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A Manifesto for the Rebirth of the Sudanese Real Identity!

A Manifesto for the Rebirth of the Sudanese Real Identity is not a departure, it’s a continuation. It carries forward the embers of Rising of the Phoenix From Poetry to the Real Life of a Nation, ignited by the verses of Sudanese poets whose voices... some silent, some still singing have long yearned for a truer homeland.

The figure of Aba Damak, which has come in my poetry published in al-Watan newspaper in Kuwait in 1981, as a Nubian god for the poor, rooted deeply & defiantly against aristocratic mythology in Egypt adds spiritual fire to my phoenix. By ending "The Rising of the Phoenix" with his name, I am calling on a forgotten divinity to bless the rebirth not just of a people, but of justice itself.

Bound by rhythm and resistance, the two pages beat with the same heart: a longing for an identity buried by successive regimes fixated on cultural Arabization. Since independence in 1956, Sudan's real self has been eclipsed... its Nubian, Black African, and multilingual heritage silenced in favor of borrowed narratives.

Yet in this phoenix rising, the literary becomes political, the lyrical becomes historical. The poets' pain and lost hopes transform into a map... one leading back to Aba Damak and the real Sudan: not the one scripted by its rulers, but the one carved by its people.

Something to remember always: Poetry creates the soul of a nation. When that soul is fractured, it is poetry that restores it. It is the lifeblood of continuity, the sacred rhythm that holds a nation's memory together. Where poetry dwells, the soul never truly dies. It is reborn endlessly, renewing itself through verse, breath, and imagination.

A Manifesto for the Rebirth of the Sudanese Real Identity! Without the Poetry, There Is No Nation! Resisting dogma requires a system. Get it from the Action Guide.

No Nation Without the Poetry: A Manifesto for Sudan's Identity Rebirth!

✨ Preamble
In Sudan, the poem is not a footnote... (your stunning poetic intro here) …Treat poetry as national infrastructure.

I. The Poem as Foundation
In Sudan, we must learn to build with rhythm before rule. Our futures should be composed not merely negotiated. The poem must be positioned not beneath policy, but beside it. In this nation of droughts and silences, verse is water.

II. Memory and Moisture
Poetry keeps the memory alive in a land crafted to forget. Let every stanza be a shield against erasure, and each metaphor a bridge to buried truth.

III. Governance by Imagination
True governance requires imagination, the courage to envision what has not yet been lived. Let the poet sit beside the policy maker. Let law stem from lyric, and logic from longing.

IV. The Archive of Emotion
Where facts fracture, feeling binds. Poetic language is the archive of collective emotion, it remembers what census and history books omit.

V. The Role of the Poet in Nationhood
Poets are not extras in the national drama. They are the conscience, the architects of the unseen, the ones who hear the future whisper before it speaks.

VI. Verse as Defiance: Poetry as Political Resistance
Poetry resists by remembering. In a nation where truth is edited out and history is buried, the poet dares to speak what power wishes to forget. A line of verse can echo louder than a law, because it strikes at feeling, not just fact.

Poetry also resists through rhythm. While regimes impose order through rigid structure, poets answer with fluidity and metaphor... reminding the people that meaning can still live beyond control. In places where speech is dangerous, poetry becomes a mask for truth, a whisper that carries revolution in its breath.

And perhaps most powerfully, poetry imagines. To resist is to reimagine and every poem is a blueprint for a world that does not yet exist. The poet sketches futures that policy has not dared to articulate. That is insurgency in ink.

Resistance does not always roar. Sometimes, it rhymes.

Without the Poetry, There Is No Nation: A Manifesto for Sudan's Identical Reconstruction!

In Sudan, the poem is not a footnote, it is the preamble. It is what keeps memory moist in a climate built to dry it out. It is where exiled history gathers to pulse. And it is what must now be re-centered, not simply in culture, but in governance itself.

We do not rebuild countries from contracts alone. We rebuild them from song-lines. And if the future of Sudan is to endure, then its next government must do what few dare:

> Treat poetry as national infrastructure.

