Al-Burhan to Bernard-Henri Lévy: “This is Democracy”

Abdullah Ali Ibrahim

Summary:
A delegation from the Communist Party in Atbara visited the Minister of Infrastructure in the Nile State to propose a solar energy initiative to address the city’s chronic water supply issues. This step prompted a political backlash from members of the “Sumud” bloc — a group with which the Communist Party has had a deep rift since withdrawing from it during the early days of the Sudanese revolution, after the signing of the Constitutional Declaration in July 2019.

In July, French philosopher Bernard-Henri Lévy visited Sudan to observe the ongoing war — a familiar intellectual habit of seeking out conflict zones, studying them, and writing about them. During his visit, he met Gen. Abdel Fattah al-Burhan, head of Sudan’s Sovereign Council and commander-in-chief of the armed forces, in Port Sudan.

Lévy raised the stalled democratic transition, which has been in limbo since the December 2018 revolution. “There was a heavy silence,” Lévy recalled. “Then the General rose and beckoned me to follow him to the end of a barren, dimly lit garden, accompanied by a handful of young armed soldiers. He walked to the corniche where Port Sudan residents come for fresh air. Some young people recognized him. Dozens, then hundreds gathered. Applause erupted, along with joyful chants of ‘Long live Sudan!’ followed by an endless round of selfies.”

“This is democracy,” Burhan declared, raising his fist. Then, in a grand yet casual gesture to those present, he told Lévy: “Remind those ignorant propagandists that Kamal Idris, a distinguished law professor, has been appointed prime minister and will form a 100 percent civilian government.”

To observers, Burhan’s remark about Kamal Idris seemed more like a pleasantry for Lévy than a genuine political announcement. If it had been serious, there would have been no need to bring Lévy to the Red Sea shore to witness, firsthand, this spontaneous public rally — Burhan’s visual proof of “democracy” wherever he goes.

No such Idris government exists; it appears more a symbolic gesture akin to the military’s idea of democracy, which differs sharply from the civilian vision that emerged from the revolution. For the generals, such gestures may serve as a bridge to civilian factions that opted out of the war entirely, calling it “senseless,” a power struggle between two intoxicated generals. By embracing this framing, those civilians waged their own political war — between the Forces of Freedom and Change (FFC) and pro-military factions, including Islamists — reminiscent of old campus rivalries.

While Sudan’s civilian elite remained fixated on liberal democracy, many ordinary citizens developed a different mood, shaped by witnessing — at great cost — the collapse of the state at the hands of actors who blurred the lines between politics and organized crime. Their skepticism toward war does not stem from indifference to democracy, but from a desire to see it realized within a functioning state, not in the shadows of empty political charters.

American journalist Anne Applebaum, writing in The Atlantic (August 4), noted that while Sudan’s political elite still cling to the language and preconditions of liberal democracy, Sudan’s reality reflects the “end” of liberalism. Visiting Ahmadiya, a war-affected village, she found that the once-theoretical phrase “the end of the liberal world” had become a lived truth: liberal order had collapsed without an alternative, leaving chaos, opportunism, and nihilism in its place.

This post-liberal reality was unleashed in Khartoum in April 2023, during a violent, chaotic evacuation. Those Applebaum interviewed often broke down in tears, even two years later — a grief rooted in the same void Burhan sought to counter for Lévy with his street-level performance of “democracy.”

Two recent incidents shed light on the contrast between elite “liberal” politics and the popular post-liberal mood. In one, journalist Mohammed Latif, head of Tayba Press, posted a video blaming Sudan’s electricity crisis on the pre-2019 Islamist regime, now seen as ruling from behind the scenes. While asserting his liberal right to criticize the government, he downplayed the war as a cause — even though Rapid Support Forces (RSF) drone strikes since January have destroyed major power stations, including at Merowe Dam, which supplies 60 percent of Sudan’s electricity.

In the other case, the Communist Party’s Atbara branch proposed funding a solar power network to run the city’s old water plant, bypassing diesel generators and cutting costs. The state’s infrastructure minister welcomed the idea. Yet, the moment the party issued a statement (July 31), “Sumud” affiliates attacked them — citing the party’s past denunciations of “soft landing” deals with the military and its call for “radical change.” Sumud leader Rasha Awad mocked the party for working with what she called the “remnants of the Islamist regime” in Port Sudan, accusing them of legitimizing a government that “steals aid from the mouths of the hungry.”

These examples reveal a political elite still committed to pure oppositional politics, as if in a pre-war liberal order, while much of the population struggles in a post-liberal vacuum. For them, blaming government corruption is necessary — but insufficient if it ignores war as the immediate cause of suffering. In today’s Sudan, a leader offering tangible relief — even from a government deemed illegitimate — risks elite censure.

When Burhan took Lévy to that impromptu rally, it was not a misstep; it was a calculated gesture. Just as a picture is worth a thousand words, so too was this scene meant to serve as living proof — however debatable — of his brand of “democracy.”