The Alliance of the Fugitives… from Their Own Failures!

As I See

Adil El-Baz

(1)
I don’t know why I feel a wave of depression every time I think about the predicament our brothers in “Sumood” (“Steadfastness”) have landed in. Perhaps it’s because some of them are friends or former students—though some have betrayed, and others have simply failed.

I’m not referring to the political trap “Sumood” finds itself in after the announcement of the online “Founding Government”—that’s well known. Nor do I mean their moral failure before the Sudanese people, or the price they must pay for aligning with a criminal militia. My pity for them isn’t because of the confusion they’re drowning in or the disgrace of their political stance. Certainly not.

What saddens me is how their names and slogans have become meaningless—then and now.
“Their slogans were like paper fireworks—sparkling briefly in the air, then leaving only the ashes of disappointment clinging to the collective memory.”
They chanted slogans as grand as the nation, then shrunk them once seated in power, and their actions were so feeble they couldn’t hold a candle to their promises.

—

(2)
In the beginning, they called themselves “Qaḥt” (the Arabic acronym for Forces of Freedom and Change), but before long, those disillusioned by the revolution’s slogans twisted it into Qaḥṭ—a word for drought—because of their political incompetence and betrayal of revolutionary comrades.

Awareness returned swiftly to the youth—the same youth whose dreams of change were betrayed, whose corpses were left rotting in morgues.

Their hopes were shattered on the rock of partisan greed. They witnessed how foreign ambassadors invaded the country, markets went up in flames, security collapsed, and the nation became weightless—worthless.
Until it sank so low that Salah Manaa became the de facto leader, and Hemedti its chief economic thinker!

Thus, the wretchedly short life of “Qaḥṭ” was concluded with the sham “Framework Agreement,” which amounted to nothing less than a declaration of war.

(3)
Trying to shed their skin after sparking war and fleeing the country aboard Janjaweed technicals disguised in kadamool, they had no choice but to rebrand themselves. So, they chose a name wholly undeserved: “Taqaddum” (Progress).

The audacity is baffling. How can fugitives from their own war crimes call themselves “Progress”?

What progress have they brought to their country since the revolution?
What progress exists even within their fractured alliance—now broken shards scattered to the wind?

What progress do we expect from a group of fragments that have no shared vision, no program, no coherence—just an empty slogan: “No to war”?
And the louder they chanted “No to war,” the more the war raged and expanded.
So, what inspired them to choose such a name?

(4)
For a third time, they abandoned “Taqaddum,” and dissolved their announced alliance with the Janjaweed’s new political party, “Ta’sees” (Foundation)—a party born without guidance or a meaningful charter. Yet the secret coordination room with the militia remained, by order of the sponsor.

This time, the name was a sick joke: “Sumood”—Steadfastness.
Yes, I swear—steadfastness!

I kept thinking about the name… Every time I look at it, I laugh, walk away, then come back even more confused.
How exactly are they “steadfast”? A coalition of fugitives from a war they started—when and where did they ever stand firm?

Since the war began, they climbed onto planes and visas, fleeing the country.
So where did they stand firm? In hotels? In the furnished apartments gifted by the Dagalo family abroad?
Or in the golden villas on Abu Dhabi’s shores, courtesy of their benefactor?

Did they “stand firm” or just squeal and flee?

There is no honor in pushing death away with disgrace,
As one who warded it off once with shameful decorum.

In which trench did they stand firm? In which city—Omdurman? The massacred towns of Nyala, Ardamta, Wad Al-Noora? Or in the besieged, starving cities like El Fasher and Dilling?

I might’ve respected them if they had called their alliance “Samoot” (Silence)—a name more truthful and fitting.
They are silent about every crime committed by the militia that destroyed their country, homes, and families. Silent while their sisters are raped. Silent still.

Look how they’ve dared to abuse the language—swapping a “T” for a “D” just to name themselves “Sumood.”
Incredible! A kingdom of names in all the wrong places!
They called themselves “Qaḥṭ”—they became barren.
Then “Taqaddum”—yet regressed.
Now “Sumood”—though they fled and fell silent.
They became barren… regressed… then silent—until the sponsor allows them to speak.

