Bread First: War Meals in a “Safe” City

Sudan Events – Agencies

The northern part of Omdurman (Karre Locality) has been relatively stable throughout the two years of war—aside from waves of artillery shelling exchanged between the army and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) during the latter’s control over large parts of the city, up until the army declared Khartoum state clear of RSF presence on May 20. Yet this classification does not necessarily reflect the daily realities of its residents. Life on the ground reveals a deepening food crisis, manifested in silent hunger and shrinking meals, despite visible signs of social solidarity.

Over two years, the economic collapse and disruption of food supply chains directly impacted dining tables in Omdurman, leading to profound changes in how people access food. In this bleak picture, statistics and data are no longer enough to capture the depth of the crisis—only personal stories can truly expose the contours of hunger and show how people’s relationship with food—and with dignity—has changed at the heart of Omdurman.

 “The main reason I left Omdurman was because I could no longer provide food—not even a single meal—for my children.”

Among these stories 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 last year after failing to provide daily sustenance for his family. With great difficulty, 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, splitting meager meals with them: breakfast was fava beans for 1,000 SDG and eight pieces of bread for another 1,000; dinner, at best, was leftover fava beans from a nearby shop. “I haven’t heard the word meat or fish in ages. Even eggs are now a luxury,” says Omar. Eventually, his inability to find food led him to move to Nairobi, where—with help from friends—he started a small grocery business. He sends one million SDG a month to his family in Sudan, fully aware that it’s not enough.

 “How can a man eat when the thought of his children’s hunger is choking him?”

Not everyone had the option to leave. In the same city that Omar departed, many others like Abdelhay are trying to adapt to daily hunger, relying on the solidarity of neighbors or fellow market workers. Abdelhay, a young man from Umbadda, used to work as a taxi driver until his car was confiscated by RSF elements. “Most days I eat at home. Two meals a day, more or less depending on what’s available. The last time I had a full, satisfying meal was during Eid al-Adha,” he says.

Abdelhay sums up the reality of daily survival in one phrase: “Food is more important than anything, and safety comes second.” He explains: “In the market, you can buy a simple meal—fatta or potato chips—if you have the money. If not, you rely on others: neighbors, friends, the tea seller, the bakery man, or even the ‘miriya’ at the local grocery store. And when they need help, they come to us.”

His family’s priorities have shifted since the war, like thousands of Sudanese families. Meat and dairy have completely disappeared from their meals, replaced by lentils as the daily companion in an increasingly scarce food landscape.

A New Economy of Hunger

Hunger isn’t just measured by what enters homes but also by what is cooked outside of them. In Omdurman, small restaurant owners struggle to keep their pots boiling amid soaring prices, declining demand, and growing numbers of customers who can’t afford to pay.

In the Wad Nubawi neighborhood, Khidr—a veteran owner of a humble eatery beside the historic Wad Nubawi Mosque—has his own story with fava beans and a quiet struggle against hunger. With a voice full of fatigue and determination, he recounts his long journey selling beans, falafel, and once-weekly cow trotters (kawari’), served only on Fridays.

 “I’ve worked in this place for almost twenty years. We used to serve cow trotters only on Fridays, but after the war, everything changed. I closed the shop for over a year during the clashes—there were no customers, and ingredients were nearly impossible to get. I reopened when the army regained control and people slowly returned,” Khidr tells ATAR. “Now that customers are back, their orders have changed dramatically. People used to ask for fava beans with eggs, falafel, and a full portion of kawari’. Now most just order half a serving of beans and a single piece of bread. Kawari’ is off the menu—it’s simply unaffordable.”

Before the war, a plate of beans cost 500 SDG. Now, it’s 2,000. “I’ve only ever used original ‘Salim’ beans, but after the war, we had to switch to cheaper types—otherwise, we just couldn’t keep up.”

“Anyone who comes to me hungry—I don’t turn them away or embarrass them. I have a vow: one bean sandwich for every hungry person, especially the children.”

Khidr has seen things he never imagined: some customers eat and leave without paying. “I know them, and I know their inability to pay is why they do it.” Some of his old customers just sit outside and drink tea. “I know they can’t afford a meal. Everyone has bigger worries now.”

Despite his own hardships—his family now split across three cities in displacement, often relying on credit to survive—Khidr continues to feed those in need. “When gas runs out, I cook with firewood. It takes more time and effort, but the important thing is that there’s beans in the morning—even a little.”

One woman buys 30 bean orders from him every Thursday to distribute to displaced and needy families. “We try to follow her example as best we can,” Khidr says.

From Fruit Seller to Surviving the Market

Musa, who spent ten years selling fruit in the Omdurman market, never imagined he’d become a vegetable vendor. Like many others, he found himself forced to redefine his job and economic identity amid the war.

 “I used to sell apples, grapes, bananas… but when the war broke out, roads closed, goods disappeared, and prices skyrocketed. Fruits became luxury items. So I went back to vegetables, hoping for better income.”

