When Time Becomes a Measure of Civilisation

Dr Salah Daaak

In societies that understand the value of time, it is not seen as a void between two events, but as the most precious asset a human being possesses. There, time is the vessel of life, the measure of achievement, and an indicator of self-respect and respect for others.

I had a personal encounter with this notion when I travelled to Britain a week before Queen Elizabeth’s birthday, having been invited by the Royal College to be awarded a fellowship at that time. The ceremony coincided with the national celebrations of the Queen’s birthday, which filled the country with joyful festivals, marked by meticulous organisation, wide participation, and a vibrant national spirit.

I was delighted by the general atmosphere, but what captivated me most was the Queen herself—at the age of ninety-eight, participating in full elegance in one of the official events: the inauguration of the new high-speed railway station. She was present, radiant—and the greatest marvel of all was that everything took place to the second, despite the crowds, the magnitude of the event, and the number of attendees. It was at that moment that I realised that in that country, respect for time is not a slogan, but a deeply rooted behaviour embedded in every aspect of public life.

In contrast, before my departure at Khartoum airport, the usual congestion was there. But an encounter with a fellow passenger made the wait more meaningful and reflective. A man who appeared to be in his seventies, slender, smartly dressed, bearing the dignity of years and life experience. When he spoke, his voice still carried the firmness of a senior official, and his mind was sharp despite the fatigue of age. He introduced himself, saying, “I’m the President of the Sudanese Organisation for the Respect of Time.”

The name alone intrigued me before we even got into the conversation, so I closed the book I had planned to read during the flight and became engrossed in a dialogue that lasted far longer than expected. He told me about the organisation, its mission, and the challenges it faces in a country that still treats respect for time as a secondary concern. He spoke like a man carrying the responsibility of a nation on his shoulders, clinging to his belief despite the lack of support and poor response from both the state and society.

His words prompted me to reflect on our own reality, and I began asking myself painful questions: Why don’t we respect time in Sudan? Is it a cultural crisis, or the result of social values which, while seemingly noble, end up mistreating time in practice? In our social customs, we halt work, suspend studies, and travel hundreds of kilometres to attend weddings or funerals, as if they are religious obligations that cannot be postponed, even out of necessity. How many patients have had their treatment disrupted due to an overflow of visitors? How many projects have been delayed because an official was “a little late”? How many harmless lies do we repeat to justify lateness, until honesty itself becomes an exception?

Social solidarity, visiting the sick, and comforting the bereaved are all noble values championed by our faith. Yet, they have at times been misunderstood and misapplied—transforming from acts of communal compassion into burdens on the individual, sources of lost productivity, and wasted time. And rather than excusing those who miss an occasion due to work or other commitments, we blame them and socially condemn them.

What we need is a re-examination of these practices—not to strip them of their spirit, but to realign them. We can be both compassionate and productive. We can honour time without losing the warmth of our relationships. And the change must begin from the top—from officials, ministers, the media, and institutions, which should raise banners that remind both employees and visitors that “time is life”, not a luxury to be squandered.

Months passed, and around three months after that journey, I received news of Queen Elizabeth’s passing. I felt deeper sorrow when I realised that the birthday celebration had been her last. All that grace, splendour, and majesty—was in fact a quiet farewell we hadn’t recognised at the time. But what struck me even more than the news itself was the manner in which her funeral was conducted.

A funeral on the scale of global festivals, attended by kings and presidents from across the world, and carried out with extraordinary smoothness—as though it had been rehearsed thousands of times before. And indeed, it had. A dedicated committee for the Queen’s funeral had been formed in the 1960s, only a few years after she ascended the throne in 1952, and had worked quietly and continuously for over sixty years, updating the plan under the name Operation London Bridge. It was no symbolic plan, but a detailed document covering everything—from the announcement of her death, to the funeral proceedings, to security arrangements, crowd management, media coordination, and the official broadcasting schedule. Even if the Queen were to pass away in Scotland, as she did, a ready-made alternative plan—Operation Unicorn—was immediately activated. Everything was timed to the minute. No improvisation. No confusion. No delays.

This is how nations that respect time operate—even in the face of death. Time, there, does not pause; it is managed, respected, and planned for. That is what we must instil in our collective consciousness—not through slogans, but through actions, policies, and serious institutions.

We ask God to support the President of the Sudanese Organisation for the Respect of Time in his noble mission, and that his call finds ears willing to listen… and that we, too, find someone who awakens within us the awareness that respect for time is not optional—it is a measure of civilisation, a key to progress, and a true reflection of the nation we aspire to build.

And we pray that Sudan may witness a revival not founded on projects alone, but on time that is respected, work that is completed, and a conscience that neither excuses delays nor becomes accustomed to chaos. Our hope is to see a nation where factories, schools, and hospitals are built with the same care as mosques; where history is written not only in terms of heroic deeds, but in minutes not wasted, hours well spent, and days not lost waiting for those who never arrive. Nations do not rise unless they believe that time is life—and that every moment of it is a responsibility.

Shortlink: https://sudanhorizon.com/?p=6814