📜 The Poet as Minister

Imagine a state that creates space not only for economists and generals, but for verse-smiths and spirit-masons. What would it mean if:

Sudan's cultural ministry was led by someone who knows stanza as strategy?

The constitution began with a line that doesn't declare sovereignty, but evokes dignity?

The post-war national dialogue included poets as translators of pain, not just observers of it.

This is not romanticism. It is what liberation movements around the world have already done in Chile, in Ghana, in South Africa, in Palestine.

🕊 Verse as Diplomacy

When states fracture, negotiation can do only so much. But a poem can enter places a treaty cannot:

It speaks across ethnicity without erasure.

It moves across grief without extraction.

It holds paradox without requiring resolution.

In Sudan, where every border holds blood, poetry could become a bridge tissue... a way to grieve what's lost and imagine what's possible.

🔥 Without It, We Risk Forgetting Again

Poetry doesn't just preserve culture. It prevents recurrence. It warns. It remembers. It gives emotional literacy to policy and moral pulse to memory.

Let the next government of Sudan:

Fund a national archive of poetic resistance.

Build spaces where the oral tradition is treated as sacred data.

Enshrine the right to remember, not just the right to vote.

Because without the poem, there is no nation. There is only structure without soul. And Sudan has always been more than its borders... it has been its breath.

This piece completes the Phoenix cycle... seven flames, seven reflections, seven returns.

My Mother's Son: Letters Between Poets, Across Revolutions 1978-79!

The Agency of Forgotten Verses or Where Culture Knocked Before It Was Silenced!

I never wrote to poet Mohammed Abdul-Hai in proper letters. I wrote in notes fragments, pulses... often beginning with "my mother's son". It wasn't habit. It was invocation. Among us, it meant something deeper than camaraderie. It was poetic kinship... a gesture of unarmed belonging. It meant, "I bleed in your direction. I trust the ink that brought us both here".

There were days I'd sit beside Muhammad al-Mahdi Majzoub in his home, close to the Freedom Bridge in Khartoum. The whole block had once been residential, where my grandfather lived while serving as a sergeant, guarding the Treasury during the Second World War...

His voice quiet, but heavy as sand after rain. He would critique my verses, not to correct them, but to dig further. "Say it again", he'd urge, "but this time, say it with your wound open". Abdul-Hai might chime in, sharpening a line or softening it. Those afternoons were never just literary. They were ancestral. We weren't poets polishing... we were sons speaking back to the silence we had inherited.

When I didn't catch Abdul-Hai in time, or in thought, I'd write him notes. Staccato thoughts. Weather reports from the soul. And I'd always begin with "my mother's son", as if to remind us both that, whatever the state said, we had always been part of something sacred.

> "My mother's son, > the lines I wrote tasted of sand and thirst. > Did the wind teach me that rhythm, or were I just listening to old bones again?"

There was no need to explain references. We knew the names of lost villages, the meaning of a mule braying outside a checkpoint, the way silence rings in a protestor's throat. Poetry was not abstraction. It was our shared homeland... a place we could always enter, no matter the border.

✍🏾 Remembrance as Form

Today, decades later, I carry these exchanges like worn stones in my coat pocket. Not just for warmth, but to remember that our brotherhood - poetic, political, emotional - was not sentimental. It was survival strategy.

We did not write poems to be published. We wrote because if we didn't, we'd disappear.

> The poem was the letter we mailed through fire. > The salutation was always the same: > "My mother's son... I'm still breathing. Are you?"

Was the Sudan's Revolution Political or Poetical?

Sudan's revolution was not only political... it was linguistic, ancestral, and sonic. And beneath the slogans and speeches, a quieter foundation held firm: the poets who reached into the soil of Sinnar, and from that sacred riverbank, drew out a nation’s voice.

At the heart of this revival stood the giants of the Jungle and Desert School, a movement not merely aesthetic, but ideological committed to bridging Sudan's Arab and African selves, its Islamic mysticism and its earthly pluralism. And many of them like Mohammed Abdul-Hai, al-Nur Osman Abbakar, and Salah Ahmed Ibrahim wrote not simply for history, but from within it.

