The Sudanese Woman and the Crafting of Hope

By Dr. Salah Daak
As Dr Sara Abu — a well-known women’s rights activist — was reading an article I had written about the homeland and the meaning of patriotism, she sent me a light-hearted comment, gently reproachful in tone. Jokingly, she said: “Your article is beautiful, Doctor — but it seems your idea of the homeland is far too masculine!” I laughed at her clever phrasing and made her a promise one does not take lightly when it comes to great causes: the next article would be about women — about the homeland when it becomes feminine.
It was not a courtesy promise, but a rightful call to a long national memory in which the Sudanese woman has always been a symbol of renaissance, a voice of wisdom, a hand sowing seeds, a shade in times of drought, and a pillar when the columns shook. She was never a footnote in the margins, but the entire page. If you look closely at the true face of Sudan, you’ll see it etched in the wrinkles of grandmothers, in the stoop of mothers preparing sustenance from nothing, and in the eyes of dreaming girls carrying books on their heads and hope in their hearts.
The Sudanese woman was never a decorative complement to man — she was the colour, the texture, the depth, and the light. She tilled the soil, ground the grain, raised generations, sang to the harvest, and buried her dead with trembling hands — then rose to carry on. She laid the foundations of a social order based on respect and cohesion, not oppression and defeat, and preserved traditions — the rituals of marriage, birth, and death — becoming the guardian of collective memory and the keeper of values.
In our history, the Kandakas were not myth — they were a lived reality of pride. Amanirenas stopped Alexander the Great from setting foot on our soil; he turned east and perished there. Amanishakheto placed women at the heart of power, not its periphery. Then came Mahira bint Abboud, thundering with passion, urging men to courage, declaring: “True manhood is not just words… it lies in the stab of the spear and the blows to the belly with resolve.” The hakamats were not mere tribal singers; they were shapers of public opinion, oral journalists performing in the squares, planting bravery in the hearts of men and sketching the features of dignity, patience, and pride in identity.
Within the family sphere, no major decision is made without the presence of women — from marriage to circumcision, from household management to health care choices. I witnessed this during my work on a women’s health project with an international organisation in Kordofan. We assumed that young wives and daughters-in-law held the key to change. In truth, it was the habouba — the grandmother — whose approval was vital. When we directed our awareness messages towards her, the entire landscape shifted, for real influence lies at the roots, not the branches.
Here, I cannot help but recall my grandmother, Hajja Bitt al-Sayyid, whom we affectionately called “the Iron Lady”. Her word was final, her stance unwavering, her wisdom beyond dispute. Anyone wishing to pass a decision in our family had to “go through her” first and drink tea with her in the mahareeb — bitter as it was, one would enjoy it for the sake of having their request granted. She was firm without cruelty, just without rigidity, strong without arrogance. Her word was half the success — indeed, all of it. May she rest in peace; she was a walking state of morals. She raised her children alone after her husband — our grandfather — passed away, and they grew into fine men, great uncles to us.
Also in Kordofan, I recall another moment, during a village meeting to train midwives. We had planned to train one midwife per village. At the end, an elderly woman leaning on her elbow lifted her head and said quietly: “And if the midwife herself needs delivering — who will deliver her?” A question that hadn’t crossed our minds, but it shook us. The decision instantly changed — we would train two midwives per village. Such is the power of folk wisdom: it speaks without grand speeches, and reminds us we can learn from everyone, no matter how educated we are.
At a workshop held outside Sudan, some participants spoke of African women as crushed creatures beneath the weight of male dominance. I smiled and said, “Perhaps in some settings — but the Sudanese woman goes through three phases that give her a soft power no law can rival: In her youth, modesty may appear as weakness and submission; in motherhood, she meets the man as an equal; and in old age, as a grandmother, she becomes the reference, the guarantor, the guardian. No decision passes without her nod. No tradition is affirmed without her gesture.”
This is not to deny that many women in remote areas are less fortunate — denied education, their rights suppressed, and subject to male domination. They need preparation, for “the mother is a school — prepare her well, and you prepare a people of noble lineage.”
The woman is a mother, sister, grandmother, and aunt. And above all, the mother is the homeland — she is the destination. I travelled often, hopping between airports with my luggage, but I never felt that my journey had ended until I entered her room and greeted her. Only then did I feel I had truly arrived. Now, after her passing — may God have mercy on her — our journeys have become endless. Constant travel, without the comfort of arrival.
In this cruel war, the Sudanese woman has borne a double wound. She was displaced from her home, her belongings looted, and in some conflict zones, she suffered the unforgivable crime of rape. The war was a wound that never healed — but it did not break her spirit. The Sudanese woman, as we know her, rises from the ashes, builds from rubble, and weaves from sorrow a new hope.
I am deeply convinced that the key to real societal transformation lies in supporting, educating, and empowering women. No society can sustain values without wise women. I remember being in El Obeid, North Kordofan, where a women’s association named Hawa was led by the esteemed teacher Abla Mahdi. They invited me to join, and I did — finding myself the only man at the first meeting. From that day, I became a staunch advocate for women’s issues, especially policies that protect and empower them. My salutations to the women of Kordofan — and to Ms Abla.
If we move from stories to reality, we find that Sudanese women have always been at the forefront of progress. Khalida Zahir was the first to enter medicine; Malika al-Dar was the first to write a novel. Aisha al-Falatiya, Mona al-Khair, and al-Balabil carried the banner of fine art. In politics, Fatima Ahmed Ibrahim, Suad al-Fatih, and Fatima Abdel Mahmoud all made their mark, along with names like Rabha al-Kinaniyya, Miram Taja bint Sultan Ajabna, Leila Aboulela, Leila Zakaria, and Widad al-Mahboub… the list goes on. Sudanese women were the first female judges in the Arab world, the first ministers, and the first to run for president.
There are also women who never received formal education, but were schooled in life and gained wisdom few books could offer. In villages across North Kordofan, I’ve met women who excelled in community leadership and whose wisdom surpassed that of some academics and politicians.
For all this, speaking about Sudanese women is not a luxury — it is a necessity. We don’t want her to be merely a subject of care — we want her to be the driver of renaissance. We seek policies that shield her from injustice, propel her forward, and ensure proper representation in all forums. We want her in parliament, in the laboratory, in the presidency, in centres of decision-making — for no nation can stand on one leg.
The Sudanese woman is not a shadow of the nation — she is the nation, when it reveals itself in tenderness, in wisdom, and in courage too clear to miss. She is the one who props up the wall when it begins to fall, who nurtures hope when it loses its way, and who redraws the map when the compass fails.
She is the homeland — when it walks in the form of a mother, a grandmother, or a dreaming girl… carrying that dream on her shoulder, as though she carries the entire nation.

Shortlink: https://sudanhorizon.com/?p=6492