The lights were still on (or future unborn)
On my last trip to Sudan in December 2022, it had been 5 years since my previous visit. An unfamiliar, exaggerated melancholy filled the air on this trip. Everywhere I went, I commented that, “Sudan didn’t used to be this dark" (referring to the unlit streetlights across Khartoum). I took notice of the half-constructed homes lining the streets, the marquees of small shops that have since been abandoned, and pockets of the city that appeared to be “in progress” for decades by that point.
During routine family visits, I took notice of the photos families tended to display in their homes, if at all. Any family photos were black and white portraits of elders when they were much younger, typically photographed in the 60s or 70s. These photos marked the point in time before the proverbial lights dimmed – before a series of military coups, civil wars, and genocides that fundamentally altered the direction of the country. Between my two trips, Sudan had undergone a glorious, civilian-led revolution which brought about the end of a 30-year authoritarian regime, and a glimmer of hope finally arrived after decades under Omar Bashir’s iron grip. Then came the military coup of 2021 when the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF)--then a part of the civilian-military transitional coalition established post-revolution– seized control of the country and compromised the relative optimism achieved since the revolution. The presumed forward trajectory towards a civilian-led democratic government and a state that would reflect the wants and needs of civilians was abruptly halted.
Growing up in the diaspora, my fundamental understanding of Sudan is through stories from family, and the cultural dynamics imported to my tight-knit Sudani community in Richmond, Virginia. Each trip to Sudan revealed something new. But what hovered over me on this last trip was the memory of “Sudan Zaman” - where did this version of Sudan go? Where were the remains?
In an interview with photographer Claude Iverné, founder of the arts non-profit Elnour, he discussed how the strict enforcement of Sharia law starting in 1983 severely impacted photography in the public sphere:
“Starting in 1983, successive regimes began enforcing Sharia law. The glorious days of the free image of the 1970s were even further compromised with the military coup of 1989. Those in power championed a rigid form of Islam. Showing those photographs in plain sight could get photographers in serious trouble. Some of them even destroyed their body of work. Others hid them locally, in poor conditions. I discovered these hidden treasures in the backrooms of stores, in humid, stuffy, dusty places.”
This portrait series attempts to memorialize a moment in time before Sudan went dark capture the nostalgic sensibilities of Sudani storytelling and how the conceptualization of “Sudan Zaman” informs how we imagine a future beyond the catastrophe in front of us. By loosely replicating the style of 70s/80s photography studios, this series forges a connection between two moments in time, when the lights (literally and proverbially) were still on: the original golden age of Sudanese photography preceding decades of creative repression, and the revitalization of the arts post-revolution and before the onset of the ongoing counter-revolutionary war in April 2023.
Under the shadow of war, what does it mean to contend with the legacy of “Sudan Zaman” – both as truth for those who savor in its memory, and myth for those erased from the collective imagination? Though reconstruction seems far removed amidst the horrifying catastrophe that the war has created, it is imperative to remember that there is a Sudan worth remembering, worth saving.