Picture Series
Helena Lea Manhartsberger Kandaka - Women of the Sudanese Revolution
“On the morning after the massacre, I saw a picture of my friend Kesha on Twitter. The news showed him and other martyrs. Someone had posted a photo of his body; I was shocked and thought all my friends were dead. I saw videos of people who had been shot – blood everywhere. The streets were blocked; the people were screaming. The following day, a million balloons were to be released for the martyrs. I bought balloons, started blowing them up and wrote the names of the martyrs on them. I didn’t leave my room for a week: I just had the balloons for company.”
Iman Osama wore her scarf and mask at demonstrations. She says: “During the announcements, most people wore pale colours because the National Intelligence Service (NISS) would discover people in bright colours and go after them. During a neighbourhood protest, the NISS caught me after attacking us with tear gas. The first thing they did was hit me hard and force me into their truck. Then they started verbally abusing and harassing me. They forced me over and over again to say things like ‘I want the regime to stay’ and ‘Al-Bashir is my father’. I refused. One of them took my scarf, wound it around my entire face and neck and tried to choke me until another one told him to leave me alone. They beat me and left me somewhere in Bahri.”
“It wasn’t hope that drove me to fight in this revolution. I needed to atone for my parents’ guilt. They as well are responsible for the fact that this regime became so powerful. My father was a soldier in al-Bashir’s army. He killed people in the war in South Sudan and died there as a martyr to the old regime.” Nearly every month, Iman Osama releases balloons for the martyrs of the revolution. After the massacre of 3 June, she let hundreds of pictures and letters float away.
Iman always wears this necklace: “I can’t remember where I got this necklace, but I think someone gave it to me at the sit-in. I feel like I’ve had this necklace for ages. I held it tight at the sit-in when I was afraid of the shots, when I cried, when I felt alone. I held it when I saw a mother with her children and told them that this was the safest place in the world and that all the people around us – army or protesters – were protecting us. I held it when the sit-in was broken up, when people were dying. I held it when I laughed, when I cried, when I was angry, when I was afraid, when I was desperate, when I fought and when I surrendered.”
“My son Mohammed Ibrahim was shot in Khartoum on 13 May 2019 while he was trying to defend the barricades for the sit-in. I miss him so much and decided to attend sit-ins as well, in the place he had defended with his life. I got a tent there. It was the only place where I felt good and felt that he was with me. There was a large open stage. I asked to say something because I was so angry and sad. I wanted to speak with the other protestors, but also with the murderers of my son. When I went on stage the first time, I was really nervous about speaking in front of thousands of people, but the crowd supported me. Finally, I could let out all my rage and grief. It gave me so much energy – I could breathe freely again. I felt that I wasn’t alone, that many people were at my side.”
Just before 7:00 p.m. on 13 May, Mohammed Ibrahim was shot twice in the head and once in the chest by security forces as he was defending the barricades for the sit-in on Nile Street in Khartoum. This picture shows the place where the barricades had been set up and where Mohammed was killed.
Umhani shows the pot she took to the protests: “When I went to the protests, I took water, tea and food for the protesters with me. It was my way of supporting them. This revolution is not over yet; our demands have still not been met. We want justice for the blood of our sons. I want a safe Sudan where everyone can live in peace and equality. I want to tell people outside Sudan that we need their support, not material aid. We need solidarity from the whole world for this revolution to succeed.”
A mural on Umhani’s house: friends of Mohammed Ibrahim painted his portrait on the exterior wall.
“I remember the women’s demonstration during Ramadan in Khartoum. Hundreds of people from various women’s groups were protesting together on the street for our demands for the new government. At the end of a long march, it started raining, but we kept walking in the direction of the sit-in area. When we came into the tents, the revolutionaries started chanting: ‘Even if it rains, we will stay!’ All those people were so full of life and energy – they were singing, shouting, wishing us welcome. I felt that the sit-in area could never be vanquished. At that moment, all my fears disappeared; the revolutionaries were so determined. It’s painful, but true: the forces of nature couldn’t hurt the boys, but bad policemen could.”
Nagda Mansour, 39, is a human rights activist and a translator for the National Assembly. She was born and raised in Khartoum, but her family originally comes from Darfur, which has been ravaged by war. In December of last year, she and other female leaders were incarcerated for 75 days. After she was released on 8 March, International Women’s Day, she participated in the sit-in in Khartoum and a number of other mass rallies. This picture shows the Palace of Youth and Culture opposite the Sudanese National Assembly in Omdurman, from where snipers shot at protesters on 30 June 2019. At least eight people were killed and more than 50 wounded.
“In December 2018, I went with 21 female leaders to the presidential palace and demanded that al-Bashir step down. We were all arrested. Although we were treated better than ordinary criminals, it was a hard time. There were ten of us in a 25-squaremetre cell. Bats hung from the ceiling; it was a struggle to get soap. We didn’t know how long they would keep us imprisoned, so we used the time and looked for ways to deal with a long incarceration. Dr. Rahiba, a psychiatrist, led us in group therapy. We made games and jewellery out of garbage and even established a sports team in order to keep fit. We were incarcerated for 75 days and, ironically, released on International Women’s Day. When they told us we were free, everyone tried to take along a memento. I took this comb. We all used this comb; it was like a treasure.”
Nagda Mansour re-enacts a situation when she had to flee during a demonstration: “On 30 June 2019, I took part in a demonstration in Omdurman against the massacre that had occurred on 3 June. I was between the National Assembly building, where I worked as a translator, and the Palace of Children and Youth, when snipers started shooting. I was almost hit, but luckily I managed to escape through a hole in the fence. Several other women and I ran to the next building, which was a hospital. We found a hiding place and could hear the people outside being shot and beaten by the military. We were sure they would catch us, beat us and rape us, but we were lucky. They didn’t find us.”
