i reached into my dreams at least twice today confusion.

i woke up with a smile, reached out to confirm. voided, empty space crashing down on top of me flashbacks trying to tell me something i didn’t want to hear. three more hours until i could move, and only then after i traded one form of numbness for another. a chair pulled out footprints in the snow re-adjustments.

a conversation had me speaking falsehood with certainty, only to find out that what i was speaking about so surely had never happened. embedded memories. so we agreed to take the space a pact broken within hours distance intolerable. are you fine? sure.

i make it through on autopilot. i have to be careful, more careful than others. the only thing that keeps me from going under is that i’ve been there before, and anywhere-but-there is better.

today’s lesson: you knew damn well, tender woman/wouldn’t have changed a thing.

and now, a return to regularly-scheduled theory.

The referendum’s over and I’m still trying to work through my emotions and feelings, which have intensified. The results have already started to come in, with the overwhelming majority of votes in favour of the South’s secession. This is not a surprise.

Conversations with other Sudanese friends and family, all who have lived outside of Sudan for a significant amount of time, and none of who live there right now, help me voice what’s going on.

I’ve been trying to word the emotions, and the closest I’ve come is grief. As in mourning death. Other Sudanese peers critique ideas of patriotism and nostalgia, deriding them as false and historically ignorant. But it’s not about that. I don’t feel the same sense of patriotism as older generations and those who still live in Sudan. I’m an “alien of Sudanese origin”, or so say my identification papers.

I barely know Sudan. And what I do know doesn’t stir up feelings of fervent nationalism. There’s plenty I find problematic there, merely on a personal, individual scale. My third culture self long ago gave up on reconciling fragments tagged national identity. I quietly do not respond when asked whether or not I am in favour of secession.

But… there’s still this confusing sense of grief. Someone described it as a sense of loss akin to the death of a close loved one. I lost my grandmother over a decade ago, but I can’t compare this to the sadness of losing her. It’s not like that. It’s not like not hearing her voice.

I think that this isn’t my awake, conscious sadness, but my body’s response to its inherited history. That explanation makes sense to me because it helps explain this intrinsic response; the physical is affecting the mental.

I’ve spoken about my grandfather and his poetry before. He wrote about the glorious nation, but his time was toward the end of the British presence in Sudan. His time was of new horizons, hopes, victory, possibilities. In contrast, this time seems to be about potential violence, failed states, further fragmentation. Fear of what is to come. I hear the sadness in elders’ voices.

It’s grief not for the end of Sudan as I know it, but rather for the death of an idea that contributed some of the pieces of a pastiched identity.

Still working through it. But I’m looking forward to getting through this grieving process so I can come around to the idea of new horizons, hopes, and possibilities.

[...]

I don’t have any particular or thought out response to the actual secession. I only lived in Sudan for a handful of years, and left when I was 10, as you know. Over 20 years later, and I’ve not been back for more than a couple of months cumulatively, over three visits. I’ve never left the tri-cities, I don’t know everyday life in Sudan, and I don’t feel like I have the knowledge or even much firsthand information to have a well-formed opinion. To apply an overused analogy, I don’t – and question my right to – comment on this divorce. In a partnership, one needs to do what they have to do, and I have no place in this relationship; any engagement I might have had was temporary and superficial. If I was allowed to vote, I’m not sure how I would cast my ballot.

What I’m interested in is how our identities are affected in light of what seems to be the inevitable secession of South Sudan. How this idea of homeland affects and shapes our identities. How the meaning of “I am Sudanese” has now changed to the point where I don’t know where its truth is.

I’m interested in how being Sudanese is changing. What it means for older generations who identify with a homeland that will soon no longer exists. What we will tell our children when they ask: what are we?

What will our points of reference in terms of performing our identities now be? Does this make us more Arab, and how is that more or less problematic, especially if it comes at the expense of our African-ness? What about our national symbols, will they change?

And my curiosity comes from a strange pain. One that I wouldn’t have guessed I would encounter or feel. That strangely affects the way that I now see myself and consequently, conduct myself. The pain that’s a lot more intense for older Sudanese, and people who live there. Contrast that with the infectious joy and celebration that’s been communicated by the South, a positivity I can’t contradict or begrudge. I’m bewildered by the intensity of this emotion, and my nature pushes me to find out more about the role nationality and citizenship play in creating identity.

