"I was held captive in Darfur by a militia leader, who expressed that the world overlooks us"
The second vehicle, a tan-hued one loaded with a substantial gun, unexpectedly halted beside us, obstructing our path.
A flash of anxiety swept over us — were they planning to attack us?
We had journeyed to Darfur with the intention of reporting on the world's most severe humanitarian catastrophe, not intending to become a part of the narrative ourselves.
Yet, our carefully laid plans crumbled in an instant as we found ourselves detained by a militia, guided by the person commonly referred to as the general.
Cameraman Scott McWhinnie surrendered the camera, promising, "We're not recording, we're not recording." Producer Brent Swails hastily exited our vehicle to try and mediate the situation.
"Are we alright? Are we alright?" he inquired.
Without warning, the general turned his back on us and retrieved a rifle from one of his soldiers, aiming it haphazardly across the savanna dotted with trees. I breathed a sigh of relief that we weren't the target, but remained uneasy with his unpredictable behavior.
I cast a pleading glance at our driver. "What's happening?" His countenance was pale. "I have no idea," he replied.
The general discharged a bullet. The apparent target was a bird. He missed.
CNN correspondent Clarissa Ward and team trudged through North Darfur, attempting to reach Tawila, a town that had become a sanctuary for over 100,000 people displaced by intense fighting in the besieged city of El Fasher, Sudan. We had arrived in North Darfur the day prior. Our objective was to reach Tawila, a town under the control of SLM-AW, a faction of the Sudan Liberation Movement, led by Abdul Wahid al-Nur, a neutral player in Sudan's bitter civil war. Tawila is merely 32 miles (51 kilometers) southwest of the besieged city of El Fasher, which serves as the focal point of the brutal battle for the Darfur region. Consequently, it has become a refuge for the tens of thousands fleeing the city.
The 18-month conflict in Sudan has largely been overshadowed by conflicts in Ukraine and Gaza, but the UN fears it could escalate dramatically: a cruel amalgamation of starvation, displacement, and illness, with both the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), the two primary warring parties in this conflict, accused of war crimes.
According to the UN, more than 10 million people have been displaced in the violence, almost a quarter of Sudan's population. Over 26 million people — over three times the population of New York City — are now facing acute hunger.
Particularly, the world's gaze is on Darfur, where a genocide occurred from 2003 to 2005 and where heinous war crimes have intensified fears that the worst could recur again.
In August, a famine was declared in the Zamzam displaced people’s camp in Darfur. However, only a handful of international journalists have managed to gain entry since the conflict started to report on the situation.
After numerous failed attempts to secure permission from the SAF or the RSF to visit Darfur, the invitation from the SLM-AW leadership to visit Tawila seemed the safest option to gain entry and share the story.
But when we arrived at the agreed-upon meeting spot in the town of Abu Gamra, our hosts were nowhere to be found. Instead, a rival militia took their place. They arrived in two heavily armed Toyota Land Cruiser pickup trucks.
Our driver was led away in handcuffs and jailed in the town.
For three hours, we were interrogated, one by one, in a small, windowless room. Around eight men asked the questions. "Why are you here?" "Who sent you here?" "Who granted you permission to be here?"
We answered their questions, but received no information in return: who these men were or what they wanted with us.
When our driver returned without the handcuffs later, there was a brief moment of hope. Perhaps, we would be escorted to the border and simply warned not to return.
However, the militants herded us into our vehicle and ordered us to follow them.
Our convoy veered off onto a dirt track, leading us deeper into Darfur.
It was at this point that the general suddenly halted his vehicle and began shouting at us, before firing his gun. The goal, presumably, was to scare us. It worked.
We stopped again, maybe an hour later, beside a desolate riverbed lined with trees. The youngest fighters spread out a mat and brought out a flask of camel milk for the general and another older man known as the security chief, who wore a turban and sunglasses to hide a missing eye. Shivering, I removed my shoes and sat down in front of them.
"Please, we are very scared," I told them in broken Arabic. "I am a mother. I have three small sons."
The general seemed indifferent, but the security chief's expression softened.
"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid," he comforted me. "We are human beings."
The security chief asked for our partners' phone numbers, so he could contact them and assure them that we were safe and well. Reluctantly, I handed him my husband's number — unwilling to put my family through any distress but aware that it could also be a means for our captors to verify my story. Later, we would learn that an English speaker had called my husband and Scott's wife from Port Sudan, thousands of miles away from where we were imprisoned, to assure them that we were safe and in good health, but threatening that we would be imprisoned for many years if we spoke about it to anyone.
