The Sparrow and the Air Deal: The “Founding” of Sudan Between Illusion and Memory

By Aref Al-Sawi

Last Saturday, the so-called “Sudan Founding Alliance” announced in Nyala the formal establishment of its Presidential Council. Stepping into the spotlight, Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo was sworn in as President of what was proclaimed the “Presidential Council of the Republic of Sudan.” He was followed by Abdelaziz Adam al-Hilu as Vice President, other members of the council, and finally Mohamed Hassan al-Ta’ishi as Prime Minister of the “Founding” government.

The entire spectacle originated not from independent reporting, but from the alliance’s own pages and platforms, amplified by supporters of “His Excellency Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo.” No journalists were invited to Nyala to witness the occasion or to record the reactions of ordinary people. Instead, the alliance opted to craft its own narrative, expecting the public to believe in the torrents of joy supposedly sweeping Nyala at the birth of Sudan’s new government.

The alliance’s media platforms circulated photos and videos of Dagalo and al-Hilu walking through the streets of Nyala, clasping hands in a display of “political romance.” It was a carefully staged image: a sudden friendship conjured to erase centuries of political conflict—conflicts that had repeatedly reshaped kingdoms and governments.

The alliance claims to have founded a government of unity and peace from Nyala, one that assumes responsibility for all of Sudan, caring as much for Shendi and Kassala and Khartoum as for Nyala itself. But is that claim real? Do they possess the intent, the capacity, and the resources to shoulder the burden of Sudanese welfare and progress? Or is it merely political propaganda?

The oath sworn by members of the Presidential Council pledged to carry out their duties “with diligence, honesty, and transparency, for the welfare and advancement of the Sudanese people.” They also committed to enshrining a secular system of governance, in deference to Abdelaziz al-Hilu, who has consistently refused to engage in any dialogue that does not explicitly enshrine secularism in the constitution—sometimes even demanding it be placed “above the constitution.” The alliance obliged him completely: he was allowed to swear his oath on his “true word,” without the need for any sacred text.

Thus, secularism was reduced from a profound intellectual and constitutional question, one that might have been embraced through popular conviction, to a cheap prop in the propaganda of the Rapid Support Forces. Al-Hilu chose a secularism carried by RSF rocket launchers over one safeguarded by societal conviction and public awareness. In doing so, he turned secularism into a personal issue, a tool in his political rivalry. For Sudanese democrats who long considered him a strategic ally for democratic and secular governance, it was a bitter disappointment.

A second disappointment struck the cause of the Nuba people in their long struggle against political and economic marginalization. Al-Hilu diluted his historic project by folding it into Hemedti’s opportunistic venture, without offering a clear explanation of what tangible benefit the Nuba would gain—let alone the rest of Sudan. What prize did he secure for the Nuba cause? On what basis did he make such a consequential decision?

The Nuba had taken up arms for real grievances, fighting a protracted war rooted in issues of identity and resources. Yet the new “Founding Constitution,” while reverting to a federal system of regions, did not bother to demarcate their boundaries. If Sudan’s borders were historically drawn by violence, are the Nuba now to settle for a promise and a “true word” from al-Hilu? And will that promise bear fruit this time?

During the oath-taking celebrations, the government’s leaders addressed a rally in Nyala, which al-Hilu hailed as the “capital of the new Sudan.” The crowd had no choice in the matter; they gathered as they once had for Omar al-Bashir, sustained only by the hope that this promise, unlike previous ones, might be kept. Their presence does not confer legitimacy. But legitimacy was never the alliance’s concern: convinced they know the people’s interests better than the people themselves, they drafted the entire project—deciding how Sudan would be ruled and by whom—behind closed doors in Nairobi, long before setting foot in Nyala.

Standing as “Prime Minister of the Republic of Sudan,” Mohamed Hassan al-Ta’ishi pledged with his colleagues to build a “new Sudan” upon the ruins of “the State of ’56.” Yet why does al-Ta’ishi harbor such resentment toward “the State of ’56”? He is himself a product of the University of Khartoum—the intellectual seedbed of that very state—a son of the Umma Party, the party of independence, who lived in Britain on the legacy of that state. He even once led the University of Khartoum Students’ Union on the opposition lists against the Bashir regime. If the people of Nyala cannot understand the roots of this “resentment,” it will be difficult for them to buy into the alliance’s project.

When al-Hilu, Hemedti’s deputy, rose to speak to the people of Nyala, he seemed hesitant, his thoughts unclear. He felt compelled to justify his alliance with the RSF, recounting how they once stood as adversaries but now shared a common fate. In a veiled apology, he admitted they had once been “blind.” He then told the parable of the black and white bulls who stood together against a lion—until the lion divided them and devoured them one by one.

Al-Hilu revealed that the Port Sudan government had reached out to him before his pact with the RSF, but he had disclosed those contacts to Hemedti, explaining that what bound them together was “marginalization”—that both suffered at the hands of the “State of ’56.” Yet this claim collapses under scrutiny: the RSF were never marginalized. On the contrary, their leader was until recently one of Sudan’s richest men, controlling banks, mining companies, and vast herds, commanding armies across the land. He was the darling of the Bashir regime, selling fighters to its cause, once boasting: “I’m just holding on to the president’s tail.”

Al-Hilu offered no details of his understandings with the RSF, dismissing them as “unimportant.” The truth is that his stance defies explanation: neither his comrades nor his followers, and certainly not the Sudanese public, can make sense of it. What it amounts to is a bargain between two generals, flanked by an elite whose only rallying cry is a tattered scrap of thought called the “State of ’56.”

When al-Ta’ishi, al-Hilu, and their alliance leaders promised the people of Nyala that development, services, electricity, skyscrapers, and railways would come tomorrow, their pledges rang hollow. Such promises can be realized only through politics and dialogue—or through extreme violence.

And violence is the RSF’s only path. Their project cannot stand without demolishing the legacy of the “State of ’56” and erasing the collective memory that has shaped Sudan’s identity. That can only be achieved through overwhelming violence—the same kind of violence with which the Turko-Egyptian state once established its rule in Sudan, only to face gradual resistance until the Mahdiyya arose. When Khalifa Abdallah himself overindulged in violence, people withdrew their support, weakened the Mahdist state, just as they had earlier resisted Soba and the Funj kingdom of Sennar.

This quotation from philosopher Immanuel Kant, cited by Adonis and later by historian Mohamed Saeed al-Qaddal in Belonging and Alienation (Dar al-Jeel, 1992), was followed by critic Mahmoud Amin al-Alam’s comment: “There is no progress or creativity out of nothing; the path can only pass through the memory of heritage.”

Ideas exert influence not because of their grandeur, but because they resonate with people’s aspirations at a given historical moment. The leaders of the “Sudan Founding Alliance,” however, are in one valley—while the people of Nyala are in another.