Reading the environment
Reading the environment
Traditional trackers have learned their skills over generations and have been practicing them since time immemorial. With time, these skills have become officially recognised and those who possess them are often employed by the police. Tracking footprints can be used to find the culprits who steal livestock from pens or possessions from people’s homes or assets from government institutions.
A tracker is a person who possesses keen observation skills and expertise in identifying the characteristics of a thief through their footprint; whether they are tall or short, fat or thin, or even if they have a physical disability such as a lame leg or blind eye. This profession is often inherited, with parents teaching their children, but it can also be learned through the intuition, intelligence, and keen observation of the tracker.
The tracker has earned a special type of respect in society. When a theft is discovered, and before calling the tracker, the owners of the stolen items often preserve whatever evidence there is by covering it with a large vessel to keep it safe until the tracker arrives, especially in villages and open areas with strong winds.
A famous story involving a tracker tells of the bedouin who lost his camel and sought the help of a tracker he encountered. “Is the camel you own blind in one eye?” asked the tracker. The bedouin replied that it was. The tracker then asked, “is the camel lame?” to which the response was also yes. Listening to the questions the bedouin became excited thinking the tracker had already found his lost animal. “I have not found or seen it” was the tracker’ss reply “but I recognized it by its footprints on the ground; it is lame because its tracks are deep in the ground on one side, and it is blind in one eye because it only eats the gorse on one side of the track,” he continued. The camel owner then received his instructions to follow said footprint until he finally found his camel.
Until recently, people in the city of El Obeid relied on tracking footprints to solve burglaries including mysterious cases of theft which even the police had been unable to solve.
Tracking footprints remains a pretty accurate means of apprehending thieves despite efforts by these criminals to mislead trackers such as by changing the way they walk or turning their shoes inside out, among others.
Today footprint tracking continues to be popular and relied upon to solve crimes in many villages and rural areas.
(This article was written by Amani Youssif Bashir based on an interview with Mr. Youssif Bashir Idris in January, 2025)
Cover picture © Amani Youssif Bashir
Traditional trackers have learned their skills over generations and have been practicing them since time immemorial. With time, these skills have become officially recognised and those who possess them are often employed by the police. Tracking footprints can be used to find the culprits who steal livestock from pens or possessions from people’s homes or assets from government institutions.
A tracker is a person who possesses keen observation skills and expertise in identifying the characteristics of a thief through their footprint; whether they are tall or short, fat or thin, or even if they have a physical disability such as a lame leg or blind eye. This profession is often inherited, with parents teaching their children, but it can also be learned through the intuition, intelligence, and keen observation of the tracker.
The tracker has earned a special type of respect in society. When a theft is discovered, and before calling the tracker, the owners of the stolen items often preserve whatever evidence there is by covering it with a large vessel to keep it safe until the tracker arrives, especially in villages and open areas with strong winds.
A famous story involving a tracker tells of the bedouin who lost his camel and sought the help of a tracker he encountered. “Is the camel you own blind in one eye?” asked the tracker. The bedouin replied that it was. The tracker then asked, “is the camel lame?” to which the response was also yes. Listening to the questions the bedouin became excited thinking the tracker had already found his lost animal. “I have not found or seen it” was the tracker’ss reply “but I recognized it by its footprints on the ground; it is lame because its tracks are deep in the ground on one side, and it is blind in one eye because it only eats the gorse on one side of the track,” he continued. The camel owner then received his instructions to follow said footprint until he finally found his camel.
Until recently, people in the city of El Obeid relied on tracking footprints to solve burglaries including mysterious cases of theft which even the police had been unable to solve.
Tracking footprints remains a pretty accurate means of apprehending thieves despite efforts by these criminals to mislead trackers such as by changing the way they walk or turning their shoes inside out, among others.
Today footprint tracking continues to be popular and relied upon to solve crimes in many villages and rural areas.
(This article was written by Amani Youssif Bashir based on an interview with Mr. Youssif Bashir Idris in January, 2025)
Cover picture © Amani Youssif Bashir
Traditional trackers have learned their skills over generations and have been practicing them since time immemorial. With time, these skills have become officially recognised and those who possess them are often employed by the police. Tracking footprints can be used to find the culprits who steal livestock from pens or possessions from people’s homes or assets from government institutions.
A tracker is a person who possesses keen observation skills and expertise in identifying the characteristics of a thief through their footprint; whether they are tall or short, fat or thin, or even if they have a physical disability such as a lame leg or blind eye. This profession is often inherited, with parents teaching their children, but it can also be learned through the intuition, intelligence, and keen observation of the tracker.
The tracker has earned a special type of respect in society. When a theft is discovered, and before calling the tracker, the owners of the stolen items often preserve whatever evidence there is by covering it with a large vessel to keep it safe until the tracker arrives, especially in villages and open areas with strong winds.
A famous story involving a tracker tells of the bedouin who lost his camel and sought the help of a tracker he encountered. “Is the camel you own blind in one eye?” asked the tracker. The bedouin replied that it was. The tracker then asked, “is the camel lame?” to which the response was also yes. Listening to the questions the bedouin became excited thinking the tracker had already found his lost animal. “I have not found or seen it” was the tracker’ss reply “but I recognized it by its footprints on the ground; it is lame because its tracks are deep in the ground on one side, and it is blind in one eye because it only eats the gorse on one side of the track,” he continued. The camel owner then received his instructions to follow said footprint until he finally found his camel.
Until recently, people in the city of El Obeid relied on tracking footprints to solve burglaries including mysterious cases of theft which even the police had been unable to solve.
Tracking footprints remains a pretty accurate means of apprehending thieves despite efforts by these criminals to mislead trackers such as by changing the way they walk or turning their shoes inside out, among others.
Today footprint tracking continues to be popular and relied upon to solve crimes in many villages and rural areas.
(This article was written by Amani Youssif Bashir based on an interview with Mr. Youssif Bashir Idris in January, 2025)
Cover picture © Amani Youssif Bashir
Nubian displacement and language
Nubian displacement and language
Nubians are the people who inhabit the far north of Sudan, from the border between Sudan and Egypt to the Dabba area, south of Dongola, in the south. The Nile Water Agreement, signed between Egypt and Sudan in 1959, stipulated the relocation of Sudanese citizens in the Faras area (at the far corner of the Wadi Halfa triangle) right along to the eastern and western banks of the Nile in the Dal area, a distance of an estimated 170 km away. This was because the High Dam, which the Egyptians were going to build in Upper Egypt, would result in the area behind the dam being flooded.
The delegation representing Sudan to discuss the agreement was led by Maj Gen Talat Farid while Egypt's negotiators were led by Maj Gen Khaled Mohieldin, both representing the military juntas in each country. General Ibrahim Aboud, Sudan's military ruler, reportedly instructed Talat Farid saying ‘we have plenty of water, we have the Nile and rain so what your uncle Gamal [Abdel Nasser] says, is what goes.’
In the agreement, Nile waters were divided between Sudan and Egypt on the basis that the Nile River forms in Khartoum and flows northwards from there. As such, Egypt received 55.5 percent of its water and Sudan 18.5 percent. Mirghani Hamza, the Sudanese Minister of Irrigation at the time, objected to the agreement warning that Egypt and Sudan would not be able to monopolise most of the Nile's waters as there were other countries bordering the Nile who were entitled to their shares. Hamza’s warning was not heeded and today we are witnessing the consequence of this.
Sudan agreed to the construction of the High Dam in exchange for a water sharing agreement, raising of the Roseires dam and the construction of the Jebel Awliya dam south of Khartoum. In exchange Egypt would secure the relocation of Nubians from Faras to Dal. Mirghani Hamza resigned.
The displaced people had lived in the city of Wadi Halfa and neighbouring areas to the south and north of the Wadi Halfa triangle, including land claimed by Egypt, but which belongs to Sudan. Relocation began on 26 January 1963. People were displaced firstly from the Wadi Halfa neighbourhoods of Fars East and West, Saras East and West, Debekra East and West, Argin, Eshkit, Dabarusa, Buhin, Degheim, Solan, and Farqi. Secondly were the people of Batn al-Hajar, 59 km south of Wadi Halfa, consisting of the following neighbourhoods: Abke, Jemi, Mershid, Sarras, Arul, Arti, Samna, Atir, Dushat, Ambikol, Tunguri, Songi, Akasha, Kulub, and Dal. They all communicated in Nubian except for the people of Ambikol.
The displaced people were allocated an area called Saruba al-Khadem in the Butana Plain in eastern Sudan. The British administration had planned the Khashm al-Qirba dam, at the new relocation site since 1945, and had indicated the need for people to be relocated to the low-lying plain north of the dam. Since 1958 the Sudanese military government (1958-1964) had begun to think about who would be the victim of such relocation to the Butana Plain. And so, the military rulers in Sudan and Egypt made the choice and decided who would be displaced and which areas would become depopulated.
The number of displaced people was 52,200 for whom 26 villages were hastily built. The first to migrate were hit by heavy rain which they had never seen or imagined before, and in their low-lying area, the earth quickly turned to sticky mud, preventing movement even for cars. The New Halfa Agricultural Project was later established and many people migrated to work on the project with those workers who operated the Khashm al-Qirba dam remaining in New Halfa. A new market was created to replace the old Wadi Halfa market, which had been one of the largest in Sudan.
The displaced Nubians had only one language to communicate with, the Nubian language of their old location; however, the first thing that dropped out of their language when they relocated, was the names of their old villages which had historical significance. Instead, their new villages only had numbers to distinguish them.
New Halfa became a bustling town, filled with people, a factor that had its effect on the Nubian language. Hundreds of names and words of vocabulary in Nubian related to the River Nile, with its boats, equipment, fish, islands, crops and places of cultivation, palm trees, mountains, singing, details of daily life, women's daily work, men, boys and girls grinding flour, and their tools at home and on the farm. Thousands of new words were borrowed from the new environment and one example of linguistic borrowing is related to the hawasha, a small plot of agricultural land which people were allocated for cultivation. Thus, words such as the following soon became part of mainstream vocabulary: hawasha, kanar, Ab Eshrein (alfafa), agricultural expert, inspector, inspection, institution, Hamar Abouri, fool, cotton, nafada, Arab, asbestos (houses were roofed with the material), jadwal (stream), bagar (cows), ankouj, malod, tarad, tractor and taraa. They were forced to grow peanuts and cotton, crops they had never known before. The Nubian language itself became the language people used in the home, it was not spoken outside.
The uneducated youth in New Halfa had a limited option of jobs and had to choose between joining the police or army or becoming farm labourers, messengers or cow herders. Strangely enough, most of them chose to work as cow herders for the daily income generated by selling milk and their share in the sale of calves. All this meant that the Nubians were working alongside members of other tribes such as the various subsections of the Beja tribe, the Malloa, the Kajaksa and Musamaja from Chad, and the Tama. Young men were therefore prompted to learn the language, care and culture of cow herding as this was their passport to work, and many of them embarked on this.
New Halfa is an area of linguistic overlap which is a covert struggle for possession of the ‘linguistic market’ because the biggest market - in terms of numbers and economic power – prevails. In 1999 a study found that the population in New Halfa consists of Nubians and Arabs. The number of Nubians was 39,000 and there were 75,000 seasonal migratory workers from Western Sudan who inhabited the Kanabi.
The establishment of the Wadi Halfa Museum was allocated to the National Museum in Khartoum. In a meeting in Aswan attended by stakeholders from Egyptian Nubia and Wadi Halfa, the land was purchased with UNESCO funding, and construction began in 2008, but it was halted. As scholars, we prepared ourselves to collect items relating to Nubia’s tangible and intangible heritage.
Meanwhile, young people learnt English to speak to tourists as part of the Language for Special Purposes programme. In New Halfa, we now find bilingualism (Arabic-Nubian) and tri-lingualism (Arabic-Nubian-Zaghawa), for example. The languages in New Halfa are Tama, Malu, Zaghawa, Beja, Masalit, Nuba Mountain languages, Beni Amer, Kajaksa, Musamaja, Fur, and Berti. Recently, we started a joint project with the Egyptian Nubians to establish the ‘Group for the Preservation of the Nubian Language and Cultures and the Translation of its Literature’, which is an active Nubian-Egyptian experience that will be transferred to Sudan.
Nubians are the people who inhabit the far north of Sudan, from the border between Sudan and Egypt to the Dabba area, south of Dongola, in the south. The Nile Water Agreement, signed between Egypt and Sudan in 1959, stipulated the relocation of Sudanese citizens in the Faras area (at the far corner of the Wadi Halfa triangle) right along to the eastern and western banks of the Nile in the Dal area, a distance of an estimated 170 km away. This was because the High Dam, which the Egyptians were going to build in Upper Egypt, would result in the area behind the dam being flooded.
The delegation representing Sudan to discuss the agreement was led by Maj Gen Talat Farid while Egypt's negotiators were led by Maj Gen Khaled Mohieldin, both representing the military juntas in each country. General Ibrahim Aboud, Sudan's military ruler, reportedly instructed Talat Farid saying ‘we have plenty of water, we have the Nile and rain so what your uncle Gamal [Abdel Nasser] says, is what goes.’
In the agreement, Nile waters were divided between Sudan and Egypt on the basis that the Nile River forms in Khartoum and flows northwards from there. As such, Egypt received 55.5 percent of its water and Sudan 18.5 percent. Mirghani Hamza, the Sudanese Minister of Irrigation at the time, objected to the agreement warning that Egypt and Sudan would not be able to monopolise most of the Nile's waters as there were other countries bordering the Nile who were entitled to their shares. Hamza’s warning was not heeded and today we are witnessing the consequence of this.
Sudan agreed to the construction of the High Dam in exchange for a water sharing agreement, raising of the Roseires dam and the construction of the Jebel Awliya dam south of Khartoum. In exchange Egypt would secure the relocation of Nubians from Faras to Dal. Mirghani Hamza resigned.
