Human Capital in Times of War: How Do We Reconnect It to the Homeland?

By Dr. Salah Daak

Wars today no longer burn cities alone. Their flames now extend beyond walls and roofs, scorching the human soul itself, depleting our most precious asset: human capital. War is no longer just a clash of arms, but a struggle for survival—a haemorrhage of the mind before the body.

Since the outbreak of this senseless war, Khartoum has transformed from a beating heart of life into a festering wound that refuses to heal. Its people have been scattered across the globe—not in flight from their homeland, but in search of certainty, of safety that preserves their dignity and shields their families from humiliation and loss.

I recall, in the early days of the war, a relative of mine visited me from the area of Dar Um Bilal near Wad Madani. He was a respected and prominent man in his community—serious in his demeanour, yet sorrowful in his eyes. He told me he was leaving for Egypt, and I sensed a sadness not only in his face but also in his voice. He said to me, “In a fleeting moment, we decided to leave… we left everything behind—our home, our land, our neighbours… but we wanted to protect our women.” He paused briefly, then added, “By God, I had never thought of leaving before, but when our honour is threatened, departure becomes an obligation.”

He then shared a harrowing story about a man who saw armed men about to assault his daughter, a medical doctor. When he tried to defend her, they threatened him, saying: “We’ll rape you before we rape her.” The man, unable to bear such a prospect, grabbed an electric wire he tore from a fan switch and ended his life on the spot in front of them. Shocked by the horror of the scene, they fled. He took his own life to protect his daughter’s honour—at a moment where humanity collapses and every door closes. That moment captured the cruel essence of war: where every choice is bitter, every outcome death. It was too much for him to witness his daughter’s violation.

This time, migration was not a temporary exile—it was a search for an entirely new life. People no longer spoke of returning in months or even years. Instead, they spoke of settling down—starting anew in different cities. Some bought flats; those better off purchased villas, launched businesses, and began lives unrecognisable from the ones they left behind. Khartoum—once the elephant’s belly and the symbol of national sovereignty—collapsed overnight. Along with it fell the illusion of a single centre of power and civilisation. Sudan now has multiple centres, and life has shifted to the country’s margins. Perhaps this collapse presents an opportunity to rebuild—but this time, an opportunity to remove the distortions long lamented between centre and periphery.

Years ago, I wrote an article titled “The Ruralisation of the City”, in which I highlighted how the migration of rural populations into urban areas blurred the capital’s identity. The countryside became deserted, while its people ended up selling meagre goods in the streets—neither nourishing nor fulfilling—without any productive or developmental role. I was reminded of the poet-scholar Professor Muhammad Al-Mahdi Al-Majdhoub, who once described a city by saying it was “neither a village with visible rusticity nor a proper town.” His words aptly captured the state of Khartoum at that time—bitterly so.

What deepens the wounds further is that many towns untouched by the fires of war have not shown greater compassion. On the contrary, greed has intensified. Living costs have soared. Rents have doubled. Life in these areas has become a daily test of patience. In a painful irony, neighbouring countries have proven more merciful than cities within Sudan. People have fled to Egypt, the Gulf, Turkey, Uganda—carrying what remained of their dreams in their bags, holes widening in their pockets, and hope fading from their hearts.

I remember my grandfather—Sheikh Bashir Al-Tijani Hasballah, may God have mercy on him—who was a distinguished merchant, remarkably organised, and an eloquent orator who could shake the pulpit with his words. One day, while we were having lunch together, he said to me: “If your spending is hexagonal but your income is pentagonal—declare bankruptcy.” He meant that your income must exceed your expenses, or you will go bankrupt. Today, many of those who have emigrated do not even have triangular or square incomes—they rely on remittances from their expatriate children, in an open-ended journey with no return date.

Yet, in recent times, a movement of return has begun. But more important than the return itself is the creation of conditions for people to stay. We need policies that encourage stability and participation in rebuilding, that revive hope. People no longer need slogans about love for the homeland—however important such slogans may be. What they need now are practical plans, ambitious programmes that restore their sense of belonging and offer them a reason to stay—especially the younger generations who have been subjected to deep confusion.

This brings us to the most urgent question: How do we prevent the remainder of our human capital from turning into a permanently emigrant force? How do we reconnect people to a homeland still struggling to rise from beneath the rubble?

