The Illusion of a Parallel State: How the Dagalo Project Collapsed in Sudan
By: Abdel Nasser Salim Hamid
In El Fasher, where children gather around rare water tanks and women scour empty markets for a handful of sorghum, the scene speaks louder than any political speech. Here, it becomes clear that the project the Dagalo family built on gold and gunpowder was nothing more than a short-lived illusion. The Rapid Support Forces (RSF), born out of the Janjaweed in Darfur, evolved in just a few years into a parallel army—flush with money, weapons, and regional networks. Yet the reality is that this force, which once seemed to overshadow the state itself, was fragile from the start, lacking true roots.
The RSF was formally established in 2013 as a tool of the Bashir regime to quell the Darfur rebellion and counterbalance the army. But Mohammed Hamdan Dagalo—“Hemedti”—quickly outgrew that limited security role. He seized control of gold mines, ran smuggling networks stretching through Chad and Libya to Gulf markets, and dreamed of building a state on the resources of the shadows. It soon became clear, however, that gold alone cannot build legitimacy.
According to Global Witness (2020), the RSF controlled nearly 40% of Sudan’s gold exports, most of it through unofficial channels. The wealth generated enormous funding, but it never translated into schools, hospitals, or infrastructure. It was a war economy, akin to the “blood diamond” trade of Sierra Leone and Liberia: fast wealth with no future. Naturally, such an economy collapses under external pressure.
Politically, Hemedti sought to present himself as a partner in the transitional period, speaking of democracy and elections in the tone of a statesman. Yet civil forces saw him for what he was—an extension of the Janjaweed, unable to shed his original image. His short-lived alliances with political actors crumbled under the weight of war crimes committed by his forces in Khartoum and Darfur.
As his military campaign faltered in Khartoum, Gezira, and Sennar, Hemedti turned to the idea of a “parallel government.” The very name carried a contradiction: he claimed to represent all of Sudan, yet in reality it was a desperate attempt to provide political cover for a besieged militia. Unsurprisingly, this “government” won no international recognition—nor even respect from other armed movements that distanced themselves from it.
At the heart of the failure was personalization. The RSF never became an institution; it remained bound to Hemedti and his family. Loyalty was to the man, not to any national covenant. Fighters were tied by temporary interests or short-term gains. As human costs mounted and abuses multiplied, that loyalty turned into a burden. The project collapsed from within before it was defeated from outside.
The war that erupted in April 2023 exposed the illusion. In Khartoum, despite initial gains through surprise, the RSF failed to govern the capital. The neighborhoods it seized descended into chaos and looting, forcing civilians to barricade themselves indoors. In Darfur, the RSF captured major cities such as Geneina, Zalingei, and Nyala, but it could not take El Fasher—the “Stalingrad” of Hemedti’s project. The besieged city proved that popular and military resistance could break the illusion of power.
The UN estimated that over 800,000 civilians were trapped in El Fasher. In Geneina, at least 10,000 people were killed, according to local and international reports. Displacement from Darfur alone exceeded 2.8 million. Former UN Special Rapporteur Rosalind Marsden said: “The siege of El Fasher amounts to the use of starvation as a weapon, which is a war crime under international law.” How bitterly ironic that the man who claimed to protect civilians became the one to starve them.
The social scars run deep. In Khartoum, rape and looting left wounds that will not heal soon. In Darfur, the RSF name became synonymous with destruction rather than protection. Without any developmental gains, even many of its fighters came to see the project as a liability. Darfur, once promised reconstruction, was left instead with war and siege. Belonging to the project became a social and psychological stigma.
Regionally, the RSF leaned on a patchwork of interests: cooperation with Haftar’s forces in Libya, recruitment of mercenaries from the Sahel, gold sales in Gulf markets, and overtures to Europe as a “border guard” against irregular migration. But these ties were transactional, not strategic. The split between the UAE and Egypt underscored this fragility: Abu Dhabi dealt with Hemedti through gold, while Cairo backed the army as Sudan’s only national institution. Europe cut off contact once reports of atrocities multiplied.
As sociologist Charles Tilly noted, militias that rise on the margins of the state may impose temporary control but fail to build legitimate institutions. The RSF was no different: power without a state, an economy without institutions, alliances without roots. Its failure was inevitable.
Today, after the collapse of the project, the RSF leaves behind a dangerous vacuum: in Darfur, where it held major cities but failed at El Fasher; in Khartoum, where the war revealed the fragility of the central state. Regionally, its downfall showed that the external support it relied on was circumstantial, not strategic. The Dagalo family aspired to a state matching their ambitions, but ended up with neither a state nor ambitions.
The fall of the RSF is more than the end of a militia—it is the end of Sudan’s illusion of a parallel state. Yet it raises a larger question: can the central state rebuild itself on new foundations, or will the vacuum remain open to future adventurers? One certainty remains: Sudan will not rise on shadow economies or cross-border mercenaries, but only on a new social contract that restores citizenship and justice. Without that, the country will remain trapped in a cycle of illusions, each shorter-lived than the one before.