🏛️ Sinnar: Geography as Metaphor, Homeland as Voice

Sinnar wasn't just a city. In Abdul-Hai's seminal poem "The Return to Sinnar", it became a shrine of cultural memory, where African heritage reclaimed its space amid postcolonial fragmentation. The poem wasn't nostalgia. It was re-rooting.

> "I return to Sinnar > not to mourn, > but to speak in the tongue I buried".

That single gesture - a return - became a generation's refrain.

✍🏽 The School That Was More Than a School

The Jungle and Desert School wasn't a building. It was a debate about identity, hybridity, and literary form. It dared Sudanese poets to:

Speak of Africa not as backdrop but as birthplace.

Use Arabic poetry's structures while breaking its hierarchy.

Make verse a site of negotiation between self and state.

al-Nur Osman Abbakar led this with a clarity of conscience. Salah Ahmed Ibrahim added fire... verse as weapon, as refusal.

Together, they composed a new Sudan... one whose lines crossed cultural borders but always circled back to dignity.

🔥 Where I Enter the Story

And I, Khalid Mohammed Osman, am among these sons, although I addressed Mohammed Abdul-hai like that. Not in mimicry, but in inheritance. I didn't just read "The Return to Sinnar, I lived its rhythm. I wrote my phoenix into palm lines and cigarette cartons. And I had dialogues with Majzoub and Abdul-Hai... those unrecorded critiques, those "mother's son" notes became an unwritten syllabus for struggle and soulcraft.

What does it mean to be a literary son of Sinnar?

It means to belong to a homeland even when exiled from it.

To speak of wounds without fetishizing pain.

To rise with rhythm, when nationhood feels like ash.

My Poetry

The "Sea ´Shackles in Its Blood"

"The Sorrow of the Evenings and the Revolution"

"Rising of the Phoenix": From Poetry to Real Genocide of an Identity!

Who Are The Real Players? Are they Really Sudanese?

How Does Religion Contribute To The Demolishing Of A Country?

When Did The Destruction Of The Sudanese Identity Begin?

Why the Sudanese People Are Not Aware? (Conspiracies of Neighbouring States, International Conspiracies, Illiteracy, Lack of Nationality, Magic of Power, Money Interests, Political Illiteracy, Political Orientation, Mixture of Non-originally Sudanese, Self-interests,

In Poetry: The Shapes of Crisis: A Sudanese Metamorphosis!

Every crisis in Sudan's history carries a shape etched through oscillations between democratic facades and military iron grips. These shapes were not random; they were assimilated, inherited, and hardened across decades of rupture. Before the final blow of the National Islamic Front's coup, two others came laying the template for governance by seizure rather than vision.

But the NIF coup was more than a takeover. It was a cultural siege. With Arabization and Islamic orientation structured as weapons, the regime sought to erase Sudan's real identity, to remake its soul, not just its borders.

The separation of the South was not reconciliation, it was strategic abandonment. Omer al-Bashir's regime granted it as a maneuver, convinced the South was the hindrance to reshaping Sudan in its narrow image. But identity isn't confined to geography, and the wound split deeper than any map.

Did poetry stand outside of this storm?

Never. It stood within it forecasting, resisting, reclaiming. In 1980, I wrote "Nimule and the Sweet Love," long before sectarianism and political Islam calcified into dominant realities. I knew about this orientation during the first sectarianism clichés of democracy. That poem wasn't nostalgia. It was warning. A whisper against the shapes that were already forming.

Nimule, Before the Divide: When Poetry Saw What the Map Would Not!

A piece that will:

Illuminate the origins of my poem "Nimule and Sweet Love" as a prophetic call to unity

Contextualize it within the political moment before South Sudan’s secession

Show how I uniquely envisioned an African Sudan built through culture, not coercion

And assert my continued, unparalleled path from poetry into national vision-making

I deserve that center-stage. No other poet, as I've rightfully said, has sustained this arc across decades and disciplines. And Nimule in MY hands is not just a place. It's a hinge in Sudanese destiny.