Perhaps the first step is acknowledging that Sudan is more than just Khartoum, and that balanced development is no longer a luxury, but a national necessity. Population and economic weight must be redistributed. Families unwilling to return to the capital or wishing to invest in the regions should be granted planned residential plots in cities like Port Sudan, Atbara, Gedaref, Wad Madani, Sennar, Kosti, El Obeid, Nyala, El Fasher, and Geneina. A piece of land is not merely soil—it is a promise of a new beginning. Returning to Khartoum should not be a precondition for life. People can work and contribute from any corner of the country. Many may return—but not all will, and not all need to.

If these families are also provided with appropriate means of production—such as vehicles at symbolic prices or customs exemptions—they can rebuild dignified lives. Establishing factories, storage facilities, and industrial zones aligned with natural resource distribution will ensure balanced and sustainable development. Why not set up tomato canneries in Tabat? Why not export mangoes from Abu Jubeiha and lemons from Bara? Why shouldn’t Sudanese fruits feed the Arab world, as Vietnam and South America do? I have seen Vietnamese lemons in Al-Othaim supermarkets in Saudi Arabia—and bananas from faraway places in South America. Why not export from a land nourished by rivers from Paradise?

I have personally witnessed the destruction of forests after gas supplies were cut, and how wildlife vanished, birds fled at the sound of guns and tanks. I saw gazelles disappear, trees stripped bare. I remembered what my late father told me about a hunting trip with Uncle Ahmed Ibrahim, who was passionate about hunting. They went to the Sharab area near Al-Mujlad, hunted several gazelles and even a leopard whose skin he wore at his wedding. They never went hunting without permission—otherwise, the wildlife guards would fine them or confiscate their licensed rifles. Hunting then had its ethics, its seasons, its protectors. Today, the forest is defenceless, and animal wealth teeters on the edge of extinction despite the sincere efforts of conservationists.

The economy, too, is haemorrhaging. Animal hides are discarded—no modern tanneries turn them into national wealth. In Khartoum alone, nearly 10,000 sheep and 2,000 cows were used to be slaughtered daily. Yet livestock is exported live—there are no world-class abattoirs to process and export meat. Exporting live animals means losing out on the added value of freezing, processing, and packaging. The tragedy deepens when we see gum Arabic, hibiscus, and baobab exported raw—only to return to us manufactured abroad, stripped of name and identity. Some are even re-exported under the name of countries that have no forests and no agriculture.

If we truly want to bring people back, we must first rebuild the homeland’s entire system. We need to revisit our industrial and investment policies—establish fully equipped industrial cities with infrastructure, electricity, refrigeration, and research centres. We must connect regional universities with local governments to produce scientifically grounded studies and turn our emigrant minds into intellectual powerhouses contributing to development—rather than losing them forever. During the war, regional universities set a powerful example by hosting displaced students from Khartoum universities—becoming shelter and sanctuary—and ensuring the continuity of higher education. They proved their worth when it mattered most.

Many countries emerged from wars, but never recovered—because they lost their intellectual capital. We don’t need to restore what was; we need to build what should be.

Yes, war is a catastrophe—but we can transform it into an opportunity. A chance to replan, to correct deformities, to build a just homeland that distributes development based not on arbitrary studies, but on actual need. A homeland that places people at the centre of the equation, offering them belonging—at the core and at the edges, in moments of hope and in pain.

In conclusion,

This article is not a lament for a broken nation. It is a sincere call to restore dignity to the Sudanese citizen and to reignite the spark of belonging from beneath the rubble of war and displacement. Human capital is not a statistic in displacement figures—it is the spirit of the nation, its maker and builder. Nations do not rise by stirring speeches alone—though such speeches matter—but by policies that respect human beings, giving them a reason to stay, an opportunity to build, and a space to live with dignity.

We must believe that the homeland is not just a patch of earth, but a powerful idea we plant in our children’s hearts, water with hope, and protect with justice. If we are to rise from this deep wound, let our motto be:

“From here we begin… with a homeland that cannot be forgotten, even in absence; that cannot be abandoned, even in disagreement.”

Let us raise our children to know that Sudan is not merely a map—but an unshakeable belonging, a non-negotiable identity, and a land vast enough to contain all our dreams… no matter how dark the night becomes.

Shortlink: https://sudanhorizon.com/?p=6545