Crisis adapting 

Today, Idriss lives and works in Kosti Town, in the White Nile region, renting a house that shelters three generations of his family before part of the family returned to Al Jazirah two months ago. “We are 12 people in one house,” he says. “But we are lucky. We have our own space, we can come and go. That is freedom. In the camps, where most displaced people live, even going to the toilet is a struggle.”

Idriss is Head of Programmes at SOS Sahel Sudan, a national NGO that had long been working on combating poverty. “We had multiple long-term projects running—funded by the Dutch Embassy, the EU, even the UN,” he says. “But when the war started, we had to pivot overnight to emergency response.” That meant reprogramming: shifting budgets, rewriting theories of change, and adapting goals to a crisis context. “You can’t talk about business grants or seed multiplication when people are starving,” he says. “We shifted to cash assistance, then to food when cash became too dangerous to carry.” But still, the development projects are running.

El Fasher 

One of the few organisations still active in North Darfur, SOS Sahel maintains a local office in El Fasher, the main city in North Darfur. It’s one of the last lifelines for civilians trapped in a city surrounded by RSF forces. “El Fasher is beyond crisis,” Idriss says. “There’s no water, no food, no shelter. The RSF have even destroyed water sources.”
His organisation is still managing to deliver food and water—just. Local staff, recruited from El Fasher itself, have stayed put. “They are from there. They cannot flee. That’s why we can still operate. We rely on them entirely.” But getting aid in is a logistical nightmare. “Roads are blocked. Only traders who pay their way through checkpoints can move goods, and—as a result of the huge risks they take—prices are outrageous. One kilo of sugar costs eleven euros now. For us, that’s unaffordable.”

“In El Fasher, everything we built before is gone,” Idriss says bluntly. “The goats we gave to farmers were eaten. The business grants are meaningless now. What we do now is life-saving, nothing more.” In some camps, SOS Sahel supports communal kitchens and prioritises women and children with high vulnerabilities. “We’re open about what we can and can’t provide,” he explains. “We meet with communities, ask what food is available, what they need, how we can help. But even those consultations are limited now by the sheer urgency.”

Genuine localisation 

As a local partner of the Dutch Relief Alliance (DRA), Idriss is vocal about the need for genuine localisation. “DRA treats us like equals,” he says. “I’m a member of the National Programme Committee. We decide together on budget allocations, local and international partners alike.” That, he says, is rare. “Most INGOs give local organisations 10%–30% of the budget and call it localisation. But real localisation is about power, respect, accountability—and complementarity. We know the context, international NGOs bring global expertise. Together, we’re stronger.”
Asked what message he has for world leaders, Idriss pauses. “Don’t judge Sudan by the warlords,” he says finally. “Look at the people. Look at the civilians who did nothing to deserve this.” He’s frustrated by the global imbalance in humanitarian attention. “Gaza, Ukraine—of course they need help. But Sudan is on fire, and no one’s watching. We have no way to tell our story.”

Photo: Marco de Swart