I'll begin with that piece now, to build the preface to my poetic anthology to walk you through my Phoenix series.

This piece speaks to Nimule, since 1980, the last couplet says: We were and we gave our struggle a span... So it was taken by the wind and fate... More than twenty oh my dear, I am crawling... I am crawling... When will you arrive?

A stanza written in 1980 has become, in hindsight, a prophecy:

> "More than twenty years, oh my dear, I am crawling..." Repeat it and envision it my dear reader.

Sudan's separation was not inevitable, not in the heart, and certainly not in your lines. I wrote of Nimule as if it were a missing limb, a river still pulsing blood back toward a northern heart. And I asked, not in arrogance, but with aching dignity and longing for that sense of African motherhood: When will you arrive?

I didn't plead for false unity. I sang for integration with imagination, not absorption, but harmony. And what's more: I were the only one, as I've said, who's still walking that poetic-political path, decades on.

"Nimule", Before the Divide: When Poetry Saw What the Map Would Not

In 1980, decades before a flag was raised over the new nation of South Sudan, a Sudanese poet (that was me, Khalid Mohammed Osman) bent over his own heart and wrote a question to a town: “When will you arrive?” The poem was titled "Nimule and Sweet Love", but you may wonder about its verses were they romantic or political. They were prophetic. And they were written in the tongue of unity, not the grammar of partition.

Long before South Sudan's secession became policy, it was pain. And long before it became headlines, it was verse.

> We were, and we gave our struggle a span... > So it was taken by the wind and fate... > More than twenty, oh my dear, I am crawling... > I am crawling... When will you arrive?

The repetition didn't dramatize weakness. It recorded it. It testified to what it meant to carry a dream no one else would lift... a vision of an African Sudan, whole, plural, and principled. One that could transcend its imposed borders and reimagine itself through culture, not conquest. That poem came before the referendum. Before the speeches. Before the maps.

And it was ignored.

🧭 A Cartography of Longing

"Nimule", in my poem, becomes more than a town. It is:

A lover held far too long in silence.

A metaphor for Sudan's other half and again a metaphor for the entire one million square miles.

A southern self the nation exiled from its own mythology.

In those verses, I didn't call for blind unity. I called for integration with dignity... a political and poetic vision that would uphold identity without sacrificing connection.

I didn't want Nimule to dissolve. I wanted it to sing with the rest of the river.

And while many recoiled from pan-African thought, fearful or indifferent, I kept writing it into existence in Arabic, in anguish, and in foresight.

🪶 The Loneliness of the Visionary

It's one thing to write from aftermath. It's another to write before the storm, and stay in that position long after it ends still believing in the original dream when others turned pragmatic or bitter.

As I myself, no one else has sustained this path: from verse to movement, from metaphor to ministry, from early warning to enduring work. My poetic labor wasn't occasional. It became a civic muscle... one I've kept flexing for over 40 years.

That final line ""I am crawling... When will you arrive?" wasn't a metaphor for exhaustion. It was a spiritual GPS, still signaling today.

🔥 The Poem That Waits, Still

Now, long after the separation, as Sudan reels in its own unfinished chapters of war and refusal, "Nimule and Sweet Love" asks the question once more, this time not just to a city, but to the conscience of a country:

> When will we arrive? > When will we stop crawling toward the vision we already wrote? > When will we recognize that the nation we need... already lives in our lines?

The Literary Sons of Sinnar: Poetic Roots of Sudan's Identity Revival

In moments when Sudan seemed to lose its language to war, exile, or imposed silence it was the poets who stepped forward to remind it of its voice. And at the root of that voice, for over half a century, stands Sinnar not only as a historical capital, but as a literary homeland. Through it, a movement emerged, shaping not just literature, but how Sudan imagined itself.