The displaced people had lived in the city of Wadi Halfa and neighbouring areas to the south and north of the Wadi Halfa triangle, including land claimed by Egypt, but which belongs to Sudan. Relocation began on 26 January 1963. People were displaced firstly from the Wadi Halfa neighbourhoods of Fars East and West, Saras East and West, Debekra East and West, Argin, Eshkit, Dabarusa, Buhin, Degheim, Solan, and Farqi. Secondly were the people of Batn al-Hajar, 59 km south of Wadi Halfa, consisting of the following neighbourhoods: Abke, Jemi, Mershid, Sarras, Arul, Arti, Samna, Atir, Dushat, Ambikol, Tunguri, Songi, Akasha, Kulub, and Dal. They all communicated in Nubian except for the people of Ambikol.
The displaced people were allocated an area called Saruba al-Khadem in the Butana Plain in eastern Sudan. The British administration had planned the Khashm al-Qirba dam, at the new relocation site since 1945, and had indicated the need for people to be relocated to the low-lying plain north of the dam. Since 1958 the Sudanese military government (1958-1964) had begun to think about who would be the victim of such relocation to the Butana Plain. And so, the military rulers in Sudan and Egypt made the choice and decided who would be displaced and which areas would become depopulated.
The number of displaced people was 52,200 for whom 26 villages were hastily built. The first to migrate were hit by heavy rain which they had never seen or imagined before, and in their low-lying area, the earth quickly turned to sticky mud, preventing movement even for cars. The New Halfa Agricultural Project was later established and many people migrated to work on the project with those workers who operated the Khashm al-Qirba dam remaining in New Halfa. A new market was created to replace the old Wadi Halfa market, which had been one of the largest in Sudan.
The displaced Nubians had only one language to communicate with, the Nubian language of their old location; however, the first thing that dropped out of their language when they relocated, was the names of their old villages which had historical significance. Instead, their new villages only had numbers to distinguish them.
New Halfa became a bustling town, filled with people, a factor that had its effect on the Nubian language. Hundreds of names and words of vocabulary in Nubian related to the River Nile, with its boats, equipment, fish, islands, crops and places of cultivation, palm trees, mountains, singing, details of daily life, women's daily work, men, boys and girls grinding flour, and their tools at home and on the farm. Thousands of new words were borrowed from the new environment and one example of linguistic borrowing is related to the hawasha, a small plot of agricultural land which people were allocated for cultivation. Thus, words such as the following soon became part of mainstream vocabulary: hawasha, kanar, Ab Eshrein (alfafa), agricultural expert, inspector, inspection, institution, Hamar Abouri, fool, cotton, nafada, Arab, asbestos (houses were roofed with the material), jadwal (stream), bagar (cows), ankouj, malod, tarad, tractor and taraa. They were forced to grow peanuts and cotton, crops they had never known before. The Nubian language itself became the language people used in the home, it was not spoken outside.
The uneducated youth in New Halfa had a limited option of jobs and had to choose between joining the police or army or becoming farm labourers, messengers or cow herders. Strangely enough, most of them chose to work as cow herders for the daily income generated by selling milk and their share in the sale of calves. All this meant that the Nubians were working alongside members of other tribes such as the various subsections of the Beja tribe, the Malloa, the Kajaksa and Musamaja from Chad, and the Tama. Young men were therefore prompted to learn the language, care and culture of cow herding as this was their passport to work, and many of them embarked on this.
New Halfa is an area of linguistic overlap which is a covert struggle for possession of the ‘linguistic market’ because the biggest market - in terms of numbers and economic power – prevails. In 1999 a study found that the population in New Halfa consists of Nubians and Arabs. The number of Nubians was 39,000 and there were 75,000 seasonal migratory workers from Western Sudan who inhabited the Kanabi.
The establishment of the Wadi Halfa Museum was allocated to the National Museum in Khartoum. In a meeting in Aswan attended by stakeholders from Egyptian Nubia and Wadi Halfa, the land was purchased with UNESCO funding, and construction began in 2008, but it was halted. As scholars, we prepared ourselves to collect items relating to Nubia’s tangible and intangible heritage.
Meanwhile, young people learnt English to speak to tourists as part of the Language for Special Purposes programme. In New Halfa, we now find bilingualism (Arabic-Nubian) and tri-lingualism (Arabic-Nubian-Zaghawa), for example. The languages in New Halfa are Tama, Malu, Zaghawa, Beja, Masalit, Nuba Mountain languages, Beni Amer, Kajaksa, Musamaja, Fur, and Berti. Recently, we started a joint project with the Egyptian Nubians to establish the ‘Group for the Preservation of the Nubian Language and Cultures and the Translation of its Literature’, which is an active Nubian-Egyptian experience that will be transferred to Sudan.
Nubians are the people who inhabit the far north of Sudan, from the border between Sudan and Egypt to the Dabba area, south of Dongola, in the south. The Nile Water Agreement, signed between Egypt and Sudan in 1959, stipulated the relocation of Sudanese citizens in the Faras area (at the far corner of the Wadi Halfa triangle) right along to the eastern and western banks of the Nile in the Dal area, a distance of an estimated 170 km away. This was because the High Dam, which the Egyptians were going to build in Upper Egypt, would result in the area behind the dam being flooded.
The delegation representing Sudan to discuss the agreement was led by Maj Gen Talat Farid while Egypt's negotiators were led by Maj Gen Khaled Mohieldin, both representing the military juntas in each country. General Ibrahim Aboud, Sudan's military ruler, reportedly instructed Talat Farid saying ‘we have plenty of water, we have the Nile and rain so what your uncle Gamal [Abdel Nasser] says, is what goes.’
In the agreement, Nile waters were divided between Sudan and Egypt on the basis that the Nile River forms in Khartoum and flows northwards from there. As such, Egypt received 55.5 percent of its water and Sudan 18.5 percent. Mirghani Hamza, the Sudanese Minister of Irrigation at the time, objected to the agreement warning that Egypt and Sudan would not be able to monopolise most of the Nile's waters as there were other countries bordering the Nile who were entitled to their shares. Hamza’s warning was not heeded and today we are witnessing the consequence of this.
Sudan agreed to the construction of the High Dam in exchange for a water sharing agreement, raising of the Roseires dam and the construction of the Jebel Awliya dam south of Khartoum. In exchange Egypt would secure the relocation of Nubians from Faras to Dal. Mirghani Hamza resigned.
The displaced people had lived in the city of Wadi Halfa and neighbouring areas to the south and north of the Wadi Halfa triangle, including land claimed by Egypt, but which belongs to Sudan. Relocation began on 26 January 1963. People were displaced firstly from the Wadi Halfa neighbourhoods of Fars East and West, Saras East and West, Debekra East and West, Argin, Eshkit, Dabarusa, Buhin, Degheim, Solan, and Farqi. Secondly were the people of Batn al-Hajar, 59 km south of Wadi Halfa, consisting of the following neighbourhoods: Abke, Jemi, Mershid, Sarras, Arul, Arti, Samna, Atir, Dushat, Ambikol, Tunguri, Songi, Akasha, Kulub, and Dal. They all communicated in Nubian except for the people of Ambikol.
The displaced people were allocated an area called Saruba al-Khadem in the Butana Plain in eastern Sudan. The British administration had planned the Khashm al-Qirba dam, at the new relocation site since 1945, and had indicated the need for people to be relocated to the low-lying plain north of the dam. Since 1958 the Sudanese military government (1958-1964) had begun to think about who would be the victim of such relocation to the Butana Plain. And so, the military rulers in Sudan and Egypt made the choice and decided who would be displaced and which areas would become depopulated.
The number of displaced people was 52,200 for whom 26 villages were hastily built. The first to migrate were hit by heavy rain which they had never seen or imagined before, and in their low-lying area, the earth quickly turned to sticky mud, preventing movement even for cars. The New Halfa Agricultural Project was later established and many people migrated to work on the project with those workers who operated the Khashm al-Qirba dam remaining in New Halfa. A new market was created to replace the old Wadi Halfa market, which had been one of the largest in Sudan.
The displaced Nubians had only one language to communicate with, the Nubian language of their old location; however, the first thing that dropped out of their language when they relocated, was the names of their old villages which had historical significance. Instead, their new villages only had numbers to distinguish them.
New Halfa became a bustling town, filled with people, a factor that had its effect on the Nubian language. Hundreds of names and words of vocabulary in Nubian related to the River Nile, with its boats, equipment, fish, islands, crops and places of cultivation, palm trees, mountains, singing, details of daily life, women's daily work, men, boys and girls grinding flour, and their tools at home and on the farm. Thousands of new words were borrowed from the new environment and one example of linguistic borrowing is related to the hawasha, a small plot of agricultural land which people were allocated for cultivation. Thus, words such as the following soon became part of mainstream vocabulary: hawasha, kanar, Ab Eshrein (alfafa), agricultural expert, inspector, inspection, institution, Hamar Abouri, fool, cotton, nafada, Arab, asbestos (houses were roofed with the material), jadwal (stream), bagar (cows), ankouj, malod, tarad, tractor and taraa. They were forced to grow peanuts and cotton, crops they had never known before. The Nubian language itself became the language people used in the home, it was not spoken outside.
The uneducated youth in New Halfa had a limited option of jobs and had to choose between joining the police or army or becoming farm labourers, messengers or cow herders. Strangely enough, most of them chose to work as cow herders for the daily income generated by selling milk and their share in the sale of calves. All this meant that the Nubians were working alongside members of other tribes such as the various subsections of the Beja tribe, the Malloa, the Kajaksa and Musamaja from Chad, and the Tama. Young men were therefore prompted to learn the language, care and culture of cow herding as this was their passport to work, and many of them embarked on this.
New Halfa is an area of linguistic overlap which is a covert struggle for possession of the ‘linguistic market’ because the biggest market - in terms of numbers and economic power – prevails. In 1999 a study found that the population in New Halfa consists of Nubians and Arabs. The number of Nubians was 39,000 and there were 75,000 seasonal migratory workers from Western Sudan who inhabited the Kanabi.
The establishment of the Wadi Halfa Museum was allocated to the National Museum in Khartoum. In a meeting in Aswan attended by stakeholders from Egyptian Nubia and Wadi Halfa, the land was purchased with UNESCO funding, and construction began in 2008, but it was halted. As scholars, we prepared ourselves to collect items relating to Nubia’s tangible and intangible heritage.
Meanwhile, young people learnt English to speak to tourists as part of the Language for Special Purposes programme. In New Halfa, we now find bilingualism (Arabic-Nubian) and tri-lingualism (Arabic-Nubian-Zaghawa), for example. The languages in New Halfa are Tama, Malu, Zaghawa, Beja, Masalit, Nuba Mountain languages, Beni Amer, Kajaksa, Musamaja, Fur, and Berti. Recently, we started a joint project with the Egyptian Nubians to establish the ‘Group for the Preservation of the Nubian Language and Cultures and the Translation of its Literature’, which is an active Nubian-Egyptian experience that will be transferred to Sudan.
Languages of Sudan Playlist
Languages of Sudan Playlist
Sudan boasts a rich linguistic landscape, with estimates suggesting that over 114 languages are spoken across the country. Arabic is the most dominant language, especially in the north and central regions. But what better way to explore Sudan’s linguistic diversity than through music?
This playlist is a collection of songs from across Sudan, featuring local languages spoken in the north, east, and west, as well as among certain tribes in the Blue Nile region and the Hausa communities. Through this selection, we celebrate the musical diversity that reflects the deep cultural and linguistic heritage of Sudan’s many communities.
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Sudan boasts a rich linguistic landscape, with estimates suggesting that over 114 languages are spoken across the country. Arabic is the most dominant language, especially in the north and central regions. But what better way to explore Sudan’s linguistic diversity than through music?
This playlist is a collection of songs from across Sudan, featuring local languages spoken in the north, east, and west, as well as among certain tribes in the Blue Nile region and the Hausa communities. Through this selection, we celebrate the musical diversity that reflects the deep cultural and linguistic heritage of Sudan’s many communities.
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Sudan boasts a rich linguistic landscape, with estimates suggesting that over 114 languages are spoken across the country. Arabic is the most dominant language, especially in the north and central regions. But what better way to explore Sudan’s linguistic diversity than through music?
This playlist is a collection of songs from across Sudan, featuring local languages spoken in the north, east, and west, as well as among certain tribes in the Blue Nile region and the Hausa communities. Through this selection, we celebrate the musical diversity that reflects the deep cultural and linguistic heritage of Sudan’s many communities.
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Randok The Language of Rebellion and Resistance
Randok The Language of Rebellion and Resistance
Alice: “I don’t know what you mean by ‘glory.’”
Humpty Dumpty (smiling contemptuously): “Of course you don’t—till I tell you. I meant ‘there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!’”
Alice: “But ‘glory’ doesn’t mean ‘a nice knock-down argument.’”
Humpty Dumpty: “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
Alice: “The question is whether you can make words mean so many different things.”
Humpty Dumpty: “The question is, which is to be master—that’s all.”
Would you like any further refinements?
(Through the Looking Glass - Chapter six, Humpty Dumpty)
Building on the above excerpt from Through the Looking Glass, one can argue that everything begins with power and politics, in no particular order, followed by economics, and then life itself. This applies even to ‘language,’ the primary symbolic tool for interpreting the world around us and the dynamic arena where the struggle for control is played out and where the capacity to shape discourse, and life itself, is formed.
Three decades ago, the realm of language in Sudan entered into a silent conflict over who possessed the authority and influence to dominate the public sphere. This happened with the Muslim Brotherhood’s rise to power in the country via a military coup.
At the time, the Islamists tightened their grip and initiated multiple changes according to a plan they had devised and which they promoted publicly. In a nutshell, this plan was to “reshape the Sudanese people,” as the slogan went. They envisaged these changes to encompass the political, social, and economic realms of life, among others. There was also a distinctive shift in language, as well as in the concepts and meanings embedded within, with the aim of tightening control over content and meaning, and consequently over relationships and individuals.
Initially, the Islamists took control of mass media and infiltrated both the public and private spheres. They introduced a language distinct from the prevailing one, imbued with religious undertones and in new expressions that replaced older ones commonly used to convey the same meanings. For those in power, official language in the early days borrowed heavily from Islamic lexicon for its expressions and thus the frequent emergence of slang words such as “shirteet, jah, juluk, kisseir talij, katamat, talas, qanzab, laqqowiya, al-tara, jawat” caused them a great deal of embarrassment.
In reality, this language battle did not erupt suddenly but rather it occurred gradually over time. Parallel languages or dialects emerged and slowly developed to the point where they overshadowed the official language favoured by the ruling Islamists. One of these alternative languages is known as Randok.