[...]

I realise that this is disjointed and slightly out of context. But I’m sure there will be more. And a very special thank you to D., who triggered this response.

i sent this email out last night, to lecturers, journalists, my academic advisors, friends, family, loves. it was quite personal and very difficult for me to do. i hardly ever reach out. the response was amazing – tips, leads, and cyberhugs. encouraged and supported, i’m posting it here, to find out what will happen

Hello,

This is a mass email of a personal nature. My apologies to anybody I haven’t spoken to in a while, I do hope to rectify that soon. I hope you’re all doing well, and have had a great holiday season.

I’m having a surprisingly emotionally difficult time with the current events in Sudan, namely the referendum for the seemingly inevitable secession of the South. For those who don’t know, I’m of northern (a distinction I didn’t voluntarily proclaim until now) Sudanese origin. On a personal level, I’ve found it very disorienting, agitating and challenging to my own sense of identity, history, ethnicity and nationality. I’m still trying to sort out everything in my head.

On to the purpose of this email, as I’m not about to download my emotions here. When I disassociate from the emotional and visceral responses, I am fascinated by the relationship between boundaries and borders, politics and geography, and sense of self, identity and citizenship. As a journalist and an academic, my intellectual curiosity is getting the better of me, and I was wondering if you were aware of any research that explored the above topics. I’ve obviously done some research myself, but I can’t seem to find research on the above. The closest I’ve come is personal explorations of life after Partition in India and Pakistan, mainly.

If you are aware of any work (academic, institutional, media, artistic expressions) I might find useful, or know of anyone who is currently working on any of these topics, I would be extremely grateful to find out about it.

And if you don’t, I’d still like to hear back on how you’re doing, I appreciate the social contact.

Thank you, and looking forward to hearing from you,

Nehal
contact [at] iamnehal [dot] com

i don’t know yet what i’m planning to do. right now i’m collecting information, and late at night, i write. a lot.

orange light reflected off virgin snow. orange here is not the same as orange there desert lines drawn in sand erased by a gust the wind blew.

tonight is a night to be held. to be rushed to, scooped up. my romance, my vulnerability, is bathed in orange. fire or sodium, dust or snow, you choose.

tonight is for silent cab rides, for glass between self and other.

shift into neutral before you brake.

the driver doesn’t speak, i like to imagine he senses my need. take the long route please, i ask. the radio is off.

he takes turns i wouldn’t have chosen. two options – remain in reverie, or direct this brother through meandering routes that reflect my mental. i can’t afford the latter, so former default. less than ten dollars with which to indulge.

snowflakes fall so gently they feel like death imagined this new morbid obsession equated with reset. i’m a super soul sure shot. i’m a national breakout.

it’s all so so so so so silent. still. the only thing that moves on these streets is this car that smells like newness. this man that suppresses coughs. i like to imagine that he knows. that i’m not difficult. that this stranger knew me saw me. that i’m not difficult.

the blank canvas of strangers facilitates projection. blank canvas allows me to re-interpret actions as centred on this particular self.

leurs corps comme toile

seven days into newness. not two more until leftright updown get placed in a blender. vulnerability levels at orange like the lamps like the reflection like the snow that is white that is orange.

baby, be beside me.

like snowflakes on eyelashes, icicled i scream, i need to melt

into.

how am i ever expected to speak about this?!

the poets speak. this should have been an anthem.

but please. listen to me.

this is a pain older than mine. memories of what has been and what never was.

this is my pain. my grandmothers’. and i don’t know who else. countless.

i’m not a strong enough vessel. this will break me.

and the words stem from the one who lives.

it tears away. everything. it hurts so much. i cannot hold all of this in.

w’nmut 3aleik – in a heartbeat. one heartbeat. make it happen. i swear on all that is sacred to me, mine for yours. i won’t renege back up lie weasel.

but i’ve said it and i stay saying it. i’m sorry. i didn’t know. and if i knew i wouldn’t.

how does it feel after three suns? from collective consciousness to the hoi polloi.

i have to re-direct. i can’t survive understand?

it’s night time. i’m alone. it’s frightening. delirious heat turned up to eleven.

sadness for anger, don’t let it be so.

unwellness unlocks this gate.

oxidised silver kryptonite.