extremely limited food options.

The Daily Market Equation

Hunger is not just measured by what goes into homes, but also by what’s cooked outside them. Across Omdurman, some small restaurant owners strive to keep their pots cooking despite high prices, low demand, and an increasing number of customers who can’t afford to pay.

In Wad Nobawi neighborhood, Khidr—a longtime owner of a small eatery next to the historic Wad Nobawi mosque—has his own story of silent resistance through food. His voice weary yet determined, Khidr shares his two-decade journey with fava beans, falafel, and kaware’ (cow feet stew) once served only on Fridays.

“I’ve worked in this place for about 20 years. We used to serve kaware’ only on Fridays. But everything changed after the war. I shut down the shop for over a year due to clashes and lack of supplies. I reopened after the army regained control and people started to return.”

With more customers returning, their orders have changed dramatically: “People now order less. Before, they’d get fava beans with eggs and falafel and even full portions of kaware’. Now most people ask for half a portion of fava beans and just one piece of bread. Kaware’ has disappeared from the menu—it’s simply too expensive for customers.”

Khidr compares the pre-war and current situations:
“A fava bean plate used to cost 500 SDG. Now it’s 2,000. I’ve always used premium quality Salim beans, but after the war we’ve had to use cheaper types—how else can we keep up with the market?”

He speaks of new realities he’d never seen before:
“Some customers eat and leave without paying. I know them well, and I know it’s not dishonesty—it’s poverty. Some of my old customers just sit and drink tea because they can’t afford a meal. Everyone has priorities now.”

Despite it all, Khidr insists on feeding those who can’t pay:
“No hungry person leaves empty-handed—especially kids. I’ve made a vow to myself: a sandwich of fava beans for anyone in need. Even though my own situation is bad—I had to split my family across three cities due to displacement, and they often survive on borrowed money.”

When gas runs out, he reverts to traditional methods:
“We cook on firewood. It takes longer and more effort, but what matters is having beans in the morning, even if just a small portion.”

What keeps him going?

“Every Thursday, a woman buys 30 orders of fava beans from me and distributes them to the displaced and needy. We try to follow her example as much as we can.”

As for his staff: “I used to have three workers. Now it’s just me and my cousin. The others left the country or couldn’t continue under these conditions. They needed higher incomes, but this shop barely covers the two of us.”

Buying Vegetables by the Piece

While Khidr cooks for customers who often can’t pay, Mousa—a vegetable vendor in the market—witnesses another side of the struggle: skyrocketing prices, altered buying habits, and the disappearance of vegetables from market stalls just like proteins disappeared from dining tables.

Mousa, who had sold fruits in Omdurman’s main market for 10 years, never imagined he would switch to vegetables. But like many in his city, he was forced to redefine his profession amid the war.
“I used to sell apples, grapes, and bananas. But when the war broke out, roads closed, goods vanished, and prices became unbearable. Fruits became a luxury. So, I switched to vegetables, hoping for a better source of income.”

Yet even now, in Hattana Market, Mousa reports that a kilo of tomatoes costs 6,000 SDG, and eggplant 4,000—unimaginable prices before the war. Zucchini and eggplant have become rare items. Prices change daily—and even hourly.

Interestingly, it’s not fewer customers that surprise him, but their new shopping behavior:
“There are more people in the market because many shops outside have closed. But people now buy vegetables by the piece—or a quarter kilo at most.”

In this context, a kind of “compassionate competition” has emerged among vendors.

“We compete on who can sell for less—but even our lower prices are still too high for most people. In the end, everyone is losing.”

Most of Mousa’s vegetables now come from nearby areas in northern Omdurman rather than from Gezira, White Nile, or Shendi. Without refrigeration due to power cuts, vendors race against time: if they don’t sell tomatoes or chilies the same day, they must discard them. Sometimes they slash prices just to avoid spoilage.

He adds: “Debt is no longer the exception in the market—it’s a necessity. Many families now buy vegetables on credit, and I can’t say no—especially if they have kids. But we’re also struggling, and there’s no one supporting us.”

Meals Sized to Hunger

Inside homes striving to survive on the bare minimum, a daily battle unfolds—one fought by mothers. Meals are measured by patience, and cooked according to hunger, not fullness.

In a small house in Al-Thawra, Omdurman, Awadia cooks what she can and dreams of what she can’t. Surrounded by old pots and recurring food smells, she prepares two meals a day—breakfast and a late lunch—usually lentils, fava beans, or falafel to please her children.

“Sometimes we buy ready-made fava beans from the shop; other times we just cook lentils. We’ve almost completely stopped eating meat. The last time we cooked it was two weeks ago. Now, we buy cheap ‘soup chicken’—mostly necks, wings, and bones. People buy it in bulk, and it sells out early. Still, we need 8,000 to 10,000 SDG daily.”

Despite the simplicity, Awadia tries to prepare enough food for her family of five. Meals are portioned by necessity.
“The kids don’t eat everything. Some dishes, like kabsa, we’ve stopped making—it’s no longer within our budget, and soup chicken isn’t suitable for it.”

Sometimes she trades meals with neighbors:
“If my neighbor makes something special, she shares it with me, and I do the same. This kind of solidarity is what keeps us going.”

With gas often unavailable, she cooks on charcoal or uses an electric heater when there’s power. Water is also frequently cut off, making meal preparation a daily challenge.

She explains the hardship to her children when they ask for things she can’t provide, promising to make up for it with falafel or eggplant salad when possible. On some days, she cooks too little—or nothing at all:
“Sometimes, we just eat bread and tea. Even bread costs 1,000 SDG for six pieces, and we wait for more money to buy more. Thank God always—we pray this hardship ends soon.”

Awadia no longer finds joy in cooking—it has become a daily stressor. She’s always wondering: “What will I cook tomorrow?” Although a nearby communal kitchen exists, she hesitates to go—not because she doesn’t need it, but out of pride:
“We simply don’t accept charity—no matter our situation. I find it hard to stand in line for a lentil meal when there are others more in need. If it came from the government, I would take our share, but otherwise—I can’t. And I pray I never have to.”

Food, Dignity, and the Strain on Identity

Dr. Hala Osman, a social psychologist, explains how, when food becomes scarce, it becomes a test of dignity and a trigger for identity crisis.
“The war hasn’t just affected bodies—it has infiltrated people’s emotions and self-image.”

The transition from independence to dependence, especially for essentials like food, can cause psychological trauma, manifesting in feelings of shame, helplessness, and low self-worth. Hala notes that mothers, in particular, feel immense pressure to feed their families—leading to chronic anxiety and sadness.

She explains that many avoid seeking help due to pride and self-preservation. People may act like they are managing to avoid the stigma of need, using denial or pretend self-sufficiency as defense mechanisms.

Hala emphasizes that how aid is delivered matters:
When food distribution preserves dignity and avoids humiliating queues or proof of need, it upholds respect and reduces shame. Watching parents in moments of weakness can plant anxiety, embarrassment, or insecurity in children—potentially impacting their self-esteem and identity long-term.

As the crisis continues, Hala calls for more humane aid practices—training volunteers in psychological sensitivity and ensuring dignity in all interactions.

If this is the story of a city spared from the frontlines, it is also the story of a community trying to build networks of support from nothing—and redefining subsistence as an act of resistance.