“In January, I went with my friends Azza and Hidaya to a demonstration in Omdurman. The security forces were quite aggressive and arrested many people that day. We fled to a building, where people hid us. After hours we decided to leave and take a rickshaw to our car. The driver asked us a lot of questions about the protests. We told him we had just come from the hairdresser so we could go to a wedding later on. He believed us and drove us to our car, where we encountered agents of the National Intelligence Service (NISS). They questioned us, and we were sure they would arrest us and beat us or worse. But then the driver defended us and told them the wedding story. We were lucky that we were so well-dressed. I’m proud that we were able to convince the agents. Normally, they arrest anyone when there is the slightest doubt. But we tricked them; we won.”
Wala Fadul, 25, poses with the flag she always took with her to demonstrate. The flag was a present from a friend and has become an important object for Wala: “Before the revolution, I hated this flag because I hated the old regime. When we had deposed al-Bashir, I started to like it. Now the flag is a symbol of victory for me. It means that I have my country back.” Wala lives with her parents in Al Amarat, a smart district of Khartoum. She studied Management Information Systems and works as an administrator in the human resources department of the Bank of Khartoum. She plans to get her master’s degree in Germany or Great Britain. Wala volunteers for various women’s rights organisations and women’s initiatives. When the sit-ins were dispersed, she had just arrived in Germany for an internship.
“After the first weeks of the sit-in, some men began to harass women both verbally and physically. Some provoked us: ‘Kandaka, what’s your number?’ Kandaka were the old Nubian warrior queens; they symbolised mighty female fighters. These men abused our term. We started organising a campaign against sexual harassment in the sit-in area. We hung placards to confront people with the topic. A lot of young men gathered around us in front of the military headquarters. They said we wouldn’t be harassed if we covered our hair. It was threatening. But there were also men who actually started thinking about the subject. This is why I think our campaign was successful.”
Wala demonstrates how she dressed during the protests. Normally, she never covered her head; she just used the scarf as a mask and to protect her from the tear gas. “Since the revolution, the only thing that has really changed for me as a woman is that I am no longer afraid of being arrested for wearing trousers. But I don’t feel protected from harassment. The patriarchal structure is still in the minds of many men. We need more education about women’s rights; we must raise awareness for future generations. It’s too late for my generation; they all grew up with this misogyny. The new government should pass more laws protecting women. Harassment and abuse are everywhere – at schools, at universities, at work, in public space – and the system protects the perpetrators. This should not be accepted any longer. We need a fair judicial system! I would like to be able to walk freely on the street without fear of harassment.”
“Since 1992, I’ve been selling tea and zalabia – sweet fried dumplings – in front of the Nigerian embassy. The moment I decided to take action against the regime was when the price of flour more than doubled. Many of my customers are students. They don’t have a lot of money, and I couldn’t simply double the price. Being a tea lady means being a revolutionary, for women who work on the street are not welcome. We are regularly harassed and driven away by the police. They can take all our things away or fine us, but we always come back. Three years ago, there were many raids against street vendors. We protested against the way we were treated, and some women even set police cars on fire. One employee from the municipal office made it her personal mission to ‘cleanse’ the streets. In her opinion, tea vendors were sullying the image of the city. Actually, the opposite is true: we look after the places where we work.”
“I went to the sit-ins to support the revolution. I even helped check the people coming into the camp through the barricades to make sure no one was bringing in any dangerous objects. I couldn’t believe that so many people had come out to protest. I liked the atmosphere; there was not a single hungry or thirsty soul. During Ramadan, I made zalabia and tea to break the fast after sunset and handed everything out. I never got my teapots back, but I don’t care. I lost people during the revolution: what do teapots matter? On 2 June friends asked me to go to the sit-in, but I had to work at home. They really tried to convince me, but I said I would go on another day. The next morning, they called me and told me about the massacre. I couldn’t believe it. Housework had saved me.”
Hiliwah demonstrates how she used her tobe, a traditional women’s garment, to protect herself from tear gas during the protests. “Women played a vital role in the revolution. They fought and sacrificed themselves to liberate this country. Most of the protesters were women, many of them housewives. Not too long ago I was on the bus, arguing with a man about public transport. He asked me: ‘You supported the revolution. Why don’t you take to the streets for better transport?’ I answered: ‘After we’ve done all this while raising our children and doing the housework, it’s your turn to support us.’ He clung to his idea that women should organise new protests. It’s frustrating.”
Omar al-Bashir was the authoritarian president of Sudan for three decades. In 2019, the Sudanese people peacefully took to the streets and demanded his resignation. The security forces ended the protest with a massacre: on 3 June 2019, 128 people were killed; more than 70 were raped. In the meantime, a transitional government comprising civilian and military representatives has formed, but the struggle continues. Around half of the activists are female: they are fighting for democracy, freedom and equality in a country where women have been beaten for wearing trousers. Helena Lea Manhartsberger tells the stories of five women of different generations and backgrounds who took part in the Sudanese revolution. She shows objects and places that carry particular significance for her subjects. One year after the beginning of the uprising, she creates an image of oppression and liberation, frustration and hope.
- Activism
- Women
*1987 in Innsbruck, Austria
Helena Lea Manhartsberger first completed her BA in International Development at the University of Vienna before taking up her studies of Photojournalism and Documentary Photography at Hanover University of Applied Sciences and Arts in 2015. In her work, she reflects on the structures in development aid and stereotypical representations in photography. As a multimedia journalist, she is interested in the topics surrounding gender, identity and social movements around the world.
