Sudan is a woman.
She will not disappear.
Sudan is a woman.
She is fire and river, desert and gold.
She is the song of Hawa Al-Tagtaga, the whispers of queens.
She is the rhythm of drums, the silence of loss.
She sings of freedom even when her voice is stolen,
even when her hands are tied.
Sudan is a woman.
She is crying, she is bleeding, she is breakingโ
but she carries the weight of war on her back,
the scars of betrayal on her skin,
the names of the lost in her hands.
She is Fatima Ahmed Ibrahim,
writing, resisting, risingโ
the first to take her place in a parliament that never wanted her voice.
She is Khalida Zahir, healing the wounded,
fighting for womenโs hands to hold the scalpel,
to shape a future they were told was not theirs.
Sudan is a woman.
She is violated, yet she stands.
She is torn apart, yet she fights.
She is mourning, yet she hopes.
She is Bodour Osman Abu Affan,
breaking walls built to keep her away,
speaking for the women who were never meant to be heard.
Sudan is a woman.
She prays in the dark,
she runs through the fire,
she holds her children close,
whispering promises she does not know she can keep.
She is Alaa Salah, standing atop a car,
dressed in white, wrapped in history,
a lighthouse in the storm,
a voice that would not be drowned.
Sudan is a woman.
She is weary, but she walks.
She is wounded, but she rises.
She is grieving, but she dreams.
She is the past, she is the present, she is the future.
She is every woman who fought, who fights, who will fight.
Sudan is a woman.
She traveled. She fought.
She left the known for the unknown.
She surrendered. She healed.
She is writing, she is speaking, she is using her voice.
Sudan is Bouthaina.
Sudan is Halima.
Sudan is Khadija.
Sudan is Salwa.
Sudan is Salma.
Sudan is Sarrah.
Sudan is Mona.
Sudan is us.
Sudan is me.
Sudan is a woman.
She will not disappear.