Randok was born and developed away from the gaze of officialdom until it reached maturity and spread unrestrained, manifesting itself in unexpected and initially, quite unusual modes of expression. Over time, it evolved into the everyday language of the public. While Randok did not provide its speakers with the capacity to resolve complicated questions of logic for example, it effectively met their need for day-to-day communication. Over time this novel language rose to significant prominence through embodying the literature of the peaceful Sudanese revolution that erupted in December 2018. With all the rebellion, repression and political implications of the revolution, it was striking to see people interact with mobilising statements written by protest leaders in Randok. This broke the assumption that the language of the powerful always dominates the weak.
At a certain point during the Muslim Brotherhood's rule, a specific language became a hallmark of their identity. Resistance began to take shape through people’s refusal to emulate their way of speech or to use their terms and vocabulary. This was akin to a broad rejection of the entire culture they sought to impose. Yet, this resistance remained muted and subdued under a cultural and media domination that, as it turns out, was unable to quickly evolve into a counter-resistance movement when the revolution erupted.
The first manifestation of a linguistic conflict came from al-shammasha (street boys), who developed their own unique language which reversed letters, altered meanings, and coined phrases out of contexts that would require a longer article in order to explain.
The shammasha language was later adopted by many and as it became modified with usage, Randok was created. This language evolved and expanded over time despite the difficulty in tracing the exact origins of the term Randok. It can be viewed as a phenomenon indicative of a counter-language spoken by a particular group within society. If one were to identify a contributing factor to the expansion of Randok, it would be the economic hardship that disrupted everything and led to the revolution.
From the outset, a clash between two paths was inevitable: the path of the new rulers with their desire to reshape, and the path of the oppressed masses yearning for liberation. Evidence abounds to support the notion that this clash was centered on language, significantly bolstering the language of resistance. In many ways, Randok achieved a remarkable victory. It infiltrated the language of the majority and even the language of intellectuals, creating a hybrid language that is hard to trace but which is widely embraced by its speakers.
When writing about Randok, we echo Humpty Dumpty’s words: It’s about who has the authority—that’s all. And perhaps we might add “and how to resist this authority?”
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Alice: “I don’t know what you mean by ‘glory.’”
Humpty Dumpty (smiling contemptuously): “Of course you don’t—till I tell you. I meant ‘there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!’”
Alice: “But ‘glory’ doesn’t mean ‘a nice knock-down argument.’”
Humpty Dumpty: “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
Alice: “The question is whether you can make words mean so many different things.”
Humpty Dumpty: “The question is, which is to be master—that’s all.”
Would you like any further refinements?
(Through the Looking Glass - Chapter six, Humpty Dumpty)
Building on the above excerpt from Through the Looking Glass, one can argue that everything begins with power and politics, in no particular order, followed by economics, and then life itself. This applies even to ‘language,’ the primary symbolic tool for interpreting the world around us and the dynamic arena where the struggle for control is played out and where the capacity to shape discourse, and life itself, is formed.
Three decades ago, the realm of language in Sudan entered into a silent conflict over who possessed the authority and influence to dominate the public sphere. This happened with the Muslim Brotherhood’s rise to power in the country via a military coup.
At the time, the Islamists tightened their grip and initiated multiple changes according to a plan they had devised and which they promoted publicly. In a nutshell, this plan was to “reshape the Sudanese people,” as the slogan went. They envisaged these changes to encompass the political, social, and economic realms of life, among others. There was also a distinctive shift in language, as well as in the concepts and meanings embedded within, with the aim of tightening control over content and meaning, and consequently over relationships and individuals.
Initially, the Islamists took control of mass media and infiltrated both the public and private spheres. They introduced a language distinct from the prevailing one, imbued with religious undertones and in new expressions that replaced older ones commonly used to convey the same meanings. For those in power, official language in the early days borrowed heavily from Islamic lexicon for its expressions and thus the frequent emergence of slang words such as “shirteet, jah, juluk, kisseir talij, katamat, talas, qanzab, laqqowiya, al-tara, jawat” caused them a great deal of embarrassment.
In reality, this language battle did not erupt suddenly but rather it occurred gradually over time. Parallel languages or dialects emerged and slowly developed to the point where they overshadowed the official language favoured by the ruling Islamists. One of these alternative languages is known as Randok.
Randok was born and developed away from the gaze of officialdom until it reached maturity and spread unrestrained, manifesting itself in unexpected and initially, quite unusual modes of expression. Over time, it evolved into the everyday language of the public. While Randok did not provide its speakers with the capacity to resolve complicated questions of logic for example, it effectively met their need for day-to-day communication. Over time this novel language rose to significant prominence through embodying the literature of the peaceful Sudanese revolution that erupted in December 2018. With all the rebellion, repression and political implications of the revolution, it was striking to see people interact with mobilising statements written by protest leaders in Randok. This broke the assumption that the language of the powerful always dominates the weak.
At a certain point during the Muslim Brotherhood's rule, a specific language became a hallmark of their identity. Resistance began to take shape through people’s refusal to emulate their way of speech or to use their terms and vocabulary. This was akin to a broad rejection of the entire culture they sought to impose. Yet, this resistance remained muted and subdued under a cultural and media domination that, as it turns out, was unable to quickly evolve into a counter-resistance movement when the revolution erupted.
The first manifestation of a linguistic conflict came from al-shammasha (street boys), who developed their own unique language which reversed letters, altered meanings, and coined phrases out of contexts that would require a longer article in order to explain.
The shammasha language was later adopted by many and as it became modified with usage, Randok was created. This language evolved and expanded over time despite the difficulty in tracing the exact origins of the term Randok. It can be viewed as a phenomenon indicative of a counter-language spoken by a particular group within society. If one were to identify a contributing factor to the expansion of Randok, it would be the economic hardship that disrupted everything and led to the revolution.
From the outset, a clash between two paths was inevitable: the path of the new rulers with their desire to reshape, and the path of the oppressed masses yearning for liberation. Evidence abounds to support the notion that this clash was centered on language, significantly bolstering the language of resistance. In many ways, Randok achieved a remarkable victory. It infiltrated the language of the majority and even the language of intellectuals, creating a hybrid language that is hard to trace but which is widely embraced by its speakers.
When writing about Randok, we echo Humpty Dumpty’s words: It’s about who has the authority—that’s all. And perhaps we might add “and how to resist this authority?”
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Alice: “I don’t know what you mean by ‘glory.’”
Humpty Dumpty (smiling contemptuously): “Of course you don’t—till I tell you. I meant ‘there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!’”
Alice: “But ‘glory’ doesn’t mean ‘a nice knock-down argument.’”
Humpty Dumpty: “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
Alice: “The question is whether you can make words mean so many different things.”
Humpty Dumpty: “The question is, which is to be master—that’s all.”
Would you like any further refinements?
(Through the Looking Glass - Chapter six, Humpty Dumpty)
Building on the above excerpt from Through the Looking Glass, one can argue that everything begins with power and politics, in no particular order, followed by economics, and then life itself. This applies even to ‘language,’ the primary symbolic tool for interpreting the world around us and the dynamic arena where the struggle for control is played out and where the capacity to shape discourse, and life itself, is formed.
Three decades ago, the realm of language in Sudan entered into a silent conflict over who possessed the authority and influence to dominate the public sphere. This happened with the Muslim Brotherhood’s rise to power in the country via a military coup.
At the time, the Islamists tightened their grip and initiated multiple changes according to a plan they had devised and which they promoted publicly. In a nutshell, this plan was to “reshape the Sudanese people,” as the slogan went. They envisaged these changes to encompass the political, social, and economic realms of life, among others. There was also a distinctive shift in language, as well as in the concepts and meanings embedded within, with the aim of tightening control over content and meaning, and consequently over relationships and individuals.
Initially, the Islamists took control of mass media and infiltrated both the public and private spheres. They introduced a language distinct from the prevailing one, imbued with religious undertones and in new expressions that replaced older ones commonly used to convey the same meanings. For those in power, official language in the early days borrowed heavily from Islamic lexicon for its expressions and thus the frequent emergence of slang words such as “shirteet, jah, juluk, kisseir talij, katamat, talas, qanzab, laqqowiya, al-tara, jawat” caused them a great deal of embarrassment.
In reality, this language battle did not erupt suddenly but rather it occurred gradually over time. Parallel languages or dialects emerged and slowly developed to the point where they overshadowed the official language favoured by the ruling Islamists. One of these alternative languages is known as Randok.
Randok was born and developed away from the gaze of officialdom until it reached maturity and spread unrestrained, manifesting itself in unexpected and initially, quite unusual modes of expression. Over time, it evolved into the everyday language of the public. While Randok did not provide its speakers with the capacity to resolve complicated questions of logic for example, it effectively met their need for day-to-day communication. Over time this novel language rose to significant prominence through embodying the literature of the peaceful Sudanese revolution that erupted in December 2018. With all the rebellion, repression and political implications of the revolution, it was striking to see people interact with mobilising statements written by protest leaders in Randok. This broke the assumption that the language of the powerful always dominates the weak.
At a certain point during the Muslim Brotherhood's rule, a specific language became a hallmark of their identity. Resistance began to take shape through people’s refusal to emulate their way of speech or to use their terms and vocabulary. This was akin to a broad rejection of the entire culture they sought to impose. Yet, this resistance remained muted and subdued under a cultural and media domination that, as it turns out, was unable to quickly evolve into a counter-resistance movement when the revolution erupted.
The first manifestation of a linguistic conflict came from al-shammasha (street boys), who developed their own unique language which reversed letters, altered meanings, and coined phrases out of contexts that would require a longer article in order to explain.
The shammasha language was later adopted by many and as it became modified with usage, Randok was created. This language evolved and expanded over time despite the difficulty in tracing the exact origins of the term Randok. It can be viewed as a phenomenon indicative of a counter-language spoken by a particular group within society. If one were to identify a contributing factor to the expansion of Randok, it would be the economic hardship that disrupted everything and led to the revolution.
From the outset, a clash between two paths was inevitable: the path of the new rulers with their desire to reshape, and the path of the oppressed masses yearning for liberation. Evidence abounds to support the notion that this clash was centered on language, significantly bolstering the language of resistance. In many ways, Randok achieved a remarkable victory. It infiltrated the language of the majority and even the language of intellectuals, creating a hybrid language that is hard to trace but which is widely embraced by its speakers.
When writing about Randok, we echo Humpty Dumpty’s words: It’s about who has the authority—that’s all. And perhaps we might add “and how to resist this authority?”
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Feeling colours
Feeling colours
I am a Sudanese, Arabic-speaking female who has always lived in predominantly Arabic-speaking countries in Sudan and the Arabian Gulf. My perception of language has therefore been based on the various Arabic dialects in these countries and the linguistic differences between Arabic and English, the two languages I speak. To me, these differences are the result of culture and language development. For example, the words landscape and skyline have no equivalent in Arabic and are roughly translated as ‘natural view’ or ‘ufuq’ which means horizon, prospect, slant amongst other things. There are also new words such as ‘networking’, which literally translates to ‘tashbeek’, a word no one actually uses with people preferring to stick to the English word. What is complicated, but also beautiful, about Arabic is that just like the word horizon can mean many other things, there are for example, scores of words to describe love.
Fast forward to today and I am no longer living in a predominantly Arabic speaking country, English has become the language I use most of the time and as I learn more about other people’s culture and use of language, a new aspect which I wasn’t aware of before has become apparent.
One day I was offered a slice of cake, I took one bite and because it was quite dense and rich I couldn't have anymore. In Sudanese Arabic we have a word to describe this sensation, ‘gaham’, used with a prefix or suffix to explain who it refers to. No it does not mean stuffed or full, because even if you were you could probably manage a tiny bit more. Rather it describes the inability to eat because of the ‘shock’ of how dense or sweet the mouthful of cake was. It can also refer to being put off by even just the sight of a certain type of food.
Now to get back to my new discovery and what I found interesting was not the fact that there was no English word equivalent, it was that my friends did not understand the feeling I was trying to describe. A fun fact before I move on is that this word does exist in Mexican culture. Someone described as such is either too sugary/flattering or sleazy. However, in Sudanese Arabic, when the word is used to describe a person, it means someone who invades your personal space and overwhelms you because they speak too much.
The previous revelation made me curious about how language provokes emotions. Of course there is the aspect that the better you are able to describe your feelings the better you understand them, but this means that you must have the ability to recognize your emotions in the first place. In his book I See A Voice: A Philosophical History, Jonathan Ree describes this as a two-way process in response to an event consisting of an inward experience, ‘perception’, and outward experience, ‘expression or action’. Ree explains that these experiences are shaped by things like fantasy, reflection and consciousness and depend on how much you are able to control and channel them.
For me this is when culture comes into play. Fantasies, which may affect experience, could be influenced by the culture around you, and the fact that you don’t have a word to describe it doesn't mean that you don’t feel it. Perhaps this can be better demonstrated through a concept which we think we all understand in the same way, ie. colours.
The short documentary by Vox titled The Surprising Pattern behind Color Names around the World, describes how in many languages around the world they have only three or four colours: dark, light, red, green or yellow. Despite the fact that there is an endless variety of colours in the world, different cultures choose which ones they will name. Before scholars reached this understanding they thought the people who spoke languages with a limited range of names of colours were colour blind!
If you are Sudanese, the previous paragraph may have sparked a little recognition, namely the Arabic words ‘azrag’ meaning blue and ‘abyad’, meaning white and which are used in Sudan to describe darker or lighter hues respectively. The White and Blue Niles are examples of this. Thus, while the Blue Nile, originating in Lake Tana in the mountains of Ethiopia, flows fastly in a relatively narrow channel dragging silt along with it, the White Nile from Lake Victoria in Uganda travels languorously down to Khartoum winding calmly in its wide channel not disturbing the mud along the way.
The white ‘tob’ and ‘tob alzarag’ or blue sari-like, women's garments share the same word ‘tob’. The main material used for making fabrics in many areas of Sudan is cotton and modern weaving can be traced back to the 1800’s. However, cotton textiles have also been found in excavations in Marawi and Lower Nubia suggesting an even longer existence. White clothes make sense in our hot climate, and the name white has existed for a long time, such as the name El-Obayid, the capital of north Kordofan, which is said to have been named after a specific white donkey. Blue on the other hand could be confusing, ‘alzarag’ is usually a white tob that is dyed with a natural dye made from the river shrub known as ‘nilla’. This plant is well known in Sudan and Egypt and used to describe darkness or black even though it produces blue-coloured fabric.
