A Journalist Escaping the Hell of the Rapid Support Forces Gangs (Part 3)

I mentioned earlier that the story of the woman with young children, including an infant, marked the beginning of a relentless storm in our area. After that incident, it seemed their appetite for torture grew stronger, becoming a routine for them. Another disturbing pattern emerged: they would sit on the doorsteps of houses, consuming drugs and alcohol—though they leaned more toward drugs, perhaps because of the stronger effects.

They would entice young men in the neighborhood to join them, and if someone complied, he would become a regular customer. Later, he would act as a spy, providing them with information about everything: the movements of security personnel, even retirees, beautiful girls—essentially anything they wanted to know. But if a young man refused to join them, they would beat him, possibly detain him, and subject him to all kinds of torture.

They evacuated certain buildings, turning them into detention centers. One specific building became an execution site. If anyone asked who they executed, the answer was anyone they disliked, accusing them of being a “remnant” of the former regime or an “Abelda” (a term for a member of the armed forces). They targeted the homes and families of these individuals, breaking into their houses, looting them, imprisoning their wives, sisters, and daughters. Their vendetta against these families was bizarrely personal, as though there was a deep-seated grudge.

One day, people woke to the sound of screaming—an almost ordinary occurrence by then. Hearing screams in the middle of the night had become normal, and no one dared to venture out, knowing they could be killed in front of everyone, tortured in unimaginable ways, or detained.

But that morning, the screams were mixed with smoke and the smell of burning. Cautiously, people tried to find out what had happened. It became clear that Dagalo’s militias had attacked the home of an elderly woman and her daughters. Her son was an army officer. They burned the house, tortured the family, and arrested the daughters and their mother. Thankfully, a militia member who knew them intervened, securing their release and helping them escape immediately.

I had been thinking about escaping myself; it had become an obsession. But my circumstances didn’t allow it—my husband was ill, my sister had been paralyzed after my mother passed away (may Allah have mercy on her and grant her Paradise), and we had an orphaned girl in our care. I also had a son in school, and newspapers had stopped publishing. Most journalists were unemployed, struggling to make ends meet.

One close friend advised me to always appear as a humble, unremarkable woman to avoid drawing their attention, to avoid talking to anyone, and to steer clear of their gatherings. Honestly, most women had adopted this approach, wearing simple clothing to blend in. We abandoned adornments entirely, and after a few months, our appearances had changed significantly due to the lack of food, constant worry, and fear.

I began fortifying myself daily, along with my home and family, against the situation I described earlier. At first, we tried to protect our homes—the product of a lifetime of hard work—because anyone who left their house risked it being looted or occupied.

One day, as I stepped out of my house and walked a short distance, they stopped me abruptly.

“Stop, woman!” one of them barked.

And that was just the beginning of another ordeal.