The mother who could only afford the drugs to save one of her twins

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The mother who could only afford the drugs to save one of her twins

2025-10-15 23:10:51

Nawal Al-MughaifiSenior international investigative correspondent, Khartoum and

Scarlett BarterBBC World, Khartoum

The civil war in Sudan has devastated the lives of Touma and his family

Warning: This piece contains details that some readers may find distressing

Touma hasn’t eaten for days. She sits silently, her eyes glassy as she stares aimlessly across the hospital ward.

Lying in her arms, motionless and severely malnourished, was her three-year-old daughter Masjid.

Touma seems numb to the screams of the other young children around her. “I hope she cries,” the 25-year-old mother tells us as she looks at her daughter. “She hasn’t cried in days.”

Bashaer Hospital is one of the last functioning hospitals in the Sudanese capital, Khartoum, which has been devastated by the civil war raging since April 2023. Many have traveled hours to get here for specialized care.

The malnutrition ward is filled with children who are too weak to fight the disease, their mothers standing helplessly by their beds.

The screams here cannot be quieted and each one of them cuts deeply.

Touma and her family were forced to flee after fighting between the Sudanese army and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces reached their home about 200 kilometers (125 miles) southwest of Khartoum.

“[The RSF] “Everything we had – our money and our livestock – was taken right out of our hands,” she says. “We just ran away with our lives.”

With no money or food, Touma’s children began to suffer.

She looks amazed as she recounts their old life. “In the past, our house was full of good things. We had livestock, milk and dates, but now we have nothing.”

Sudan is currently experiencing one of the worst humanitarian emergencies in the world.

According to the United Nations, three million children under the age of five suffer from acute malnutrition. The remaining hospitals are overcrowded.

Bashaer Hospital provides basic care and treatment free of charge.

However, the life-saving medications needed by children in the malnutrition ward must be paid for by their families.

Twin mosque, she and her sister Manahil were brought to the hospital together. But the family can only afford antibiotics for one child.

Touma had to make the impossible choice – she chose Al-Manahil.

“I hope they recover and grow,” her grief-stricken voice cracks, “and that I can watch them walk and play together like they did before.

“I just want them to get better,” Touma says, hugging her dying daughter.

“I’m alone. I have nothing. I only have God.”

Survival rates here are low. For the families in this ward, the war took everything. They were left with nothing and no way to buy the medicines that would save their children.

As we left, the doctor said that none of the children in this ward would survive.

Across Khartoum, civil war has rewritten children’s lives.

Liam Weir/BBC A rusty tank lies on the road in front of a destroyed high-rise building. Liam Weir/BBC

Memories of the conflict are scattered throughout Khartoum

What began as fighting broke out between forces loyal to two generals – army commander Lieutenant General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan and Rapid Support Forces leader Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo, known as Hemedti – quickly engulfed the city.

For two years – until last March when the army regained control – the city was at war as rival fighters clashed.

Khartoum, once a center of culture and trade on the banks of the Nile, became a battleground. Tanks entered the neighborhoods. Fighter planes flew overhead. Civilians were caught in crossfire, artillery shelling and drone strikes.

In this devastating scene, amid the silence of devastation, the voice of a fragile child rises from under the rubble.

Twelve-year-old Zaher wanders through the rubble, past burned-out cars, tanks, smashed houses and forgotten bullets.

“I’m coming home,” he sings softly to himself as his wheelchair rolls over broken glass and shards. “I can no longer see my home. Where is my home?”

Zaher still loves playing football

His voice, fragile but determined, contains a pity for what he has lost and a quiet hope that one day he might finally come home.

In one of the buildings now used as a shelter, Habiba, Zaher’s mother, told me what life was like under the control of the Rapid Support Forces.

“It was very difficult,” she says. “We couldn’t turn on our lights at night – it was like we were thieves. We didn’t light fires. We didn’t move at all at night.”

She sits next to her son in a room lined with single beds.

“At any moment, whether you are sleeping or showering, standing or sitting, you will find them [the RSF] Breathe down your neck.”

Many fled the capital, but Zaher and his mother had no way out. To survive, they sold lentils on the streets.

One morning, while they were working side by side, a drone hit them.