This very Sudanese colour scheme is applied to more than fabric and is extended to the people who wear them. ‘People’s colours’ fall into four categories including green, yellow, blue and red. A ‘red person’ is someone light-skinned named because their skin turns red in the heat. They can also be referred to as ‘halabi’ meaning someone from ‘Halab’ or Aleppo. What about ‘green people’? Interestingly, this description of ‘skin colour’ is also used in other Arabic speaking countries such as Oman and Kuwait. There are many speculations about the origin of this description with some saying it originates from the fact that blue means dark, yellow means light, and therefore green means in between. A recent explanation is associated with undertones, a word that is becoming increasingly fashionable, and the colours used to mix to create the perfect foundation - yellow for a lighter tone and blue for a darker one.
Whether or not Sudanese people were aware of the concept of undertones in the past or whether they just didn’t have the time to invent the names for new colors, what is certain is that language, emotions and perception are related in so many different ways and this topic will spark discussions for many years to come.
Artwork by Zainab Gaafar
I am a Sudanese, Arabic-speaking female who has always lived in predominantly Arabic-speaking countries in Sudan and the Arabian Gulf. My perception of language has therefore been based on the various Arabic dialects in these countries and the linguistic differences between Arabic and English, the two languages I speak. To me, these differences are the result of culture and language development. For example, the words landscape and skyline have no equivalent in Arabic and are roughly translated as ‘natural view’ or ‘ufuq’ which means horizon, prospect, slant amongst other things. There are also new words such as ‘networking’, which literally translates to ‘tashbeek’, a word no one actually uses with people preferring to stick to the English word. What is complicated, but also beautiful, about Arabic is that just like the word horizon can mean many other things, there are for example, scores of words to describe love.
Fast forward to today and I am no longer living in a predominantly Arabic speaking country, English has become the language I use most of the time and as I learn more about other people’s culture and use of language, a new aspect which I wasn’t aware of before has become apparent.
One day I was offered a slice of cake, I took one bite and because it was quite dense and rich I couldn't have anymore. In Sudanese Arabic we have a word to describe this sensation, ‘gaham’, used with a prefix or suffix to explain who it refers to. No it does not mean stuffed or full, because even if you were you could probably manage a tiny bit more. Rather it describes the inability to eat because of the ‘shock’ of how dense or sweet the mouthful of cake was. It can also refer to being put off by even just the sight of a certain type of food.
Now to get back to my new discovery and what I found interesting was not the fact that there was no English word equivalent, it was that my friends did not understand the feeling I was trying to describe. A fun fact before I move on is that this word does exist in Mexican culture. Someone described as such is either too sugary/flattering or sleazy. However, in Sudanese Arabic, when the word is used to describe a person, it means someone who invades your personal space and overwhelms you because they speak too much.
The previous revelation made me curious about how language provokes emotions. Of course there is the aspect that the better you are able to describe your feelings the better you understand them, but this means that you must have the ability to recognize your emotions in the first place. In his book I See A Voice: A Philosophical History, Jonathan Ree describes this as a two-way process in response to an event consisting of an inward experience, ‘perception’, and outward experience, ‘expression or action’. Ree explains that these experiences are shaped by things like fantasy, reflection and consciousness and depend on how much you are able to control and channel them.
For me this is when culture comes into play. Fantasies, which may affect experience, could be influenced by the culture around you, and the fact that you don’t have a word to describe it doesn't mean that you don’t feel it. Perhaps this can be better demonstrated through a concept which we think we all understand in the same way, ie. colours.
The short documentary by Vox titled The Surprising Pattern behind Color Names around the World, describes how in many languages around the world they have only three or four colours: dark, light, red, green or yellow. Despite the fact that there is an endless variety of colours in the world, different cultures choose which ones they will name. Before scholars reached this understanding they thought the people who spoke languages with a limited range of names of colours were colour blind!
If you are Sudanese, the previous paragraph may have sparked a little recognition, namely the Arabic words ‘azrag’ meaning blue and ‘abyad’, meaning white and which are used in Sudan to describe darker or lighter hues respectively. The White and Blue Niles are examples of this. Thus, while the Blue Nile, originating in Lake Tana in the mountains of Ethiopia, flows fastly in a relatively narrow channel dragging silt along with it, the White Nile from Lake Victoria in Uganda travels languorously down to Khartoum winding calmly in its wide channel not disturbing the mud along the way.
The white ‘tob’ and ‘tob alzarag’ or blue sari-like, women's garments share the same word ‘tob’. The main material used for making fabrics in many areas of Sudan is cotton and modern weaving can be traced back to the 1800’s. However, cotton textiles have also been found in excavations in Marawi and Lower Nubia suggesting an even longer existence. White clothes make sense in our hot climate, and the name white has existed for a long time, such as the name El-Obayid, the capital of north Kordofan, which is said to have been named after a specific white donkey. Blue on the other hand could be confusing, ‘alzarag’ is usually a white tob that is dyed with a natural dye made from the river shrub known as ‘nilla’. This plant is well known in Sudan and Egypt and used to describe darkness or black even though it produces blue-coloured fabric.
This very Sudanese colour scheme is applied to more than fabric and is extended to the people who wear them. ‘People’s colours’ fall into four categories including green, yellow, blue and red. A ‘red person’ is someone light-skinned named because their skin turns red in the heat. They can also be referred to as ‘halabi’ meaning someone from ‘Halab’ or Aleppo. What about ‘green people’? Interestingly, this description of ‘skin colour’ is also used in other Arabic speaking countries such as Oman and Kuwait. There are many speculations about the origin of this description with some saying it originates from the fact that blue means dark, yellow means light, and therefore green means in between. A recent explanation is associated with undertones, a word that is becoming increasingly fashionable, and the colours used to mix to create the perfect foundation - yellow for a lighter tone and blue for a darker one.
Whether or not Sudanese people were aware of the concept of undertones in the past or whether they just didn’t have the time to invent the names for new colors, what is certain is that language, emotions and perception are related in so many different ways and this topic will spark discussions for many years to come.
Artwork by Zainab Gaafar
I am a Sudanese, Arabic-speaking female who has always lived in predominantly Arabic-speaking countries in Sudan and the Arabian Gulf. My perception of language has therefore been based on the various Arabic dialects in these countries and the linguistic differences between Arabic and English, the two languages I speak. To me, these differences are the result of culture and language development. For example, the words landscape and skyline have no equivalent in Arabic and are roughly translated as ‘natural view’ or ‘ufuq’ which means horizon, prospect, slant amongst other things. There are also new words such as ‘networking’, which literally translates to ‘tashbeek’, a word no one actually uses with people preferring to stick to the English word. What is complicated, but also beautiful, about Arabic is that just like the word horizon can mean many other things, there are for example, scores of words to describe love.
Fast forward to today and I am no longer living in a predominantly Arabic speaking country, English has become the language I use most of the time and as I learn more about other people’s culture and use of language, a new aspect which I wasn’t aware of before has become apparent.
One day I was offered a slice of cake, I took one bite and because it was quite dense and rich I couldn't have anymore. In Sudanese Arabic we have a word to describe this sensation, ‘gaham’, used with a prefix or suffix to explain who it refers to. No it does not mean stuffed or full, because even if you were you could probably manage a tiny bit more. Rather it describes the inability to eat because of the ‘shock’ of how dense or sweet the mouthful of cake was. It can also refer to being put off by even just the sight of a certain type of food.
Now to get back to my new discovery and what I found interesting was not the fact that there was no English word equivalent, it was that my friends did not understand the feeling I was trying to describe. A fun fact before I move on is that this word does exist in Mexican culture. Someone described as such is either too sugary/flattering or sleazy. However, in Sudanese Arabic, when the word is used to describe a person, it means someone who invades your personal space and overwhelms you because they speak too much.
The previous revelation made me curious about how language provokes emotions. Of course there is the aspect that the better you are able to describe your feelings the better you understand them, but this means that you must have the ability to recognize your emotions in the first place. In his book I See A Voice: A Philosophical History, Jonathan Ree describes this as a two-way process in response to an event consisting of an inward experience, ‘perception’, and outward experience, ‘expression or action’. Ree explains that these experiences are shaped by things like fantasy, reflection and consciousness and depend on how much you are able to control and channel them.
For me this is when culture comes into play. Fantasies, which may affect experience, could be influenced by the culture around you, and the fact that you don’t have a word to describe it doesn't mean that you don’t feel it. Perhaps this can be better demonstrated through a concept which we think we all understand in the same way, ie. colours.
The short documentary by Vox titled The Surprising Pattern behind Color Names around the World, describes how in many languages around the world they have only three or four colours: dark, light, red, green or yellow. Despite the fact that there is an endless variety of colours in the world, different cultures choose which ones they will name. Before scholars reached this understanding they thought the people who spoke languages with a limited range of names of colours were colour blind!
If you are Sudanese, the previous paragraph may have sparked a little recognition, namely the Arabic words ‘azrag’ meaning blue and ‘abyad’, meaning white and which are used in Sudan to describe darker or lighter hues respectively. The White and Blue Niles are examples of this. Thus, while the Blue Nile, originating in Lake Tana in the mountains of Ethiopia, flows fastly in a relatively narrow channel dragging silt along with it, the White Nile from Lake Victoria in Uganda travels languorously down to Khartoum winding calmly in its wide channel not disturbing the mud along the way.
The white ‘tob’ and ‘tob alzarag’ or blue sari-like, women's garments share the same word ‘tob’. The main material used for making fabrics in many areas of Sudan is cotton and modern weaving can be traced back to the 1800’s. However, cotton textiles have also been found in excavations in Marawi and Lower Nubia suggesting an even longer existence. White clothes make sense in our hot climate, and the name white has existed for a long time, such as the name El-Obayid, the capital of north Kordofan, which is said to have been named after a specific white donkey. Blue on the other hand could be confusing, ‘alzarag’ is usually a white tob that is dyed with a natural dye made from the river shrub known as ‘nilla’. This plant is well known in Sudan and Egypt and used to describe darkness or black even though it produces blue-coloured fabric.
This very Sudanese colour scheme is applied to more than fabric and is extended to the people who wear them. ‘People’s colours’ fall into four categories including green, yellow, blue and red. A ‘red person’ is someone light-skinned named because their skin turns red in the heat. They can also be referred to as ‘halabi’ meaning someone from ‘Halab’ or Aleppo. What about ‘green people’? Interestingly, this description of ‘skin colour’ is also used in other Arabic speaking countries such as Oman and Kuwait. There are many speculations about the origin of this description with some saying it originates from the fact that blue means dark, yellow means light, and therefore green means in between. A recent explanation is associated with undertones, a word that is becoming increasingly fashionable, and the colours used to mix to create the perfect foundation - yellow for a lighter tone and blue for a darker one.
Whether or not Sudanese people were aware of the concept of undertones in the past or whether they just didn’t have the time to invent the names for new colors, what is certain is that language, emotions and perception are related in so many different ways and this topic will spark discussions for many years to come.
Artwork by Zainab Gaafar
Language and heritage
Language and heritage
Language is the primary medium through which communities express both their identity and their cultural heritage. More importantly, it is a means of transmitting local knowledge, cultural and social values, and collective memory. Language is also involved in all forms of oral expression of heritage. In this short episode of the Khartoum Podcast, we explore the topic of language as a repository of local heritage, culture, and indigenous knowledge. The second season of the Khartoum Podcast was produced as part of the #OurHeritageOurSudan campaign, funded by the Safeguarding Sudan’s Living Heritage Project.This short episode on Language and Culture from Khartoum Podcast is now available on all platforms.The speaker in the new episode on Language and Heritage is Sandios Kudi, a writer, lecturer at the University of Khartoum and an arts and culture enthusiast. The episode also features an audio clip of Mohamed El Amin from the film Amal Band, produced by Nas Shagala Campaign and Klozium Studios. Mohamed El Amin is a music professor and founder of the Omkar Research Center, which is interested in documenting the Beja heritage and the Bidhaawyeet language in eastern Sudan.
Language is the primary medium through which communities express both their identity and their cultural heritage. More importantly, it is a means of transmitting local knowledge, cultural and social values, and collective memory. Language is also involved in all forms of oral expression of heritage. In this short episode of the Khartoum Podcast, we explore the topic of language as a repository of local heritage, culture, and indigenous knowledge. The second season of the Khartoum Podcast was produced as part of the #OurHeritageOurSudan campaign, funded by the Safeguarding Sudan’s Living Heritage Project.This short episode on Language and Culture from Khartoum Podcast is now available on all platforms.The speaker in the new episode on Language and Heritage is Sandios Kudi, a writer, lecturer at the University of Khartoum and an arts and culture enthusiast. The episode also features an audio clip of Mohamed El Amin from the film Amal Band, produced by Nas Shagala Campaign and Klozium Studios. Mohamed El Amin is a music professor and founder of the Omkar Research Center, which is interested in documenting the Beja heritage and the Bidhaawyeet language in eastern Sudan.
Language is the primary medium through which communities express both their identity and their cultural heritage. More importantly, it is a means of transmitting local knowledge, cultural and social values, and collective memory. Language is also involved in all forms of oral expression of heritage. In this short episode of the Khartoum Podcast, we explore the topic of language as a repository of local heritage, culture, and indigenous knowledge. The second season of the Khartoum Podcast was produced as part of the #OurHeritageOurSudan campaign, funded by the Safeguarding Sudan’s Living Heritage Project.This short episode on Language and Culture from Khartoum Podcast is now available on all platforms.The speaker in the new episode on Language and Heritage is Sandios Kudi, a writer, lecturer at the University of Khartoum and an arts and culture enthusiast. The episode also features an audio clip of Mohamed El Amin from the film Amal Band, produced by Nas Shagala Campaign and Klozium Studios. Mohamed El Amin is a music professor and founder of the Omkar Research Center, which is interested in documenting the Beja heritage and the Bidhaawyeet language in eastern Sudan.
