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Playtime Al-Sururab
We never really needed much to play with; socks stuffed into one another to form a ball; a water hose was a perfect skipping rope; a couple of bricks or pair of shoes marked goalposts; and scraps of fabric found around the home were enough to craft dolls like "banat um luab." Playing wasn’t just for children, either. Games like "Dafory," the name of street football in Sudan, brought everyone together, often culminating in neighbourhood tournaments.
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In alleyways, town squares, on patios and under the shade of Neem trees, you’d hear children call out “where is Shelail? He was eaten by a lion. Where did he go? He was eaten by a crocodile.”
These are the chants we shouted out as children while searching for Shelail, an object like a bone or a stone, that had been hidden in some dark recess or thrown away into the distance. Shelail, and other traditional games, filled our childhood days and now, in adulthood, form an important part of our memories. Games in Sudan vary by region and cultural heritage but they share the common role of strengthening social bonds and developing children’s physical and mental skills.
We never really needed much to play with; socks stuffed into one another to form a ball; a water hose was a perfect skipping rope; a couple of bricks or pair of shoes marked goalposts; and scraps of fabric found around the home were enough to craft dolls like "banat um luab." Playing wasn’t just for children, either. Games like "Dafory," the name of street football in Sudan, brought everyone together, often culminating in neighbourhood tournaments.
These types of games gave us all the joy we needed in our childhood a long time before video games and children’s channels even existed. Streets and open spaces echoed with the sounds of children’s laughter, cheers, and sometimes quarrels and disputes over game rules.
Recently, these traditional games have regained popularity in Khartoum and other cities. The ongoing war accompanied by prolonged power cuts and frequent internet outages have forced families to flee their homes and children are resorting to these games as a form of safe haven. Many now find themselves in ancestral homes, shelters, schools, or refugee camps across Sudan and beyond. In these new settings, they play the same games their parents and grandparents once played, turning these activities into a source of comfort, a way to build friendships, and a means to foster resilience amidst the chaos of war.
Mazin Alrasheed’s Experience in Al-Sururab
Since the war began, Al-Sururab, a rural neighbourhood in northern Omdurman, has become a refuge for hundreds of displaced families. At Al-Sururab’s "takiyya," a community kitchen that also provides healthcare services for both displaced families and local residents, the photographer Mazin Alrasheed shared his experience of working with children at the centre and the games they play.
Mazin, who lives in Al-Sururab and is one of the core supporters of the community kitchen, observed that local children from the neighbourhood preferred playing street football, often spending the entire day outside. Meanwhile, displaced children leaned towards activities like building mud structures, crafting cardboard homes, drawing, and playing marbles, games that Mazin himself, and previous generations before that, had played albeit with some modern adaptations. For instance, in the game "Kambalat," the triangular stack of empty tomato puree tins, which children aimed to knock down, were replaced with plastic water bottles.
To foster creativity and a sense of camaraderie, Mazin organized joint activities for local and displaced children. He started with a competition to build a car out of pieces of discarded plastic which involved 18 children, followed by a cardboard house contest and mud sculpture events. These activities helped the children form friendships and develop skills, much to the delight of their parents, particularly the mothers who appreciated the constructive use of their children’s time. Some mothers even joined in with the games, further strengthening family bonds.
Inspired by the community’s enthusiasm, Mazin revived the old Sururab tradition of an annual village competition. This event, which had stopped years ago, involved multi-generational teams led by grandparents, competing in various games. Mazin modernized the event by including mothers, expanding participation beyond the traditional male constituents.
In yet another activity, Aunt Salwa, a 70-year-old resident, began crafting "banat um luab" dolls using leftover fabrics and old garments. She carefully twists and ties the fabric to create the dolls’ bodies, heads, arms, and legs, then selects cloth for their dresses and wraps. She adds beads or draws eyes on the faces and finishes the dolls off with black fabric for hair. Initially, Aunt Salwa made these dolls for girls in neighbouring homes but soon girls from both displaced and local families started coming to her for their own handmade dolls.