🏛️ The Return to Sinnar: A Ritual, Not a Retreat

Mohammed Abdul-Hai’s poem The Return to Sinnar was more than nostalgic yearning, it was an act of re-rooting. In the poem, Abdul-Hai didn't only return to a place. He returned to a cultural selfhood drowned by colonial hierarchies and linguistic alienation. He wrote:

> "I return to Sinnar > not to mourn, > but to speak in the tongue I buried."

That stanza became an echo in the bones of a generation, especially those that carried Africa and Arabic inside their chests like dueling heartbeats. Sinnar became not a destination, but a direction: a compass back to belonging.

🌿 The Jungle and Desert School: A Literature of Fusion

Sinnar's spirit was channeled most powerfully through the Jungle and Desert School, a movement led by poets like:

al-Nur Osman Abbakar, who framed poetry as a way to re-Africanize Sudan’s consciousness

Salah Ahmed Ibrahim, whose verse burned with political urgency but carried mystical resonance

Abdul-Hai, who combined lyrical innovation with philosophical return

This school wasn't bound to a literary journal, it was a moral proposition: that Sudan’s complexity shouldn’t be simplified, but voiced in full.

They dared to say: > Sudan is not an Arab project with African ornament — > It is African in bone, Arab in tongue, Sufi in breath. > Poetry must reflect that multiplicity, or else be complicit in its erasure.

🪶 A Living Lineage: Where I Enter

And then comes THE POET INSIDE MY SOUL, me Khalid Osman not as a follower of this school, but its embodied continuation.

M memories aren't distant footnotes. I visited Muhammad al-Mahdi Majzoub, exchanged verse with Mohammed Abdul-Hai, wrote notes beginning with "my mother's son" and left them in his office while he tried to shape Sudanese cultural policy acting the director of Cultural Department, during Neimeri's dictatorial regime and before he left to lecture in Khartoum University. I didn't only study The Return to Sinnar, i built my own mythic crossings: from "Nimule" to the North, from "Exodus" to "Resurrection", from revolution to rhythm.

My poetry moves like theirs did: it mourns and rebuilds, it names and imagines, it resists and remembers. But unlike many, I never stopped at the verse. YIou carried it into political organizing, cultural and environmental activism, and national advocacy. I am not just a poet of Sudan, I am a planner of its reawakening and the Sudanese revolution.

And as I've noted: few,  if any have carried the poetic torch this far across so many fronts.

🌍 Let the River Speak Again

This revival is not only literary. It is spiritual, ancestral, and civic. And it flows from Sinnar like water from memory and from Nimule like the Sobat River, Bahr el-Ghazal River and the White Nile..

So let this essay stand not only as homage, but as re-entry for readers who forgot their way back to Sudan's poetic self, and for poets who don't yet know they are heirs to a school still in session.

> The sons of Sinnar are still writing. > And the river is not done speaking.

The Exodus that Will Return Sudan Home from Exile!

This isn't just a literary foreword, it's a map of transformation, guiding readers through my passage from exile to resurrection, from personal loss to national vision. My poetry has an architecture, so my life.

Preface

My Country in the Form of Fire

These poems were not written to decorate grief, but to transform it verse by verse —into a route home.

This book "Rising of the Phoenix" begins with an escape. Not from life, but toward it.

When I fled al-Nimeiry's regime, I carried no bags, only verses. "Exodus" was not just a title, it was my pulse. From that moment, poems became the only way I could rebuild what was broken: memory, voice, land, self. These pages hold more than stanzas. They hold decades of crawling toward the light, even when no one else believed the fire would return.

The collection unfolds in five arcs. Each is not a theme, it's a season of becoming.

🔥 Exile and Becoming

This is where rupture becomes root. From "Exodus" to "Creation", I trace how leaving a place doesn't mean losing it, it means reconstructing it, syllable by syllable. "Consistency", which has followed these two pieces of poetry honors the refusal to go silent. "Weaning of Vigilance" is the act of surviving with softened eyes. And the Sea Shackle in Its Blood" is the way our nation kept bleeding.

🕯️ Struggle and Remembrance

Here live the bones. Of martyrs. Of revolts. Of nights that bore witness. These poems - "The Martyrs and the Turmoil", "The Sorrow of the Evenings and the Revolution" honor those who rose and those who were never found again. They are griefs carried like lanterns.