“I looked at him and he was bleeding,” Habiba says. “There was blood everywhere.” “I was losing consciousness. I forced myself to stay awake because I knew that if I lost consciousness, I would be lost forever.”

Zaher’s legs were severely damaged. After hours of agony, they arrived at the hospital.

“I kept praying, ‘Please God, take my life instead of his legs,’” she sobbed.

But doctors could not save his legs. Both had to be amputated just below the knee.

“He would wake up and ask: Why did I let them cut off my leg?” She looks down, her face full of remorse, “I couldn’t answer.”

Habiba and her son are crying and tormented by the memory of what happened to them. What makes matters worse is the knowledge that prosthetic limbs could give Zaher a chance to relive his old childhood, but Habiba cannot afford them.

For Zaher, the memory of what happened is difficult to talk about.

He only shares one simple dream. “I wish I could get prosthetic legs so I could play football with my friends like I used to. That’s all.”

Children in Khartoum were not only robbed of their childhood, but also of safe places to play and stay young.

Schools, football fields and playgrounds are now in ruins, with reminders of a life stolen by conflict.

“It was so beautiful here,” says 16-year-old Ahmed, looking around at a destroyed amusement park and playground.

Ahmed finds human remains in a playground where he is paid to tidy up

Printed on his tattered gray T-shirt was a huge smiley face – the word “smile” written underneath. But his reality could not be further from this feeling.

“My brothers and I used to come here. We played all day and laughed a lot. But when I came back after the war, I couldn’t believe it was the same place.”

Ahmed now lives and works here clearing the rubble left by the war, earning $50 (£37) for 30 days of continuous work.

The money helps support him, his mother, his grandmother, and one of his siblings.

There were six other brothers, but, like many in Sudan who have lost family members, he lost contact with them. He looks at his feet as he tells us he doesn’t know where they are or if any of them are still alive.

War has torn apart families like his.

Ahmed’s work reminds him of that almost daily. “I have found the remains of 15 bodies so far,” he says.

Many of the remains found here have since been buried, but there are still some bones lying around.

Ahmed walks through the park and picks up a human jaw. “It’s terrifying. It makes me shiver.”

He shows us another bone and innocently holds it next to his leg and says, “This is a bone like mine.”

Ahmed says he no longer dares to dream about the future.

“Since the war started, I was certain that I was destined to die. So I stopped thinking about what I would do in the future.”

The destruction of schools has further endangered children’s futures.

Millions no longer receive education.

But Zaher is one of the lucky few. He and his friends go to school in a makeshift classroom set up by volunteers in an abandoned house.

They call out answers out loud, write on the board, sing songs, and there are even a few rowdy kids messing around in the back of the class.

Hearing the sound of children learning and laughing, in a country where places for children are very limited, is like nectar.

When we ask what childhood should be like, Zaher’s classmates answer with an innocence still intact: “We should play, study and read.”

But the memory of war is never far away. Zaher interrupts: “We should not be afraid of bombs and bullets.” “We must be brave.”

Their teacher, Miss Amal, has taught for 45 years. She had never seen children so traumatized.

“They were really affected by the war,” she says.

“Their mental health, their vocabulary. They speak the language of the militias. They shout violent profanities, even physical violence. They carry sticks and whips, and they want to hit someone. They have become very anxious.”

The harm extends beyond behavior.

With most families deprived of income, food shortages are painful.

“Some students come from homes with no bread, no flour, no milk, no oil, nothing at all,” the teacher says.

However, in the midst of despair, Sudanese children cling to fleeting moments of joy.

On a scarred soccer field, Zaher drags himself through the dirt on his knees, determined to play the game he loves most. His friends cheer him on as he kicks the ball.

“My favorite thing is football,” he says, smiling for the first time.

When asked which team he supports, the answer was immediate: “Real Madrid.” His favorite player? “Vinicius.”

Playing on his knees is very painful and may lead to further infections. But he doesn’t care.

Football and his friendships saved him. They brought him joy and escape from his reality. However, he dreams of prosthetic legs.

“I hope they fix me so I can go home and go to school,” says Zaher.

Additional reporting by Abd al-Rahman Abu Talib, Abd al-Rahman al-Tayeb and William Weir

More BBC stories on the conflict in Sudan:

Getty Images/BBC A woman looks at her mobile phone and a photo by BBC News AfricaGetty Images/BBC

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