Reading the environment
Reading the environment
Traditional trackers have learned their skills over generations and have been practicing them since time immemorial. With time, these skills have become officially recognised and those who possess them are often employed by the police. Tracking footprints can be used to find the culprits who steal livestock from pens or possessions from people’s homes or assets from government institutions.
A tracker is a person who possesses keen observation skills and expertise in identifying the characteristics of a thief through their footprint; whether they are tall or short, fat or thin, or even if they have a physical disability such as a lame leg or blind eye. This profession is often inherited, with parents teaching their children, but it can also be learned through the intuition, intelligence, and keen observation of the tracker.
The tracker has earned a special type of respect in society. When a theft is discovered, and before calling the tracker, the owners of the stolen items often preserve whatever evidence there is by covering it with a large vessel to keep it safe until the tracker arrives, especially in villages and open areas with strong winds.
A famous story involving a tracker tells of the bedouin who lost his camel and sought the help of a tracker he encountered. “Is the camel you own blind in one eye?” asked the tracker. The bedouin replied that it was. The tracker then asked, “is the camel lame?” to which the response was also yes. Listening to the questions the bedouin became excited thinking the tracker had already found his lost animal. “I have not found or seen it” was the tracker’ss reply “but I recognized it by its footprints on the ground; it is lame because its tracks are deep in the ground on one side, and it is blind in one eye because it only eats the gorse on one side of the track,” he continued. The camel owner then received his instructions to follow said footprint until he finally found his camel.
Until recently, people in the city of El Obeid relied on tracking footprints to solve burglaries including mysterious cases of theft which even the police had been unable to solve.
Tracking footprints remains a pretty accurate means of apprehending thieves despite efforts by these criminals to mislead trackers such as by changing the way they walk or turning their shoes inside out, among others.
Today footprint tracking continues to be popular and relied upon to solve crimes in many villages and rural areas.
(This article was written by Amani Youssif Bashir based on an interview with Mr. Youssif Bashir Idris in January, 2025)
Cover picture © Amani Youssif Bashir
Traditional trackers have learned their skills over generations and have been practicing them since time immemorial. With time, these skills have become officially recognised and those who possess them are often employed by the police. Tracking footprints can be used to find the culprits who steal livestock from pens or possessions from people’s homes or assets from government institutions.
A tracker is a person who possesses keen observation skills and expertise in identifying the characteristics of a thief through their footprint; whether they are tall or short, fat or thin, or even if they have a physical disability such as a lame leg or blind eye. This profession is often inherited, with parents teaching their children, but it can also be learned through the intuition, intelligence, and keen observation of the tracker.
The tracker has earned a special type of respect in society. When a theft is discovered, and before calling the tracker, the owners of the stolen items often preserve whatever evidence there is by covering it with a large vessel to keep it safe until the tracker arrives, especially in villages and open areas with strong winds.
A famous story involving a tracker tells of the bedouin who lost his camel and sought the help of a tracker he encountered. “Is the camel you own blind in one eye?” asked the tracker. The bedouin replied that it was. The tracker then asked, “is the camel lame?” to which the response was also yes. Listening to the questions the bedouin became excited thinking the tracker had already found his lost animal. “I have not found or seen it” was the tracker’ss reply “but I recognized it by its footprints on the ground; it is lame because its tracks are deep in the ground on one side, and it is blind in one eye because it only eats the gorse on one side of the track,” he continued. The camel owner then received his instructions to follow said footprint until he finally found his camel.
Until recently, people in the city of El Obeid relied on tracking footprints to solve burglaries including mysterious cases of theft which even the police had been unable to solve.
Tracking footprints remains a pretty accurate means of apprehending thieves despite efforts by these criminals to mislead trackers such as by changing the way they walk or turning their shoes inside out, among others.
Today footprint tracking continues to be popular and relied upon to solve crimes in many villages and rural areas.
(This article was written by Amani Youssif Bashir based on an interview with Mr. Youssif Bashir Idris in January, 2025)
Cover picture © Amani Youssif Bashir
Traditional trackers have learned their skills over generations and have been practicing them since time immemorial. With time, these skills have become officially recognised and those who possess them are often employed by the police. Tracking footprints can be used to find the culprits who steal livestock from pens or possessions from people’s homes or assets from government institutions.
A tracker is a person who possesses keen observation skills and expertise in identifying the characteristics of a thief through their footprint; whether they are tall or short, fat or thin, or even if they have a physical disability such as a lame leg or blind eye. This profession is often inherited, with parents teaching their children, but it can also be learned through the intuition, intelligence, and keen observation of the tracker.
The tracker has earned a special type of respect in society. When a theft is discovered, and before calling the tracker, the owners of the stolen items often preserve whatever evidence there is by covering it with a large vessel to keep it safe until the tracker arrives, especially in villages and open areas with strong winds.
A famous story involving a tracker tells of the bedouin who lost his camel and sought the help of a tracker he encountered. “Is the camel you own blind in one eye?” asked the tracker. The bedouin replied that it was. The tracker then asked, “is the camel lame?” to which the response was also yes. Listening to the questions the bedouin became excited thinking the tracker had already found his lost animal. “I have not found or seen it” was the tracker’ss reply “but I recognized it by its footprints on the ground; it is lame because its tracks are deep in the ground on one side, and it is blind in one eye because it only eats the gorse on one side of the track,” he continued. The camel owner then received his instructions to follow said footprint until he finally found his camel.
Until recently, people in the city of El Obeid relied on tracking footprints to solve burglaries including mysterious cases of theft which even the police had been unable to solve.
Tracking footprints remains a pretty accurate means of apprehending thieves despite efforts by these criminals to mislead trackers such as by changing the way they walk or turning their shoes inside out, among others.
Today footprint tracking continues to be popular and relied upon to solve crimes in many villages and rural areas.
(This article was written by Amani Youssif Bashir based on an interview with Mr. Youssif Bashir Idris in January, 2025)
Cover picture © Amani Youssif Bashir
Nubian displacement and language
Nubian displacement and language
Nubians are the people who inhabit the far north of Sudan, from the border between Sudan and Egypt to the Dabba area, south of Dongola, in the south. The Nile Water Agreement, signed between Egypt and Sudan in 1959, stipulated the relocation of Sudanese citizens in the Faras area (at the far corner of the Wadi Halfa triangle) right along to the eastern and western banks of the Nile in the Dal area, a distance of an estimated 170 km away. This was because the High Dam, which the Egyptians were going to build in Upper Egypt, would result in the area behind the dam being flooded.
The delegation representing Sudan to discuss the agreement was led by Maj Gen Talat Farid while Egypt's negotiators were led by Maj Gen Khaled Mohieldin, both representing the military juntas in each country. General Ibrahim Aboud, Sudan's military ruler, reportedly instructed Talat Farid saying ‘we have plenty of water, we have the Nile and rain so what your uncle Gamal [Abdel Nasser] says, is what goes.’
In the agreement, Nile waters were divided between Sudan and Egypt on the basis that the Nile River forms in Khartoum and flows northwards from there. As such, Egypt received 55.5 percent of its water and Sudan 18.5 percent. Mirghani Hamza, the Sudanese Minister of Irrigation at the time, objected to the agreement warning that Egypt and Sudan would not be able to monopolise most of the Nile's waters as there were other countries bordering the Nile who were entitled to their shares. Hamza’s warning was not heeded and today we are witnessing the consequence of this.
Sudan agreed to the construction of the High Dam in exchange for a water sharing agreement, raising of the Roseires dam and the construction of the Jebel Awliya dam south of Khartoum. In exchange Egypt would secure the relocation of Nubians from Faras to Dal. Mirghani Hamza resigned.
The displaced people had lived in the city of Wadi Halfa and neighbouring areas to the south and north of the Wadi Halfa triangle, including land claimed by Egypt, but which belongs to Sudan. Relocation began on 26 January 1963. People were displaced firstly from the Wadi Halfa neighbourhoods of Fars East and West, Saras East and West, Debekra East and West, Argin, Eshkit, Dabarusa, Buhin, Degheim, Solan, and Farqi. Secondly were the people of Batn al-Hajar, 59 km south of Wadi Halfa, consisting of the following neighbourhoods: Abke, Jemi, Mershid, Sarras, Arul, Arti, Samna, Atir, Dushat, Ambikol, Tunguri, Songi, Akasha, Kulub, and Dal. They all communicated in Nubian except for the people of Ambikol.
The displaced people were allocated an area called Saruba al-Khadem in the Butana Plain in eastern Sudan. The British administration had planned the Khashm al-Qirba dam, at the new relocation site since 1945, and had indicated the need for people to be relocated to the low-lying plain north of the dam. Since 1958 the Sudanese military government (1958-1964) had begun to think about who would be the victim of such relocation to the Butana Plain. And so, the military rulers in Sudan and Egypt made the choice and decided who would be displaced and which areas would become depopulated.
The number of displaced people was 52,200 for whom 26 villages were hastily built. The first to migrate were hit by heavy rain which they had never seen or imagined before, and in their low-lying area, the earth quickly turned to sticky mud, preventing movement even for cars. The New Halfa Agricultural Project was later established and many people migrated to work on the project with those workers who operated the Khashm al-Qirba dam remaining in New Halfa. A new market was created to replace the old Wadi Halfa market, which had been one of the largest in Sudan.
The displaced Nubians had only one language to communicate with, the Nubian language of their old location; however, the first thing that dropped out of their language when they relocated, was the names of their old villages which had historical significance. Instead, their new villages only had numbers to distinguish them.
New Halfa became a bustling town, filled with people, a factor that had its effect on the Nubian language. Hundreds of names and words of vocabulary in Nubian related to the River Nile, with its boats, equipment, fish, islands, crops and places of cultivation, palm trees, mountains, singing, details of daily life, women's daily work, men, boys and girls grinding flour, and their tools at home and on the farm. Thousands of new words were borrowed from the new environment and one example of linguistic borrowing is related to the hawasha, a small plot of agricultural land which people were allocated for cultivation. Thus, words such as the following soon became part of mainstream vocabulary: hawasha, kanar, Ab Eshrein (alfafa), agricultural expert, inspector, inspection, institution, Hamar Abouri, fool, cotton, nafada, Arab, asbestos (houses were roofed with the material), jadwal (stream), bagar (cows), ankouj, malod, tarad, tractor and taraa. They were forced to grow peanuts and cotton, crops they had never known before. The Nubian language itself became the language people used in the home, it was not spoken outside.
The uneducated youth in New Halfa had a limited option of jobs and had to choose between joining the police or army or becoming farm labourers, messengers or cow herders. Strangely enough, most of them chose to work as cow herders for the daily income generated by selling milk and their share in the sale of calves. All this meant that the Nubians were working alongside members of other tribes such as the various subsections of the Beja tribe, the Malloa, the Kajaksa and Musamaja from Chad, and the Tama. Young men were therefore prompted to learn the language, care and culture of cow herding as this was their passport to work, and many of them embarked on this.
New Halfa is an area of linguistic overlap which is a covert struggle for possession of the ‘linguistic market’ because the biggest market - in terms of numbers and economic power – prevails. In 1999 a study found that the population in New Halfa consists of Nubians and Arabs. The number of Nubians was 39,000 and there were 75,000 seasonal migratory workers from Western Sudan who inhabited the Kanabi.
The establishment of the Wadi Halfa Museum was allocated to the National Museum in Khartoum. In a meeting in Aswan attended by stakeholders from Egyptian Nubia and Wadi Halfa, the land was purchased with UNESCO funding, and construction began in 2008, but it was halted. As scholars, we prepared ourselves to collect items relating to Nubia’s tangible and intangible heritage.
Meanwhile, young people learnt English to speak to tourists as part of the Language for Special Purposes programme. In New Halfa, we now find bilingualism (Arabic-Nubian) and tri-lingualism (Arabic-Nubian-Zaghawa), for example. The languages in New Halfa are Tama, Malu, Zaghawa, Beja, Masalit, Nuba Mountain languages, Beni Amer, Kajaksa, Musamaja, Fur, and Berti. Recently, we started a joint project with the Egyptian Nubians to establish the ‘Group for the Preservation of the Nubian Language and Cultures and the Translation of its Literature’, which is an active Nubian-Egyptian experience that will be transferred to Sudan.
Nubians are the people who inhabit the far north of Sudan, from the border between Sudan and Egypt to the Dabba area, south of Dongola, in the south. The Nile Water Agreement, signed between Egypt and Sudan in 1959, stipulated the relocation of Sudanese citizens in the Faras area (at the far corner of the Wadi Halfa triangle) right along to the eastern and western banks of the Nile in the Dal area, a distance of an estimated 170 km away. This was because the High Dam, which the Egyptians were going to build in Upper Egypt, would result in the area behind the dam being flooded.
The delegation representing Sudan to discuss the agreement was led by Maj Gen Talat Farid while Egypt's negotiators were led by Maj Gen Khaled Mohieldin, both representing the military juntas in each country. General Ibrahim Aboud, Sudan's military ruler, reportedly instructed Talat Farid saying ‘we have plenty of water, we have the Nile and rain so what your uncle Gamal [Abdel Nasser] says, is what goes.’
In the agreement, Nile waters were divided between Sudan and Egypt on the basis that the Nile River forms in Khartoum and flows northwards from there. As such, Egypt received 55.5 percent of its water and Sudan 18.5 percent. Mirghani Hamza, the Sudanese Minister of Irrigation at the time, objected to the agreement warning that Egypt and Sudan would not be able to monopolise most of the Nile's waters as there were other countries bordering the Nile who were entitled to their shares. Hamza’s warning was not heeded and today we are witnessing the consequence of this.
Sudan agreed to the construction of the High Dam in exchange for a water sharing agreement, raising of the Roseires dam and the construction of the Jebel Awliya dam south of Khartoum. In exchange Egypt would secure the relocation of Nubians from Faras to Dal. Mirghani Hamza resigned.
The displaced people had lived in the city of Wadi Halfa and neighbouring areas to the south and north of the Wadi Halfa triangle, including land claimed by Egypt, but which belongs to Sudan. Relocation began on 26 January 1963. People were displaced firstly from the Wadi Halfa neighbourhoods of Fars East and West, Saras East and West, Debekra East and West, Argin, Eshkit, Dabarusa, Buhin, Degheim, Solan, and Farqi. Secondly were the people of Batn al-Hajar, 59 km south of Wadi Halfa, consisting of the following neighbourhoods: Abke, Jemi, Mershid, Sarras, Arul, Arti, Samna, Atir, Dushat, Ambikol, Tunguri, Songi, Akasha, Kulub, and Dal. They all communicated in Nubian except for the people of Ambikol.