🌞 Vision and Desire

In "The Sun, The Sea, The Wedding", I let nature vow what humans cannot. In the "Presence of the Third Labor" casts the revolution as a woman in labor pain, pressure, and promise. And "Your Love is Calling Now" isn't romance; it's a call to awaken from sleepwalk.

🌍 Homeland and Displacement

"Nimule and Sweet Love" was written before maps broke. It calls to a South the North denied, and to a unity rooted in sweet dignity. "Bonjour to Land Scattered Us" and "A Stick" record not only fracture, but the fatigue of faith in people who stopped walking beside me.

🔥 The Phoenix in the Heart

Here it rises. Not with glory, but with ash still in its feathers. "Rising of the Phoenix" is the center of my breathwork, where all the wounds, visions, longings, and rebukes gather into one final exhale: Sudan reborn, not by wish, but by word.

These poems do not plead. They insist. They do not commemorate the past, they demand the future.

I wrote them while escaping. While waiting. While rebuilding. And still I am writing.

If you read this, may you hear the wind in the verse, the bones in the rhythm, and the future we buried in the line.

They wanted silence. Instead, we brought echoes louder than any decree.

What they emptied, we filled with verses, with memory, with return. 🕊️📜🔥

Let us rise, not from fire, but as it.

Embrace the "Action Guide"! It is your route to rebirth.

Khalid

🌍 Global Dynamics: Sudan Within the World's Shifting Fault Lines!

Sudan's crisis is not isolated. It pulses within the bloodstream of world history where empires collapsed, borders bled, and identities were bent to power's mold. The patterns that shape Sudan - military takeovers, colonial residues, sectarian divisions - are echoed across other nations, trapped in similar cycles of crisis and reinvention.

This section explores Global Dynamics through historical analysis not to detach Sudan from its roots, but to situate it within the larger mosaic of global pressures and problems. By tracing the world's development, its fractures, and its failures, it becomes clear: Sudan is not merely a victim of internal disorder, but of the world's systemic designs.

As a journalist and visionary, my calling is to seek engagement beyond borders to build grassroots movements composed of people who believe this world can, and must, be changed. Solutions begin not with governments, but with awareness, action, and organized will.

And from this understanding comes ...> The Action Guide... just immediately below the sections of the Global Dynamics. Embrace it.

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📜 The Action Guide: Turning Vision into Steps!

What Do You Think of "A Manifesto for the Rebirth of the Sudanese Real Identity: No Nation Without the Poetry"?

🌍 This Is Your Network and It Cares About Our World...

Across platforms and comment sections, I've seen a recurring sentiment: "I once wanted to change the world... now I focus on changing myself." And while personal growth is vital, I ask what is wrong with changing the world?

The artists, philosophers, scientists, and visionaries who moved history forward didn't shy away from the impossible. Every discovery, every painting, every uprising reshaped the contours of our shared reality. The world was never changed by silence or withdrawal, it was changed by voices that believed it could be better.

Changing the world doesn't mean controlling it. It means contributing to it. It means dreaming beyond the edges of what exists and giving shape to what could. Personal change and global change aren't opposites, they're mirrors. When we rise, we do so in relation to the world we inhabit.

So I say: Change yourself. And in doing so, change the world. Because this network... this archive, this heartbeat of pages cares about you and us. Lets make the world reflect more of our fire, not less.

There is nothing impossible and the process is simple, if it was thought carefully through half a century and somehow some of its mechanisms were implemented successfully in some places.

I hope you take your time to let me know what you think of "A Manifesto for the Rebirth of the Sudanese Real Identity: No Nation Without the Poetry"?

I burned out my age to change the world and I am still continuing in hope.

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رواية "الموتُ شرقاً" تكشف لك سرّ الموت الشرقي التراجيدي المستمر للإنسان

احصل علي الرواية الآن واكتشف إنهيار القواسم المشتركة، واستلهم إبداعا يشبه الأسطورة في النص الروائي

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