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Thursday, 26 September, 2024, began as a normal and ordinary day. A day of “carrying on,” getting on with life. Yet in times like these, in the midst of genocide(s), it is hard to comprehend what “normal” or “ordinary” even mean.
But the day was not ordinary.
I remember my husband breaking the news while I was clearing up in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes loud in the background. He spoke slowly: “The neighbours in Sudan haven't seen Mamoun for a few days … They broke the door to get in …”
The words did not register. It was a narrative I never imagined or wished to hear. The words scrambled my heart.
Mamoun.
Mamoun, my brother, was found dead in our family home in Khartoum, the Sudan.
Mamoun was murdered.
My beautiful, peace-loving, kindred soul. Mamoun who would not hurt anyone.
My body shakes as I write. An after-tremoring.
Our neighbours found his lifeless body on the ground. They gathered that he had been stabbed—twice. They reckoned he tried to flight back. With no direct way to reach us, they began a chain of calls and telecommunications that travelled worldwide.