The displaced people were allocated an area called Saruba al-Khadem in the Butana Plain in eastern Sudan. The British administration had planned the Khashm al-Qirba dam, at the new relocation site since 1945, and had indicated the need for people to be relocated to the low-lying plain north of the dam. Since 1958 the Sudanese military government (1958-1964) had begun to think about who would be the victim of such relocation to the Butana Plain. And so, the military rulers in Sudan and Egypt made the choice and decided who would be displaced and which areas would become depopulated.
The number of displaced people was 52,200 for whom 26 villages were hastily built. The first to migrate were hit by heavy rain which they had never seen or imagined before, and in their low-lying area, the earth quickly turned to sticky mud, preventing movement even for cars. The New Halfa Agricultural Project was later established and many people migrated to work on the project with those workers who operated the Khashm al-Qirba dam remaining in New Halfa. A new market was created to replace the old Wadi Halfa market, which had been one of the largest in Sudan.
The displaced Nubians had only one language to communicate with, the Nubian language of their old location; however, the first thing that dropped out of their language when they relocated, was the names of their old villages which had historical significance. Instead, their new villages only had numbers to distinguish them.
New Halfa became a bustling town, filled with people, a factor that had its effect on the Nubian language. Hundreds of names and words of vocabulary in Nubian related to the River Nile, with its boats, equipment, fish, islands, crops and places of cultivation, palm trees, mountains, singing, details of daily life, women's daily work, men, boys and girls grinding flour, and their tools at home and on the farm. Thousands of new words were borrowed from the new environment and one example of linguistic borrowing is related to the hawasha, a small plot of agricultural land which people were allocated for cultivation. Thus, words such as the following soon became part of mainstream vocabulary: hawasha, kanar, Ab Eshrein (alfafa), agricultural expert, inspector, inspection, institution, Hamar Abouri, fool, cotton, nafada, Arab, asbestos (houses were roofed with the material), jadwal (stream), bagar (cows), ankouj, malod, tarad, tractor and taraa. They were forced to grow peanuts and cotton, crops they had never known before. The Nubian language itself became the language people used in the home, it was not spoken outside.
The uneducated youth in New Halfa had a limited option of jobs and had to choose between joining the police or army or becoming farm labourers, messengers or cow herders. Strangely enough, most of them chose to work as cow herders for the daily income generated by selling milk and their share in the sale of calves. All this meant that the Nubians were working alongside members of other tribes such as the various subsections of the Beja tribe, the Malloa, the Kajaksa and Musamaja from Chad, and the Tama. Young men were therefore prompted to learn the language, care and culture of cow herding as this was their passport to work, and many of them embarked on this.
New Halfa is an area of linguistic overlap which is a covert struggle for possession of the ‘linguistic market’ because the biggest market - in terms of numbers and economic power – prevails. In 1999 a study found that the population in New Halfa consists of Nubians and Arabs. The number of Nubians was 39,000 and there were 75,000 seasonal migratory workers from Western Sudan who inhabited the Kanabi.
The establishment of the Wadi Halfa Museum was allocated to the National Museum in Khartoum. In a meeting in Aswan attended by stakeholders from Egyptian Nubia and Wadi Halfa, the land was purchased with UNESCO funding, and construction began in 2008, but it was halted. As scholars, we prepared ourselves to collect items relating to Nubia’s tangible and intangible heritage.
Meanwhile, young people learnt English to speak to tourists as part of the Language for Special Purposes programme. In New Halfa, we now find bilingualism (Arabic-Nubian) and tri-lingualism (Arabic-Nubian-Zaghawa), for example. The languages in New Halfa are Tama, Malu, Zaghawa, Beja, Masalit, Nuba Mountain languages, Beni Amer, Kajaksa, Musamaja, Fur, and Berti. Recently, we started a joint project with the Egyptian Nubians to establish the ‘Group for the Preservation of the Nubian Language and Cultures and the Translation of its Literature’, which is an active Nubian-Egyptian experience that will be transferred to Sudan.
Nubians are the people who inhabit the far north of Sudan, from the border between Sudan and Egypt to the Dabba area, south of Dongola, in the south. The Nile Water Agreement, signed between Egypt and Sudan in 1959, stipulated the relocation of Sudanese citizens in the Faras area (at the far corner of the Wadi Halfa triangle) right along to the eastern and western banks of the Nile in the Dal area, a distance of an estimated 170 km away. This was because the High Dam, which the Egyptians were going to build in Upper Egypt, would result in the area behind the dam being flooded.
The delegation representing Sudan to discuss the agreement was led by Maj Gen Talat Farid while Egypt's negotiators were led by Maj Gen Khaled Mohieldin, both representing the military juntas in each country. General Ibrahim Aboud, Sudan's military ruler, reportedly instructed Talat Farid saying ‘we have plenty of water, we have the Nile and rain so what your uncle Gamal [Abdel Nasser] says, is what goes.’
In the agreement, Nile waters were divided between Sudan and Egypt on the basis that the Nile River forms in Khartoum and flows northwards from there. As such, Egypt received 55.5 percent of its water and Sudan 18.5 percent. Mirghani Hamza, the Sudanese Minister of Irrigation at the time, objected to the agreement warning that Egypt and Sudan would not be able to monopolise most of the Nile's waters as there were other countries bordering the Nile who were entitled to their shares. Hamza’s warning was not heeded and today we are witnessing the consequence of this.
Sudan agreed to the construction of the High Dam in exchange for a water sharing agreement, raising of the Roseires dam and the construction of the Jebel Awliya dam south of Khartoum. In exchange Egypt would secure the relocation of Nubians from Faras to Dal. Mirghani Hamza resigned.
The displaced people had lived in the city of Wadi Halfa and neighbouring areas to the south and north of the Wadi Halfa triangle, including land claimed by Egypt, but which belongs to Sudan. Relocation began on 26 January 1963. People were displaced firstly from the Wadi Halfa neighbourhoods of Fars East and West, Saras East and West, Debekra East and West, Argin, Eshkit, Dabarusa, Buhin, Degheim, Solan, and Farqi. Secondly were the people of Batn al-Hajar, 59 km south of Wadi Halfa, consisting of the following neighbourhoods: Abke, Jemi, Mershid, Sarras, Arul, Arti, Samna, Atir, Dushat, Ambikol, Tunguri, Songi, Akasha, Kulub, and Dal. They all communicated in Nubian except for the people of Ambikol.
The displaced people were allocated an area called Saruba al-Khadem in the Butana Plain in eastern Sudan. The British administration had planned the Khashm al-Qirba dam, at the new relocation site since 1945, and had indicated the need for people to be relocated to the low-lying plain north of the dam. Since 1958 the Sudanese military government (1958-1964) had begun to think about who would be the victim of such relocation to the Butana Plain. And so, the military rulers in Sudan and Egypt made the choice and decided who would be displaced and which areas would become depopulated.
The number of displaced people was 52,200 for whom 26 villages were hastily built. The first to migrate were hit by heavy rain which they had never seen or imagined before, and in their low-lying area, the earth quickly turned to sticky mud, preventing movement even for cars. The New Halfa Agricultural Project was later established and many people migrated to work on the project with those workers who operated the Khashm al-Qirba dam remaining in New Halfa. A new market was created to replace the old Wadi Halfa market, which had been one of the largest in Sudan.
The displaced Nubians had only one language to communicate with, the Nubian language of their old location; however, the first thing that dropped out of their language when they relocated, was the names of their old villages which had historical significance. Instead, their new villages only had numbers to distinguish them.
New Halfa became a bustling town, filled with people, a factor that had its effect on the Nubian language. Hundreds of names and words of vocabulary in Nubian related to the River Nile, with its boats, equipment, fish, islands, crops and places of cultivation, palm trees, mountains, singing, details of daily life, women's daily work, men, boys and girls grinding flour, and their tools at home and on the farm. Thousands of new words were borrowed from the new environment and one example of linguistic borrowing is related to the hawasha, a small plot of agricultural land which people were allocated for cultivation. Thus, words such as the following soon became part of mainstream vocabulary: hawasha, kanar, Ab Eshrein (alfafa), agricultural expert, inspector, inspection, institution, Hamar Abouri, fool, cotton, nafada, Arab, asbestos (houses were roofed with the material), jadwal (stream), bagar (cows), ankouj, malod, tarad, tractor and taraa. They were forced to grow peanuts and cotton, crops they had never known before. The Nubian language itself became the language people used in the home, it was not spoken outside.
The uneducated youth in New Halfa had a limited option of jobs and had to choose between joining the police or army or becoming farm labourers, messengers or cow herders. Strangely enough, most of them chose to work as cow herders for the daily income generated by selling milk and their share in the sale of calves. All this meant that the Nubians were working alongside members of other tribes such as the various subsections of the Beja tribe, the Malloa, the Kajaksa and Musamaja from Chad, and the Tama. Young men were therefore prompted to learn the language, care and culture of cow herding as this was their passport to work, and many of them embarked on this.
New Halfa is an area of linguistic overlap which is a covert struggle for possession of the ‘linguistic market’ because the biggest market - in terms of numbers and economic power – prevails. In 1999 a study found that the population in New Halfa consists of Nubians and Arabs. The number of Nubians was 39,000 and there were 75,000 seasonal migratory workers from Western Sudan who inhabited the Kanabi.
The establishment of the Wadi Halfa Museum was allocated to the National Museum in Khartoum. In a meeting in Aswan attended by stakeholders from Egyptian Nubia and Wadi Halfa, the land was purchased with UNESCO funding, and construction began in 2008, but it was halted. As scholars, we prepared ourselves to collect items relating to Nubia’s tangible and intangible heritage.
Meanwhile, young people learnt English to speak to tourists as part of the Language for Special Purposes programme. In New Halfa, we now find bilingualism (Arabic-Nubian) and tri-lingualism (Arabic-Nubian-Zaghawa), for example. The languages in New Halfa are Tama, Malu, Zaghawa, Beja, Masalit, Nuba Mountain languages, Beni Amer, Kajaksa, Musamaja, Fur, and Berti. Recently, we started a joint project with the Egyptian Nubians to establish the ‘Group for the Preservation of the Nubian Language and Cultures and the Translation of its Literature’, which is an active Nubian-Egyptian experience that will be transferred to Sudan.
Languages of Sudan Playlist
Languages of Sudan Playlist
Sudan boasts a rich linguistic landscape, with estimates suggesting that over 114 languages are spoken across the country. Arabic is the most dominant language, especially in the north and central regions. But what better way to explore Sudan’s linguistic diversity than through music?
This playlist is a collection of songs from across Sudan, featuring local languages spoken in the north, east, and west, as well as among certain tribes in the Blue Nile region and the Hausa communities. Through this selection, we celebrate the musical diversity that reflects the deep cultural and linguistic heritage of Sudan’s many communities.
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Sudan boasts a rich linguistic landscape, with estimates suggesting that over 114 languages are spoken across the country. Arabic is the most dominant language, especially in the north and central regions. But what better way to explore Sudan’s linguistic diversity than through music?
This playlist is a collection of songs from across Sudan, featuring local languages spoken in the north, east, and west, as well as among certain tribes in the Blue Nile region and the Hausa communities. Through this selection, we celebrate the musical diversity that reflects the deep cultural and linguistic heritage of Sudan’s many communities.
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Sudan boasts a rich linguistic landscape, with estimates suggesting that over 114 languages are spoken across the country. Arabic is the most dominant language, especially in the north and central regions. But what better way to explore Sudan’s linguistic diversity than through music?
This playlist is a collection of songs from across Sudan, featuring local languages spoken in the north, east, and west, as well as among certain tribes in the Blue Nile region and the Hausa communities. Through this selection, we celebrate the musical diversity that reflects the deep cultural and linguistic heritage of Sudan’s many communities.
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Randok The Language of Rebellion and Resistance
Randok The Language of Rebellion and Resistance
Alice: “I don’t know what you mean by ‘glory.’”
Humpty Dumpty (smiling contemptuously): “Of course you don’t—till I tell you. I meant ‘there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!’”
Alice: “But ‘glory’ doesn’t mean ‘a nice knock-down argument.’”
Humpty Dumpty: “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
Alice: “The question is whether you can make words mean so many different things.”
Humpty Dumpty: “The question is, which is to be master—that’s all.”
Would you like any further refinements?
(Through the Looking Glass - Chapter six, Humpty Dumpty)
Building on the above excerpt from Through the Looking Glass, one can argue that everything begins with power and politics, in no particular order, followed by economics, and then life itself. This applies even to ‘language,’ the primary symbolic tool for interpreting the world around us and the dynamic arena where the struggle for control is played out and where the capacity to shape discourse, and life itself, is formed.
Three decades ago, the realm of language in Sudan entered into a silent conflict over who possessed the authority and influence to dominate the public sphere. This happened with the Muslim Brotherhood’s rise to power in the country via a military coup.
At the time, the Islamists tightened their grip and initiated multiple changes according to a plan they had devised and which they promoted publicly. In a nutshell, this plan was to “reshape the Sudanese people,” as the slogan went. They envisaged these changes to encompass the political, social, and economic realms of life, among others. There was also a distinctive shift in language, as well as in the concepts and meanings embedded within, with the aim of tightening control over content and meaning, and consequently over relationships and individuals.
Initially, the Islamists took control of mass media and infiltrated both the public and private spheres. They introduced a language distinct from the prevailing one, imbued with religious undertones and in new expressions that replaced older ones commonly used to convey the same meanings. For those in power, official language in the early days borrowed heavily from Islamic lexicon for its expressions and thus the frequent emergence of slang words such as “shirteet, jah, juluk, kisseir talij, katamat, talas, qanzab, laqqowiya, al-tara, jawat” caused them a great deal of embarrassment.
In reality, this language battle did not erupt suddenly but rather it occurred gradually over time. Parallel languages or dialects emerged and slowly developed to the point where they overshadowed the official language favoured by the ruling Islamists. One of these alternative languages is known as Randok.
