Displaced Sudanese who fled El-Fasher after the city fell to the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), rest near the town of Tawila in war-torn Sudan's western Darfur region on October 28, 2025. Photo by STR / AFP.
Khartoum: Along the rugged road stretching between the city of El Fasher and the town of Tawila in Sudan's North Darfur lay a landscape heavy with pain and disbelief.
Thousands of civilians -- barefoot, weary, and silent -- carried what little remains of their lives as they trudged forward in search of safety, leaving behind a city consumed by flames and the echo of gunfire.
This handout satellite image by Vantor taken on October 30, 2025 and made available on October 31, 2025 shows a general view of the university building in El-Fasher. (Photo by Handout / Satellite image ｩ2025 Vantor / AFP)
Beneath the harsh sun, displaced families moved in small, scattered groups. The cries of the bereaved mingled with the moans of the wounded, yet all were driven by the same fragile hope for survival.
Among the endless line of weary faces was Haj Abdullah Omer, 70, who reached the outskirts of Tawila after three days on foot.
A displaced woman rests in Tawila, in the country's war-torn western Darfur region, on October 28, 2025, after fleeing El-Fasher following the city’s fall to the Rapid Support Forces (RSF). Photo by - / AFP
"I never thought I'd live to see this day," he said. "We left El Fasher at dawn -- bullets behind us, fire all around. I lost two of my grandchildren along the road.
I don't know if they're alive or gone. I couldn't stop -- people were running in every direction," he told Xinhua.
His torn clothes and trembling hands spoke volumes. "On the way, I saw women carrying their dead children, men dragging the elderly who could no longer walk," his voice barely audible.
Ahmed Al-Nour, a medical worker from El Fasher, left his post at a health center when fighting engulfed the city. He walked with a small group of civilians, carrying only a modest first aid bag -- a lifeline far too small for the suffering they encountered.
"I tried to help whoever I could," he said. "On the second day, we found a girl, maybe 10 years old, hit by shrapnel in the stomach. I tried to stop the bleeding, but there was no gauze, no medicine. She died in my hands."
Local residents take part in a demonstration in Omdurman on October 31, 2025, to protest against the Rapid Support Forces’ reported “atrocities” in El-Fasher in western Sudan. (Photo by Ebrahim Hamid / AFP)
Her mother's pleas still echoed in his mind. "'Save her, doctor, please,' she said. But I couldn't. The road was longer than our strength, and death was faster than any rescue."
For those walking the 70 kilometers between El Fasher and Tawila, the journey was measured not in distance but in every agonizing step. Few speak -- words were a luxury survivors cannot afford. Only the sound of trudging feet, children's dry sobs, and distant explosions filled the air.
On Friday, the International Organization for Migration reported that more than 62,000 people fled El Fasher, the capital of North Darfur, within four days after the Rapid Support Forces seized the city. Many ended up in Tawila -- displaced, wounded, and waiting.
In Tawila, their stories merged thirst, hunger, and terror. The once-quiet town has turned into a sea of displaced souls. Its market and few standing homes overflowed with new arrivals. Families slept on bare earth or beneath trees, while aid workers raced to deliver water and food.
"People arrive in terrible condition," said Adam Abbakar, a local volunteer. "Many haven't eaten for days. Children are in shock. The elderly can hardly speak."
On the town's dusty outskirts, a handful of torn tents served as a lifeline for those with nowhere else to go. Volunteers have set up a makeshift health post -- more a desperate attempt to keep people alive than a functioning clinic.
Inside the main tent, the air was suffocating, thick with the scent of medicine, sweat, and smoke from fires outside used to boil water. The dirt floor was stained with iodine and blood; the hum of a tired generator mingled with the cries of children and the low voices of doctors.
Among them was Dr. Mohammed Al-Tayeb, his white coat faded and stained with iodine. His eyes hollow; his tone steady.
"What we're doing here isn't real treatment... It's just keeping people alive until help comes. We have unstitched wounds, medicines running out, and patients who need surgeries we can't perform," he said.
He glanced around the tent. "Everyone here has escaped death. Many are traumatized -- some women lost their children on the way and have no one even to clean their wounds."
Around him, people clung to life, though with exhaustion and fear. Smoke and dust drifted through the tents, carrying the sharp scent of survival. In this fragile outpost, even the simplest act -- a bandaged wound, a whispered prayer -- feels like an act of defiance against despair.
