Munzir is hunched over in a chair when we get to the office of a displacement camp for the undocumented in Sudan’s capital.
He looks defeated and sullen. His leg is wrapped in gauze and his crutches are leaning against the wall by the side of the chair.
Two months ago, a stray bullet hit his leg in army-held territory in Omdurman and he was taken to the largest remaining functioning hospital in the area, Al Nao Hospital.
After being discharged, and unable to walk without support, he was brought to Osman Makkawi shelter for patients with no home to return to.
Here, he has joined the missing. The camp is home to dozens of wounded civilians who do not have ID or a way to contact their loved ones.
For two years of war, Munzir has not been able to go to his house in southern Khartoum as battles raged for control of the capital. Bridges were targeted by snipers belonging to the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) and uncrossable for civilians.
At least 50,000 people have been separated from their families during the first two years of Sudan’s civil war, according to local human rights groups.
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This shocking statistic is likely a gross underestimate and has remained staggeringly high even as hundreds of detainees were freed after the army reclaimed Khartoum from the RSF in late March.
Munzir was told his family fled to their ancestral home in Damazin, eastern Sudan and had no means to make the journey across the White Nile Bridge connecting Omdurman to the heart of the capital once it became accessible.
In the murkiness of war, one man has been tirelessly working to change Munzir’s sad reality.
Mohamed Alfatih is the head of a charity called Resilience. He runs Osman Makkawi camp through donations and has launched a social media campaign to find Munzir’s family.
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“We have reunited 287 people with their families and we are set on Munzir becoming our 288th.”
Through Facebook, he has managed to connect with Munzir’s uncle who told Mohamed that his mother is still at home in Mayo, southern Khartoum. But there are no guarantees – Mayo is still rife with militants and the army is known to move civilians around for security reasons.
“We work with facts. We have received this information from his uncle and this is the first real tip we get about Munzir’s mother’s whereabouts,” Mohamed says.
“We hope to God that he finds his mother at home.”
This information is enough for Mohamed to take Munzir to check.
It’s Munzir’s first journey home since a month before the war started in April 2023. Every few moments he says: “I just pray my mother is home.”
As he crosses White Nile Bridge into al-Mogran – the landmark Khartoum location at the confluence of the White and Blue Niles – he looks around with wide eyes.
“Two years without seeing Khartoum or the Nile. I am just happy to see it. We used to bathe here on the banks.”
As we drive into Khartoum, he starts crying. These are tears of joy. He cannot believe he is back home and heading towards his family. Only the destruction around us can interrupt the relief and his crying turns into a look of shock and despair.
“I cannot believe the damage. I heard about it but seeing it is chilling.”
As we get closer to his neighbourhood, he is nervous and overwhelmed. We will have to check different displacement shelters around the area if his family are not at home.
“What if she’s not there?” I ask.
“Patience. I will have to have patience,” he replies with the thought darkening his face.
We finally make it to the house. Munzir leaps out and moves quickly towards the door with his crutches.
The outside area of his house is closed off with white corrugated iron that looks unfamiliar to him.
He taps on the door and looks out with stress and uncertainty as we wait for seconds that feel like a long minute.
There is a sound of children in the house and the door opens. A little boy looks up and there is a pause of shock before he breaks out into a smile. “Hey!” he says and runs back into the house out of sight.
He alerts an adult and runs back out as a woman comes into the front yard from inside the house.
“My son!” Khadija yells. “My son!”
She grabs hold of him and wails as two years of anguish and worry pour out of her.
After five full minutes of crying, she finally starts to speak.
“I’ve been waiting for him for so long. Losing my son made me sick, I could barely walk and had to creep against the walls to keep myself up. I thought I would die,” she tells us, weakened from the sobbing and long sleepless nights.
Her sister Nagwa comes to see her nephew whom she raised like a son. She greets us as she walks into the living room with her eyes searching for Munzir.
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“Munzir!” she exclaims as she hugs him with sobs. “We were searching for you but had no money to find you.”
From the yard, we hear celebrations break out in the neighbourhood. Streams of guests start to arrive to congratulate the family and greet Munzir.
One after the other, he shakes the hands of his neighbours.
For this family, the worst of the war is over. Their son has come home, wounded but alive, and the days ahead of shelling, drone strikes and rampant crime will never compare to the pain of thinking he may be dead.
A glimmer of warmth and relief in the relentless cycle of violence in Sudan’s war.