But just as a crown doesn’t dignify a clown, these new names can’t mask their emptiness.
Every name was just another mask over the face of disgrace.

(5)
Their next dilemma: what slogan will they use?

Suppose the war ends today, and “Sumood” returns to Khartoum. What will they chant?

“Just fall, that’s all” (Tisqut Bas)?

“The solution is in the bellies”?

“Crush every Islamist”?

“Freedom, Peace, Justice”?

“We will cross and prevail”?

“Either your shroud or your homeland”?

All are slogans that have been exhausted—no longer fit for human use, regardless of one’s political blood type.

Take “Just fall, that’s all”—the regime fell, indeed.
But what did they do?

They took power, plunged the country into war, and scattered its people into refugee camps and exile—clinging to their own failure.
That slogan is dead—no one will chant it again.

(6)
“The solution is in the bellies”—well, the country has now been completely devoured from end to end, and no solution has emerged.

The only “bellies” the people care about now are the final consumption of the Janjaweed and their allies.

(7)
“Freedom, Peace, and Justice”—they betrayed all three.

Freedom of expression was revoked with visa stamps (Sudani newspaper).

Peace in Darfur? They opposed it—and the people of Darfur retaliated.

As for justice: their prisons overflowed with detainees held without charge or trial. Some died without ever facing a court.

Even defendants on programs like “Lands & Lands” weren’t allowed a single comment—let alone a fair trial.

Ironically, within two years, they themselves were begging for justice—after their military allies turned on them.
Values always avenge those who betray them. That’s the lesson of history.

Their fall wasn’t just political—it was moral. They stood over the ashes of burned villages, silent about the murdered, the raped, and the starved—victims of their own allies.

(8)
“We will cross and prevail”—they did, partially.

Within four years of seizing power, they crossed the border, fleeing the country in shame.
They did prevail—in fleeing the nation, and in rallying international and regional hostility against it through lies and nonsense.

(9)
“Crush every Islamist”? That’s long gone—not even in their dreams.

Did they manage it before? Or was it just empty noise?

The Islamists are now heroes in the eyes of the people—fighting side by side with the army, singing patriotic songs, and sacrificing their lives.

The same ones who once chanted to crush them now find themselves begging Americans, Janjaweed, and foreign sponsors for mercy.

The Islamists are in Omdurman, in the trenches of Khartoum and Kordofan—even at Darfur’s edge—while the “crushers” are loitering in Addis Ababa, Kampala, and Abu Dhabi.

While the Islamists are bleeding on the battlefield, they’re in Nairobi and Addis issuing press releases condemning the army!

Now Islamists stand shoulder-to-shoulder with soldiers. They bury their martyrs. Meanwhile, those who wanted to “crush” them fled like rats.

They can never again chant on the streets of Khartoum—because Khartoum itself will answer back.

It will ask: Where were you when the real battle raged and souls ascended to their Maker?

We heard nothing from you—no voice, no whisper.

This land is not the same land you knew in 2018 or 2019. These alleys you betrayed will never betray the blood of martyrs.

This soil, soaked with crimson in the battle for dignity, will reject you—no matter your slogans—as you once rejected it in its hour of agony.

(10)
“Your shroud or your homeland”?

When the time came for shrouds and sacrifice—you fled.
We didn’t see you. Not you, nor your shrouds, among the martyrs of this nation.

If only you would visit Jebel Sarkab, where the noble martyrs lie—you’d see row upon row of radiant youth, buried over kilometers.
They gave their lives for the nation—and couldn’t even afford shrouds or burial plots.

So tell me: With what face and with what chant will you return to the streets of Khartoum?

And you, dear reader—when you hear their chants again tomorrow…
Will you respond to them?
Or will you remain silent, as they were, while your country burned?

I just want to live long enough to witness their fate—when they return triumphant, bearing the spoils of “the sponsor” and the Janjaweed.