The Sururab experience highlights the importance of play for children during war and times of hardship. Children’s games give young people the chance to immerse themselves in play and enjoy their childhood and to build resilience through playing with others.
In alleyways, town squares, on patios and under the shade of Neem trees, you’d hear children call out “where is Shelail? He was eaten by a lion. Where did he go? He was eaten by a crocodile.”
These are the chants we shouted out as children while searching for Shelail, an object like a bone or a stone, that had been hidden in some dark recess or thrown away into the distance. Shelail, and other traditional games, filled our childhood days and now, in adulthood, form an important part of our memories. Games in Sudan vary by region and cultural heritage but they share the common role of strengthening social bonds and developing children’s physical and mental skills.
We never really needed much to play with; socks stuffed into one another to form a ball; a water hose was a perfect skipping rope; a couple of bricks or pair of shoes marked goalposts; and scraps of fabric found around the home were enough to craft dolls like "banat um luab." Playing wasn’t just for children, either. Games like "Dafory," the name of street football in Sudan, brought everyone together, often culminating in neighbourhood tournaments.
These types of games gave us all the joy we needed in our childhood a long time before video games and children’s channels even existed. Streets and open spaces echoed with the sounds of children’s laughter, cheers, and sometimes quarrels and disputes over game rules.
Recently, these traditional games have regained popularity in Khartoum and other cities. The ongoing war accompanied by prolonged power cuts and frequent internet outages have forced families to flee their homes and children are resorting to these games as a form of safe haven. Many now find themselves in ancestral homes, shelters, schools, or refugee camps across Sudan and beyond. In these new settings, they play the same games their parents and grandparents once played, turning these activities into a source of comfort, a way to build friendships, and a means to foster resilience amidst the chaos of war.
Mazin Alrasheed’s Experience in Al-Sururab
Since the war began, Al-Sururab, a rural neighbourhood in northern Omdurman, has become a refuge for hundreds of displaced families. At Al-Sururab’s "takiyya," a community kitchen that also provides healthcare services for both displaced families and local residents, the photographer Mazin Alrasheed shared his experience of working with children at the centre and the games they play.
Mazin, who lives in Al-Sururab and is one of the core supporters of the community kitchen, observed that local children from the neighbourhood preferred playing street football, often spending the entire day outside. Meanwhile, displaced children leaned towards activities like building mud structures, crafting cardboard homes, drawing, and playing marbles, games that Mazin himself, and previous generations before that, had played albeit with some modern adaptations. For instance, in the game "Kambalat," the triangular stack of empty tomato puree tins, which children aimed to knock down, were replaced with plastic water bottles.
To foster creativity and a sense of camaraderie, Mazin organized joint activities for local and displaced children. He started with a competition to build a car out of pieces of discarded plastic which involved 18 children, followed by a cardboard house contest and mud sculpture events. These activities helped the children form friendships and develop skills, much to the delight of their parents, particularly the mothers who appreciated the constructive use of their children’s time. Some mothers even joined in with the games, further strengthening family bonds.
Inspired by the community’s enthusiasm, Mazin revived the old Sururab tradition of an annual village competition. This event, which had stopped years ago, involved multi-generational teams led by grandparents, competing in various games. Mazin modernized the event by including mothers, expanding participation beyond the traditional male constituents.
In yet another activity, Aunt Salwa, a 70-year-old resident, began crafting "banat um luab" dolls using leftover fabrics and old garments. She carefully twists and ties the fabric to create the dolls’ bodies, heads, arms, and legs, then selects cloth for their dresses and wraps. She adds beads or draws eyes on the faces and finishes the dolls off with black fabric for hair. Initially, Aunt Salwa made these dolls for girls in neighbouring homes but soon girls from both displaced and local families started coming to her for their own handmade dolls.
The Sururab experience highlights the importance of play for children during war and times of hardship. Children’s games give young people the chance to immerse themselves in play and enjoy their childhood and to build resilience through playing with others.