Video captured on the final night that Ward, producer Brent Swails, and cameraman Scott McWhinnie were held captive. For the subsequent 48 hours, we were kept under armed guard by the general, the head of security, and around a dozen soldiers, some appearing to be no older than 14. Our imprisonment took place outdoors, under acacia trees. As the only woman, and with no private area to relieve myself, I moderated my water and food intake. Sleep, when it arrived, was a blessing, a respite from the persistent unease of uncertainty about when I would be reunited with my children.
As a journalist, one does not wish to become the focal point of the story. However, our experience sheds light on the intricacies of the conflict in Darfur and the hurdles in delivering aid and disseminating information to the world.
During our passage through and out of North Darfur, we spent countless hours navigating the distant region on sandy paths. We were forced to dig ourselves out more than 10 times and suffered at least one flat tire per day. The area lacks paved roads, making the distribution of aid even more challenging.
Nonetheless, sturdy vehicles with suitable tires might expedite this process; however, gaining access to the territory is an altogether different challenge. The state of North Darfur is a battleground for the most intense fighting between the RSF and SAF. Large portions of it are controlled by a mosaic of various militias with conflicting objectives, who frequently switch allegiances. You can be guaranteed safe passage from one, only to be obstructed by another a few miles down the road.
In August, in US-led talks on Sudan in Geneva, the Sudanese Armed Forces consented to permit aid to flow through Adre, the biggest border crossing between Chad and Darfur. Nevertheless, fewer than 200 trucks have entered the region in the last two months – a minuscule proportion of what is required – and only a handful of these have reached the famine-stricken Zamzam camp outside El Fasher, where approximately half a million individuals are struggling to survive.
At the beginning of this month, Doctors Without Borders (MSF) reported suspending its activities in Zamzam.
“This is devastating for us. It is frustrating to know that we have a capable team on the ground and that this suspension is a result of either administrative obstacles or impediments by the warring parties. We are persistently trying to overcome these hurdles ... We cannot abandon these people,” Michel Lacharite, MSF’s Head of Emergency Operations, informed me.
The situation is further complicated by communication difficulties. During our stay in North Darfur, we passed at least six functional cell phone towers, but none of them were functioning. The importance of possession of a satellite phone within any group is unmistakable. Our captors seized our satellite phone but allowed us to retain our cell phones – fully aware that they would be ineffective. And they were. Some militias use Starlink satellites to maintain contact; however, ordinary individuals have few possibilities to connect with the outside world.
The multifaceted nature of these challenges has rendered NGOs, human rights organizations, and journalists almost inaccessible to North Darfur.
“The world does not perceive us, and the assistance does not materialize,” the head of security mused to me one afternoon.
Instead, satellite imagery is our primary source of information about the situation in Darfur.
According to the Yale Humanitarian Research Lab, which employs satellite imagery to create an image of the situation on the ground, at least 14 villages in Darfur were incinerated by the RSF during the first two weeks of October, exacerbating concerns that the conflict is once again intensifying.
However, satellite images can only provide a portion of the story. They do not enable us to connect, to empathize, to engage.
The convoy traversed sandy tracks, making frequent stops to be dug out or have a tire changed. On our final day of detention, the general and the head of security vanished for about six hours, leaving us under the guard of their young soldiers. At one point, several of them instructed us to remove our belongings from our vehicle, stating that they were taking our driver to the local market. The four of us exchanged nervous glances. Were they planning to leave us behind, or turn us over to another group? We had no choice but to comply and empty our cargo.
Later, when the general and the head of security returned, they appeared in good spirits.
“It has been decided that you will be released tomorrow,” they informed us. “We originally believed you were spies, but now you may depart.”
A wave of relief washed over me. There were smiles and handshakes with our captors. We took an awkward photograph by the edge of the mat that had served as our makeshift prison.
Our ordeal had come to an end. We were unharmed and preparing to return home. The apprehension and concern were swiftly replaced by a feeling of bitter disappointment, of failure. We had not made it to Tawila. We had not managed to converse with the individuals in Darfur whose lives have been ravaged by this brutal civil war. Countless untold stories that the world may never hear.
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Despite our intentions to report on the world's humanitarian crisis in Darfur, Africa, we found ourselves detained by a militia. The general, our captor, expressed concern, saying, "Don't be afraid, we are human beings."
The international community is paying close attention to Darfur, a region in Africa, where a genocide occurred from 2003 to 2005 and where heinous war crimes have intensified fears that the worst could recur again. A famine was declared in the Zamzam displaced people’s camp in Darfur last August, but only a handful of international journalists have managed to report on the situation since the conflict started.