Now, Musa works at Hattana market with just one helper—his cousin. The rest of his former staff left or couldn’t afford to keep working. “They needed bigger returns, but the shop is small and barely supports the two of us.”

If Khidr cooks food for people who can’t pay, Musa witnesses another face of hunger—rising prices, changing buying habits, and the disappearance of vegetables from stalls, just as proteins vanished from dinner tables. In the vegetable market, hunger is now measured by the piece.

 “A kilo of tomatoes now costs 6,000 SDG. Eggplants are 4,000. Even zucchini and okra are rare. Prices change daily—morning prices differ from evening ones.”

The striking thing, Musa says, isn’t fewer customers—it’s how they buy. There are more people in the market now because many outside shops have closed, but buyers are purchasing less. “They buy one piece at a time, or just a quarter kilo.”

He describes this new behavior as a kind of “compassionate competition” among sellers—each trying to offer the lowest price, though still unaffordable for most. “In the end, everyone loses.”

Now, all the vegetables sold come from nearby areas in northern Omdurman—no longer from Gezira, White Nile, or Shendi. With no refrigeration due to power outages, sellers are racing against time. “If we don’t sell the tomatoes or peppers the same day, we throw them away. There’s no electricity to preserve them. Sometimes we lower the price just to avoid losing everything.”

Credit, once rare, has now become a social necessity. “Many families now buy vegetables on credit. I can’t refuse, especially if they have kids. But it affects us too—there’s no one supporting us,” says Musa.

Meals Sized for Hunger

 “Sometimes we buy ready-cooked beans from the shop, or we just settle for lentils. We’ve almost entirely stopped cooking meat. The last time we had meat was two weeks ago. Now we buy cheap ‘soup chicken’ from a nearby supermarket—it’s mostly necks, wings, and bones. It sells fast.”

Inside homes fighting for survival on the bare minimum, mothers are leading daily battles. Meals are measured in patience, not in satisfaction. In a small home in Thawra, Omdurman, Awadiya cooks with whatever is available and dreams of what is not. Sitting in her kitchen surrounded by worn pots and the same familiar food smells, she prepares two meals a day—breakfast and a late lunch—often consisting of beans, lentils, or falafel to satisfy the children.

She divides meals carefully, saying: “Children don’t eat everything, and we’ve stopped making certain dishes altogether, like kabsa—it’s no longer affordable. And we can’t make it with soup chicken.”

“We sometimes trade meals with neighbors. If my neighbor makes something new, she shares it with me, and I do the same. Solidarity is what keeps us going.”

Awadiya often cooks using charcoal or an electric heater—if there’s power—when gas is unavailable. Water cuts are also frequent, making meal prep a daily challenge. “We shop at the market because it’s cheaper, but if we forget something like sugar or oil, we have to buy it from the local shop at a higher price.”

She explains to her children why they can’t have certain foods and promises to make it up to them when money comes, sometimes with falafel or eggplant salad. Some days, she makes only a small amount—or nothing at all. “We might just eat bread and tea. Even bread is expensive—six pieces for 1,000 SDG. Sometimes we wait for more money. We thank God always and hope He lifts this hardship from us.”

Cooking is no longer a joy for Awadiya—it’s a daily burden. “I’m always thinking: what will I cook tomorrow?” Despite the proximity of a charity kitchen, she avoids going. Not because she doesn’t need it, but because of personal pride. “We simply don’t accept charity, no matter our situation. I can’t stand in line for a lentil meal—there are others more in need. Unless it’s government assistance, then we’ll take our share. But otherwise, I can’t. I pray I never have to.”

Food as a Test of Dignity

Dr. Hala Osman, a specialist in social psychology, explains that when food becomes scarce, it becomes a test of dignity and a source of identity crisis. “The war didn’t just harm bodies—it invaded people’s hearts and minds, affecting how they see themselves and others,” she says.

 “Transitioning from independence to dependency—especially in basic needs like food—can trigger deep psychological shock: feelings of humiliation, helplessness, and low self-worth.”

She adds that not being able to provide food causes intense stress, particularly for mothers, who see feeding the family as a core responsibility. This can lead to chronic sadness and anxiety.

Hala believes people’s reluctance to ask for help, even in desperate need, is a form of self-defense—a way to preserve dignity. Anger, frustration, and despair may surface, and people begin to use defensive behaviors like denial or pretending to be okay, just to avoid the stigma of need.

She emphasizes the importance of how food aid is delivered. “When aid is given in a way that preserves dignity and avoids humiliating lines, the individual feels respected and less degraded. Long queues or having to prove one’s poverty can emotionally scar parents—and children—leading to anxiety, shame, or even damaged self-esteem later on. Living off aid for long periods can make a child feel dependent or powerless, weakening their trust in their family’s ability to protect them. This is dangerous for psychological identity development.”

As the crisis drags on, Hala calls for more humane approaches to aid—like training volunteers to understand the psychological aspects and treat recipients with sensitivity, minimizing harm.