Randok was born and developed away from the gaze of officialdom until it reached maturity and spread unrestrained, manifesting itself in unexpected and initially, quite unusual modes of expression. Over time, it evolved into the everyday language of the public. While Randok did not provide its speakers with the capacity to resolve complicated questions of logic for example, it effectively met their need for day-to-day communication. Over time this novel language rose to significant prominence through embodying the literature of the peaceful Sudanese revolution that erupted in December 2018. With all the rebellion, repression and political implications of the revolution, it was striking to see people interact with mobilising statements written by protest leaders in Randok. This broke the assumption that the language of the powerful always dominates the weak.
At a certain point during the Muslim Brotherhood's rule, a specific language became a hallmark of their identity. Resistance began to take shape through people’s refusal to emulate their way of speech or to use their terms and vocabulary. This was akin to a broad rejection of the entire culture they sought to impose. Yet, this resistance remained muted and subdued under a cultural and media domination that, as it turns out, was unable to quickly evolve into a counter-resistance movement when the revolution erupted.
The first manifestation of a linguistic conflict came from al-shammasha (street boys), who developed their own unique language which reversed letters, altered meanings, and coined phrases out of contexts that would require a longer article in order to explain.
The shammasha language was later adopted by many and as it became modified with usage, Randok was created. This language evolved and expanded over time despite the difficulty in tracing the exact origins of the term Randok. It can be viewed as a phenomenon indicative of a counter-language spoken by a particular group within society. If one were to identify a contributing factor to the expansion of Randok, it would be the economic hardship that disrupted everything and led to the revolution.
From the outset, a clash between two paths was inevitable: the path of the new rulers with their desire to reshape, and the path of the oppressed masses yearning for liberation. Evidence abounds to support the notion that this clash was centered on language, significantly bolstering the language of resistance. In many ways, Randok achieved a remarkable victory. It infiltrated the language of the majority and even the language of intellectuals, creating a hybrid language that is hard to trace but which is widely embraced by its speakers.
When writing about Randok, we echo Humpty Dumpty’s words: It’s about who has the authority—that’s all. And perhaps we might add “and how to resist this authority?”
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Alice: “I don’t know what you mean by ‘glory.’”
Humpty Dumpty (smiling contemptuously): “Of course you don’t—till I tell you. I meant ‘there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!’”
Alice: “But ‘glory’ doesn’t mean ‘a nice knock-down argument.’”
Humpty Dumpty: “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
Alice: “The question is whether you can make words mean so many different things.”
Humpty Dumpty: “The question is, which is to be master—that’s all.”
Would you like any further refinements?
(Through the Looking Glass - Chapter six, Humpty Dumpty)
Building on the above excerpt from Through the Looking Glass, one can argue that everything begins with power and politics, in no particular order, followed by economics, and then life itself. This applies even to ‘language,’ the primary symbolic tool for interpreting the world around us and the dynamic arena where the struggle for control is played out and where the capacity to shape discourse, and life itself, is formed.
Three decades ago, the realm of language in Sudan entered into a silent conflict over who possessed the authority and influence to dominate the public sphere. This happened with the Muslim Brotherhood’s rise to power in the country via a military coup.
At the time, the Islamists tightened their grip and initiated multiple changes according to a plan they had devised and which they promoted publicly. In a nutshell, this plan was to “reshape the Sudanese people,” as the slogan went. They envisaged these changes to encompass the political, social, and economic realms of life, among others. There was also a distinctive shift in language, as well as in the concepts and meanings embedded within, with the aim of tightening control over content and meaning, and consequently over relationships and individuals.
Initially, the Islamists took control of mass media and infiltrated both the public and private spheres. They introduced a language distinct from the prevailing one, imbued with religious undertones and in new expressions that replaced older ones commonly used to convey the same meanings. For those in power, official language in the early days borrowed heavily from Islamic lexicon for its expressions and thus the frequent emergence of slang words such as “shirteet, jah, juluk, kisseir talij, katamat, talas, qanzab, laqqowiya, al-tara, jawat” caused them a great deal of embarrassment.
In reality, this language battle did not erupt suddenly but rather it occurred gradually over time. Parallel languages or dialects emerged and slowly developed to the point where they overshadowed the official language favoured by the ruling Islamists. One of these alternative languages is known as Randok.
Randok was born and developed away from the gaze of officialdom until it reached maturity and spread unrestrained, manifesting itself in unexpected and initially, quite unusual modes of expression. Over time, it evolved into the everyday language of the public. While Randok did not provide its speakers with the capacity to resolve complicated questions of logic for example, it effectively met their need for day-to-day communication. Over time this novel language rose to significant prominence through embodying the literature of the peaceful Sudanese revolution that erupted in December 2018. With all the rebellion, repression and political implications of the revolution, it was striking to see people interact with mobilising statements written by protest leaders in Randok. This broke the assumption that the language of the powerful always dominates the weak.
At a certain point during the Muslim Brotherhood's rule, a specific language became a hallmark of their identity. Resistance began to take shape through people’s refusal to emulate their way of speech or to use their terms and vocabulary. This was akin to a broad rejection of the entire culture they sought to impose. Yet, this resistance remained muted and subdued under a cultural and media domination that, as it turns out, was unable to quickly evolve into a counter-resistance movement when the revolution erupted.
The first manifestation of a linguistic conflict came from al-shammasha (street boys), who developed their own unique language which reversed letters, altered meanings, and coined phrases out of contexts that would require a longer article in order to explain.
The shammasha language was later adopted by many and as it became modified with usage, Randok was created. This language evolved and expanded over time despite the difficulty in tracing the exact origins of the term Randok. It can be viewed as a phenomenon indicative of a counter-language spoken by a particular group within society. If one were to identify a contributing factor to the expansion of Randok, it would be the economic hardship that disrupted everything and led to the revolution.
From the outset, a clash between two paths was inevitable: the path of the new rulers with their desire to reshape, and the path of the oppressed masses yearning for liberation. Evidence abounds to support the notion that this clash was centered on language, significantly bolstering the language of resistance. In many ways, Randok achieved a remarkable victory. It infiltrated the language of the majority and even the language of intellectuals, creating a hybrid language that is hard to trace but which is widely embraced by its speakers.
When writing about Randok, we echo Humpty Dumpty’s words: It’s about who has the authority—that’s all. And perhaps we might add “and how to resist this authority?”
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Alice: “I don’t know what you mean by ‘glory.’”
Humpty Dumpty (smiling contemptuously): “Of course you don’t—till I tell you. I meant ‘there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!’”
Alice: “But ‘glory’ doesn’t mean ‘a nice knock-down argument.’”
Humpty Dumpty: “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
Alice: “The question is whether you can make words mean so many different things.”
Humpty Dumpty: “The question is, which is to be master—that’s all.”
Would you like any further refinements?
(Through the Looking Glass - Chapter six, Humpty Dumpty)
Building on the above excerpt from Through the Looking Glass, one can argue that everything begins with power and politics, in no particular order, followed by economics, and then life itself. This applies even to ‘language,’ the primary symbolic tool for interpreting the world around us and the dynamic arena where the struggle for control is played out and where the capacity to shape discourse, and life itself, is formed.
Three decades ago, the realm of language in Sudan entered into a silent conflict over who possessed the authority and influence to dominate the public sphere. This happened with the Muslim Brotherhood’s rise to power in the country via a military coup.
At the time, the Islamists tightened their grip and initiated multiple changes according to a plan they had devised and which they promoted publicly. In a nutshell, this plan was to “reshape the Sudanese people,” as the slogan went. They envisaged these changes to encompass the political, social, and economic realms of life, among others. There was also a distinctive shift in language, as well as in the concepts and meanings embedded within, with the aim of tightening control over content and meaning, and consequently over relationships and individuals.
Initially, the Islamists took control of mass media and infiltrated both the public and private spheres. They introduced a language distinct from the prevailing one, imbued with religious undertones and in new expressions that replaced older ones commonly used to convey the same meanings. For those in power, official language in the early days borrowed heavily from Islamic lexicon for its expressions and thus the frequent emergence of slang words such as “shirteet, jah, juluk, kisseir talij, katamat, talas, qanzab, laqqowiya, al-tara, jawat” caused them a great deal of embarrassment.
In reality, this language battle did not erupt suddenly but rather it occurred gradually over time. Parallel languages or dialects emerged and slowly developed to the point where they overshadowed the official language favoured by the ruling Islamists. One of these alternative languages is known as Randok.
Randok was born and developed away from the gaze of officialdom until it reached maturity and spread unrestrained, manifesting itself in unexpected and initially, quite unusual modes of expression. Over time, it evolved into the everyday language of the public. While Randok did not provide its speakers with the capacity to resolve complicated questions of logic for example, it effectively met their need for day-to-day communication. Over time this novel language rose to significant prominence through embodying the literature of the peaceful Sudanese revolution that erupted in December 2018. With all the rebellion, repression and political implications of the revolution, it was striking to see people interact with mobilising statements written by protest leaders in Randok. This broke the assumption that the language of the powerful always dominates the weak.
At a certain point during the Muslim Brotherhood's rule, a specific language became a hallmark of their identity. Resistance began to take shape through people’s refusal to emulate their way of speech or to use their terms and vocabulary. This was akin to a broad rejection of the entire culture they sought to impose. Yet, this resistance remained muted and subdued under a cultural and media domination that, as it turns out, was unable to quickly evolve into a counter-resistance movement when the revolution erupted.
The first manifestation of a linguistic conflict came from al-shammasha (street boys), who developed their own unique language which reversed letters, altered meanings, and coined phrases out of contexts that would require a longer article in order to explain.
The shammasha language was later adopted by many and as it became modified with usage, Randok was created. This language evolved and expanded over time despite the difficulty in tracing the exact origins of the term Randok. It can be viewed as a phenomenon indicative of a counter-language spoken by a particular group within society. If one were to identify a contributing factor to the expansion of Randok, it would be the economic hardship that disrupted everything and led to the revolution.
From the outset, a clash between two paths was inevitable: the path of the new rulers with their desire to reshape, and the path of the oppressed masses yearning for liberation. Evidence abounds to support the notion that this clash was centered on language, significantly bolstering the language of resistance. In many ways, Randok achieved a remarkable victory. It infiltrated the language of the majority and even the language of intellectuals, creating a hybrid language that is hard to trace but which is widely embraced by its speakers.
When writing about Randok, we echo Humpty Dumpty’s words: It’s about who has the authority—that’s all. And perhaps we might add “and how to resist this authority?”
Artwork designed by Hind Abdelbagi
Feeling colours
Feeling colours
I am a Sudanese, Arabic-speaking female who has always lived in predominantly Arabic-speaking countries in Sudan and the Arabian Gulf. My perception of language has therefore been based on the various Arabic dialects in these countries and the linguistic differences between Arabic and English, the two languages I speak. To me, these differences are the result of culture and language development. For example, the words landscape and skyline have no equivalent in Arabic and are roughly translated as ‘natural view’ or ‘ufuq’ which means horizon, prospect, slant amongst other things. There are also new words such as ‘networking’, which literally translates to ‘tashbeek’, a word no one actually uses with people preferring to stick to the English word. What is complicated, but also beautiful, about Arabic is that just like the word horizon can mean many other things, there are for example, scores of words to describe love.
Fast forward to today and I am no longer living in a predominantly Arabic speaking country, English has become the language I use most of the time and as I learn more about other people’s culture and use of language, a new aspect which I wasn’t aware of before has become apparent.
One day I was offered a slice of cake, I took one bite and because it was quite dense and rich I couldn't have anymore. In Sudanese Arabic we have a word to describe this sensation, ‘gaham’, used with a prefix or suffix to explain who it refers to. No it does not mean stuffed or full, because even if you were you could probably manage a tiny bit more. Rather it describes the inability to eat because of the ‘shock’ of how dense or sweet the mouthful of cake was. It can also refer to being put off by even just the sight of a certain type of food.
Now to get back to my new discovery and what I found interesting was not the fact that there was no English word equivalent, it was that my friends did not understand the feeling I was trying to describe. A fun fact before I move on is that this word does exist in Mexican culture. Someone described as such is either too sugary/flattering or sleazy. However, in Sudanese Arabic, when the word is used to describe a person, it means someone who invades your personal space and overwhelms you because they speak too much.
The previous revelation made me curious about how language provokes emotions. Of course there is the aspect that the better you are able to describe your feelings the better you understand them, but this means that you must have the ability to recognize your emotions in the first place. In his book I See A Voice: A Philosophical History, Jonathan Ree describes this as a two-way process in response to an event consisting of an inward experience, ‘perception’, and outward experience, ‘expression or action’. Ree explains that these experiences are shaped by things like fantasy, reflection and consciousness and depend on how much you are able to control and channel them.
For me this is when culture comes into play. Fantasies, which may affect experience, could be influenced by the culture around you, and the fact that you don’t have a word to describe it doesn't mean that you don’t feel it. Perhaps this can be better demonstrated through a concept which we think we all understand in the same way, ie. colours.
The short documentary by Vox titled The Surprising Pattern behind Color Names around the World, describes how in many languages around the world they have only three or four colours: dark, light, red, green or yellow. Despite the fact that there is an endless variety of colours in the world, different cultures choose which ones they will name. Before scholars reached this understanding they thought the people who spoke languages with a limited range of names of colours were colour blind!
If you are Sudanese, the previous paragraph may have sparked a little recognition, namely the Arabic words ‘azrag’ meaning blue and ‘abyad’, meaning white and which are used in Sudan to describe darker or lighter hues respectively. The White and Blue Niles are examples of this. Thus, while the Blue Nile, originating in Lake Tana in the mountains of Ethiopia, flows fastly in a relatively narrow channel dragging silt along with it, the White Nile from Lake Victoria in Uganda travels languorously down to Khartoum winding calmly in its wide channel not disturbing the mud along the way.
The white ‘tob’ and ‘tob alzarag’ or blue sari-like, women's garments share the same word ‘tob’. The main material used for making fabrics in many areas of Sudan is cotton and modern weaving can be traced back to the 1800’s. However, cotton textiles have also been found in excavations in Marawi and Lower Nubia suggesting an even longer existence. White clothes make sense in our hot climate, and the name white has existed for a long time, such as the name El-Obayid, the capital of north Kordofan, which is said to have been named after a specific white donkey. Blue on the other hand could be confusing, ‘alzarag’ is usually a white tob that is dyed with a natural dye made from the river shrub known as ‘nilla’. This plant is well known in Sudan and Egypt and used to describe darkness or black even though it produces blue-coloured fabric.
This very Sudanese colour scheme is applied to more than fabric and is extended to the people who wear them. ‘People’s colours’ fall into four categories including green, yellow, blue and red. A ‘red person’ is someone light-skinned named because their skin turns red in the heat. They can also be referred to as ‘halabi’ meaning someone from ‘Halab’ or Aleppo. What about ‘green people’? Interestingly, this description of ‘skin colour’ is also used in other Arabic speaking countries such as Oman and Kuwait. There are many speculations about the origin of this description with some saying it originates from the fact that blue means dark, yellow means light, and therefore green means in between. A recent explanation is associated with undertones, a word that is becoming increasingly fashionable, and the colours used to mix to create the perfect foundation - yellow for a lighter tone and blue for a darker one.
Whether or not Sudanese people were aware of the concept of undertones in the past or whether they just didn’t have the time to invent the names for new colors, what is certain is that language, emotions and perception are related in so many different ways and this topic will spark discussions for many years to come.
Artwork by Zainab Gaafar
I am a Sudanese, Arabic-speaking female who has always lived in predominantly Arabic-speaking countries in Sudan and the Arabian Gulf. My perception of language has therefore been based on the various Arabic dialects in these countries and the linguistic differences between Arabic and English, the two languages I speak. To me, these differences are the result of culture and language development. For example, the words landscape and skyline have no equivalent in Arabic and are roughly translated as ‘natural view’ or ‘ufuq’ which means horizon, prospect, slant amongst other things. There are also new words such as ‘networking’, which literally translates to ‘tashbeek’, a word no one actually uses with people preferring to stick to the English word. What is complicated, but also beautiful, about Arabic is that just like the word horizon can mean many other things, there are for example, scores of words to describe love.
Fast forward to today and I am no longer living in a predominantly Arabic speaking country, English has become the language I use most of the time and as I learn more about other people’s culture and use of language, a new aspect which I wasn’t aware of before has become apparent.
One day I was offered a slice of cake, I took one bite and because it was quite dense and rich I couldn't have anymore. In Sudanese Arabic we have a word to describe this sensation, ‘gaham’, used with a prefix or suffix to explain who it refers to. No it does not mean stuffed or full, because even if you were you could probably manage a tiny bit more. Rather it describes the inability to eat because of the ‘shock’ of how dense or sweet the mouthful of cake was. It can also refer to being put off by even just the sight of a certain type of food.
Now to get back to my new discovery and what I found interesting was not the fact that there was no English word equivalent, it was that my friends did not understand the feeling I was trying to describe. A fun fact before I move on is that this word does exist in Mexican culture. Someone described as such is either too sugary/flattering or sleazy. However, in Sudanese Arabic, when the word is used to describe a person, it means someone who invades your personal space and overwhelms you because they speak too much.
The previous revelation made me curious about how language provokes emotions. Of course there is the aspect that the better you are able to describe your feelings the better you understand them, but this means that you must have the ability to recognize your emotions in the first place. In his book I See A Voice: A Philosophical History, Jonathan Ree describes this as a two-way process in response to an event consisting of an inward experience, ‘perception’, and outward experience, ‘expression or action’. Ree explains that these experiences are shaped by things like fantasy, reflection and consciousness and depend on how much you are able to control and channel them.
For me this is when culture comes into play. Fantasies, which may affect experience, could be influenced by the culture around you, and the fact that you don’t have a word to describe it doesn't mean that you don’t feel it. Perhaps this can be better demonstrated through a concept which we think we all understand in the same way, ie. colours.
The short documentary by Vox titled The Surprising Pattern behind Color Names around the World, describes how in many languages around the world they have only three or four colours: dark, light, red, green or yellow. Despite the fact that there is an endless variety of colours in the world, different cultures choose which ones they will name. Before scholars reached this understanding they thought the people who spoke languages with a limited range of names of colours were colour blind!
If you are Sudanese, the previous paragraph may have sparked a little recognition, namely the Arabic words ‘azrag’ meaning blue and ‘abyad’, meaning white and which are used in Sudan to describe darker or lighter hues respectively. The White and Blue Niles are examples of this. Thus, while the Blue Nile, originating in Lake Tana in the mountains of Ethiopia, flows fastly in a relatively narrow channel dragging silt along with it, the White Nile from Lake Victoria in Uganda travels languorously down to Khartoum winding calmly in its wide channel not disturbing the mud along the way.
The white ‘tob’ and ‘tob alzarag’ or blue sari-like, women's garments share the same word ‘tob’. The main material used for making fabrics in many areas of Sudan is cotton and modern weaving can be traced back to the 1800’s. However, cotton textiles have also been found in excavations in Marawi and Lower Nubia suggesting an even longer existence. White clothes make sense in our hot climate, and the name white has existed for a long time, such as the name El-Obayid, the capital of north Kordofan, which is said to have been named after a specific white donkey. Blue on the other hand could be confusing, ‘alzarag’ is usually a white tob that is dyed with a natural dye made from the river shrub known as ‘nilla’. This plant is well known in Sudan and Egypt and used to describe darkness or black even though it produces blue-coloured fabric.
This very Sudanese colour scheme is applied to more than fabric and is extended to the people who wear them. ‘People’s colours’ fall into four categories including green, yellow, blue and red. A ‘red person’ is someone light-skinned named because their skin turns red in the heat. They can also be referred to as ‘halabi’ meaning someone from ‘Halab’ or Aleppo. What about ‘green people’? Interestingly, this description of ‘skin colour’ is also used in other Arabic speaking countries such as Oman and Kuwait. There are many speculations about the origin of this description with some saying it originates from the fact that blue means dark, yellow means light, and therefore green means in between. A recent explanation is associated with undertones, a word that is becoming increasingly fashionable, and the colours used to mix to create the perfect foundation - yellow for a lighter tone and blue for a darker one.
Whether or not Sudanese people were aware of the concept of undertones in the past or whether they just didn’t have the time to invent the names for new colors, what is certain is that language, emotions and perception are related in so many different ways and this topic will spark discussions for many years to come.
Artwork by Zainab Gaafar
I am a Sudanese, Arabic-speaking female who has always lived in predominantly Arabic-speaking countries in Sudan and the Arabian Gulf. My perception of language has therefore been based on the various Arabic dialects in these countries and the linguistic differences between Arabic and English, the two languages I speak. To me, these differences are the result of culture and language development. For example, the words landscape and skyline have no equivalent in Arabic and are roughly translated as ‘natural view’ or ‘ufuq’ which means horizon, prospect, slant amongst other things. There are also new words such as ‘networking’, which literally translates to ‘tashbeek’, a word no one actually uses with people preferring to stick to the English word. What is complicated, but also beautiful, about Arabic is that just like the word horizon can mean many other things, there are for example, scores of words to describe love.
Fast forward to today and I am no longer living in a predominantly Arabic speaking country, English has become the language I use most of the time and as I learn more about other people’s culture and use of language, a new aspect which I wasn’t aware of before has become apparent.
One day I was offered a slice of cake, I took one bite and because it was quite dense and rich I couldn't have anymore. In Sudanese Arabic we have a word to describe this sensation, ‘gaham’, used with a prefix or suffix to explain who it refers to. No it does not mean stuffed or full, because even if you were you could probably manage a tiny bit more. Rather it describes the inability to eat because of the ‘shock’ of how dense or sweet the mouthful of cake was. It can also refer to being put off by even just the sight of a certain type of food.
Now to get back to my new discovery and what I found interesting was not the fact that there was no English word equivalent, it was that my friends did not understand the feeling I was trying to describe. A fun fact before I move on is that this word does exist in Mexican culture. Someone described as such is either too sugary/flattering or sleazy. However, in Sudanese Arabic, when the word is used to describe a person, it means someone who invades your personal space and overwhelms you because they speak too much.
The previous revelation made me curious about how language provokes emotions. Of course there is the aspect that the better you are able to describe your feelings the better you understand them, but this means that you must have the ability to recognize your emotions in the first place. In his book I See A Voice: A Philosophical History, Jonathan Ree describes this as a two-way process in response to an event consisting of an inward experience, ‘perception’, and outward experience, ‘expression or action’. Ree explains that these experiences are shaped by things like fantasy, reflection and consciousness and depend on how much you are able to control and channel them.
For me this is when culture comes into play. Fantasies, which may affect experience, could be influenced by the culture around you, and the fact that you don’t have a word to describe it doesn't mean that you don’t feel it. Perhaps this can be better demonstrated through a concept which we think we all understand in the same way, ie. colours.
The short documentary by Vox titled The Surprising Pattern behind Color Names around the World, describes how in many languages around the world they have only three or four colours: dark, light, red, green or yellow. Despite the fact that there is an endless variety of colours in the world, different cultures choose which ones they will name. Before scholars reached this understanding they thought the people who spoke languages with a limited range of names of colours were colour blind!
If you are Sudanese, the previous paragraph may have sparked a little recognition, namely the Arabic words ‘azrag’ meaning blue and ‘abyad’, meaning white and which are used in Sudan to describe darker or lighter hues respectively. The White and Blue Niles are examples of this. Thus, while the Blue Nile, originating in Lake Tana in the mountains of Ethiopia, flows fastly in a relatively narrow channel dragging silt along with it, the White Nile from Lake Victoria in Uganda travels languorously down to Khartoum winding calmly in its wide channel not disturbing the mud along the way.
The white ‘tob’ and ‘tob alzarag’ or blue sari-like, women's garments share the same word ‘tob’. The main material used for making fabrics in many areas of Sudan is cotton and modern weaving can be traced back to the 1800’s. However, cotton textiles have also been found in excavations in Marawi and Lower Nubia suggesting an even longer existence. White clothes make sense in our hot climate, and the name white has existed for a long time, such as the name El-Obayid, the capital of north Kordofan, which is said to have been named after a specific white donkey. Blue on the other hand could be confusing, ‘alzarag’ is usually a white tob that is dyed with a natural dye made from the river shrub known as ‘nilla’. This plant is well known in Sudan and Egypt and used to describe darkness or black even though it produces blue-coloured fabric.
This very Sudanese colour scheme is applied to more than fabric and is extended to the people who wear them. ‘People’s colours’ fall into four categories including green, yellow, blue and red. A ‘red person’ is someone light-skinned named because their skin turns red in the heat. They can also be referred to as ‘halabi’ meaning someone from ‘Halab’ or Aleppo. What about ‘green people’? Interestingly, this description of ‘skin colour’ is also used in other Arabic speaking countries such as Oman and Kuwait. There are many speculations about the origin of this description with some saying it originates from the fact that blue means dark, yellow means light, and therefore green means in between. A recent explanation is associated with undertones, a word that is becoming increasingly fashionable, and the colours used to mix to create the perfect foundation - yellow for a lighter tone and blue for a darker one.
Whether or not Sudanese people were aware of the concept of undertones in the past or whether they just didn’t have the time to invent the names for new colors, what is certain is that language, emotions and perception are related in so many different ways and this topic will spark discussions for many years to come.
Artwork by Zainab Gaafar
Language and heritage
Language and heritage
Language is the primary medium through which communities express both their identity and their cultural heritage. More importantly, it is a means of transmitting local knowledge, cultural and social values, and collective memory. Language is also involved in all forms of oral expression of heritage. In this short episode of the Khartoum Podcast, we explore the topic of language as a repository of local heritage, culture, and indigenous knowledge. The second season of the Khartoum Podcast was produced as part of the #OurHeritageOurSudan campaign, funded by the Safeguarding Sudan’s Living Heritage Project.This short episode on Language and Culture from Khartoum Podcast is now available on all platforms.The speaker in the new episode on Language and Heritage is Sandios Kudi, a writer, lecturer at the University of Khartoum and an arts and culture enthusiast. The episode also features an audio clip of Mohamed El Amin from the film Amal Band, produced by Nas Shagala Campaign and Klozium Studios. Mohamed El Amin is a music professor and founder of the Omkar Research Center, which is interested in documenting the Beja heritage and the Bidhaawyeet language in eastern Sudan.
Language is the primary medium through which communities express both their identity and their cultural heritage. More importantly, it is a means of transmitting local knowledge, cultural and social values, and collective memory. Language is also involved in all forms of oral expression of heritage. In this short episode of the Khartoum Podcast, we explore the topic of language as a repository of local heritage, culture, and indigenous knowledge. The second season of the Khartoum Podcast was produced as part of the #OurHeritageOurSudan campaign, funded by the Safeguarding Sudan’s Living Heritage Project.This short episode on Language and Culture from Khartoum Podcast is now available on all platforms.The speaker in the new episode on Language and Heritage is Sandios Kudi, a writer, lecturer at the University of Khartoum and an arts and culture enthusiast. The episode also features an audio clip of Mohamed El Amin from the film Amal Band, produced by Nas Shagala Campaign and Klozium Studios. Mohamed El Amin is a music professor and founder of the Omkar Research Center, which is interested in documenting the Beja heritage and the Bidhaawyeet language in eastern Sudan.
Language is the primary medium through which communities express both their identity and their cultural heritage. More importantly, it is a means of transmitting local knowledge, cultural and social values, and collective memory. Language is also involved in all forms of oral expression of heritage. In this short episode of the Khartoum Podcast, we explore the topic of language as a repository of local heritage, culture, and indigenous knowledge. The second season of the Khartoum Podcast was produced as part of the #OurHeritageOurSudan campaign, funded by the Safeguarding Sudan’s Living Heritage Project.This short episode on Language and Culture from Khartoum Podcast is now available on all platforms.The speaker in the new episode on Language and Heritage is Sandios Kudi, a writer, lecturer at the University of Khartoum and an arts and culture enthusiast. The episode also features an audio clip of Mohamed El Amin from the film Amal Band, produced by Nas Shagala Campaign and Klozium Studios. Mohamed El Amin is a music professor and founder of the Omkar Research Center, which is interested in documenting the Beja heritage and the Bidhaawyeet language in eastern Sudan.